#because a handler is different than a Handler | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lowrisemiller · 1 month ago

Text

ꜰᴏʀ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ... ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ⧗

one - shot inspired by the song “Glory Box” by Portishead — also a tad inspired by @artficlly ‘s lessons in love making

winter soldier!bucky x black widow!femreader

She's Red Room. He's Winter Soldier. Neither remembers what it feels like to be touched without orders, to be wanted without purpose. Hydra pairs them as weapons, but in the quiet between missions—in bruised silence and shared Russian—they begin to find something unspoken. Something fragile. Something theirs.

masterlist | 5.9k words | photos do not depict what fem!reader looks like | mentions of torture, trauma, brainwashing, illusions to assault yk normal red room/hydra things, wee bit of violence and blood, praise, grinding, handjob, unprotected piv sex (not rlly tho if yk black widow lore…) and that’s it pls lmk if there’s more

You were transferred in a box.

Not literally, of course—but it felt that way. Blacked-out convoy. Shackled wrists. A one-way ride from the remnants of the Red Room to a Hydra-controlled facility somewhere in the Balkans. No name. No destination. Just cold metal under your thighs and a silence that felt worse than any scream.

You’d heard whispers of this place. Of him.

They called him the Winter Soldier.

Hydra didn’t send many female agents here. They kept you in Moscow, mostly—tight, quiet, obedient. But after your last handler died during a failed seduction op, you were labeled unstable. Too volatile. Too effective. Hydra saw potential where the Red Room saw disobedience. So they made a deal.

You became someone else’s problem.

The Hydra base was underground, cold as a morgue, walls humming with electricity and cruelty.

They didn’t assign you a name. They gave you a number: Agent 47.

Your first few weeks passed in silence. You trained alone. Slept under surveillance. But being from the Red Room you hacked the camera. Ate without speaking. No one told you why you were there. Not until you saw him.

They wheeled him out of cryo like a weapon being unsheathed.

You were at the edge of the training floor, bandaging your knuckles from solo drills when he appeared—broad, silent, wrapped in shadow and control. Long hair. Muzzle mask. That metal arm. He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But you looked at him. And you knew.

He was just like you. A ghost in someone else’s skin.

You were paired together two missions later. No warning. No introduction.

They handed you a brief, said “You’ll go with him,” and shoved you toward the drop point.

You didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it.

The first op was simple. A kill mission in Istanbul. You were bait, dressed like a party favor, coaxing the target toward a hotel balcony. Bucky waited in the hallway like a shadow. The kill was clean. Fast. He didn’t say a word the entire flight home.

You were used to silence. But his silence felt different. It was less about obedience, more about weight. As if words were too dangerous to carry.

You watched him when he wasn’t looking. The way his hand sometimes tremble after a kill. The way he stared at the wall like it was going to scream.

You recognized it. The fracture. The absence of self.

It took three more missions before he looked you in the eye.

Just a glance. After a messy clean-up in Kraków, blood is still damp on your collar. You were wiping a cut on your lip, sitting on the tailgate of the evac van. He stood across from you, face unreadable. Then his gaze flicked to yours.

Not curious. Not judgmental.

Just... knowing.

As if he saw you. Not the mask. Not the makeup. You.

Your fingers twitched.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something shifted.

Mission Location: Bucharest, Romania Objective: Eliminate asset defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. Cover Story: Tourist couple at Hotel Beron

You hate hotels.

Not because of the sheets—they’re always clean, bleached, starched into fake softness. Not because of the lighting, though that’s usually cheap and flickering. You hate them because of what they mean: appearances. Playing and acting. Your body as a bargaining chip. Your face as a lie.

Tonight is no different.

You slip the gold earring into your ear with steady fingers, check your reflection one last time. The Red Room taught you to dress fast and fight faster. Hydra doesn't care what you wear, only that the target dies before he talks. Still, the dress they chose for you is low-cut and wine-red, tailored like a weapon.

Across the room, he doesn’t look at you. He’s adjusting the sight on a sniper rifle, calm as the grave.

The Winter Soldier wears a suit like a soldier wears a uniform—wrong, like it's just a disguise for the kill underneath.

You don’t speak. He doesn’t either.

That’s how it works between you.

The hotel bar is warm, glowing with amber light and careless laughter. You step into it like a ghost wrapped in silk.

Your heels click softly against the marble floor, your smile painted on with surgical precision. You're here to lure the target—a Hydra informant who decided to jump ship to S.H.I.E.L.D. You only have to keep him busy long enough for your partner to get in position.

You spot him at the bar. Older. Nervous. Talking too fast to a bartender who couldn’t care less.

You slide into the seat next to him like gravity pulled you there. A warm laugh. A brush of your shoulder. The same tired seduction dance the Red Room taught you at fifteen.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

He looks at you like every man does. Wants you like every man does. You feed it to him like honey over poison.

But as he starts to relax—fingers inching toward yours on the bar—you feel it: a prickle on your spine. The shift in air. The knowledge that he’s watching.

You don't need to turn. You know where he is.

Across the bar, tucked in the shadows near the back service door, sits the Winter Soldier. No mask. No rifle. Just a man in a suit too nice for the way his eyes scan the room—lethal and unblinking.

No one notices him. But you do.

He’s waiting.

The target gets comfortable fast. Too fast. He leans closer, asks if you want to go upstairs. You smile and say yes.

Your earpiece crackles with static, then his voice—cold, barely there.

“Level 5. West hallway. Blind spot in 40 seconds.”

You don't reply. You don’t have to.

The elevator ride up is silent, except for the elevator music and your heartbeat.

The hallway is dim. Carpet muffles your steps. When the door to 509 clicks shut behind you, you let the man touch your arm. You don’t flinch. You’ve played this role before. You already know how it ends.

You count down in your head.

Three... two...

The window explodes inward.

A blur of motion. Shattered glass. You duck before you even register the gunshot. The target stumbles back, screaming—blood blooming from his throat like a second collar.

You look up through your own hair, breathing hard.

He’s standing in the broken window frame.

Wind whips through the curtains. Gun still raised. Eyes locked on yours.

The Winter Soldier.

Back in the extraction van, it’s silent as always.

Your dress is ripped at the hem. There’s a scratch on your collarbone that stings. You can smell the powder burn still clinging to his jacket beside you.

You glance at him. His gaze is forward, unreadable.

But something about the way he watches the road—jaw clenched, fingers twitching—tells you he didn’t like what he saw in that room.

Not the blood. Not the kill.

You.

You wonder if he saw through the act.

You wonder if he saw how your hand shook when the man touched you.

Give me a reason to be a woman, not just a weapon.

He doesn’t speak. But just before the van turns, you feel it—his hand, brief and accidental, brushing yours where it rests on the bench.

He doesn’t pull away fast enough.

The building smells like antiseptic and cement. Cold, old-world concrete, retrofitted with modern surveillance tech and the stench of fear.

You haven’t been back in months. Not since the transfer.

The Red Room occupies the eastern wing; Hydra’s Moscow cell lives in the west. Where steel doors outnumber smiles and most conversations happen under cameras.

You walk the hallway beside him in silence.

The echo of your boots and his heavier tread match in rhythm—military, precise. You glance at his shoulder once, just once. The black tactical coat fits over the metal arm too cleanly, like it was sewn around the violence.

Neither of you speak until you’re summoned.

Inside the glass-walled debriefing chamber, the temperature drops by several degrees.

Your superior sits across from you—Director Volkov, thick-fingered, well-fed, and always two steps away from cruelty. Behind him, an aide prepares the recorder.

“Садитесь,” Volkov says without looking up. Sit.

You and the Winter Soldier obey in unison. Side by side. Chairs too straight to relax in.

Volkov doesn’t waste time.

“Доклад,” he says, motioning lazily with one hand. Report.

You glance once at Bucky. He stays still, metal fingers twitching once before stilling.

You begin.

“Цель устранена. Враг не передал информацию Щ.И.Т.,” you say clearly. Target eliminated. Enemy did not pass information to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Свидетели?” Witnesses?

“Нет. Один охранник — был устранён.” No. One guard—eliminated.

Volkov raises an eyebrow. Then turns his attention to Bucky.

“And you?” he says in Russian, but slower. As if testing him.

Bucky’s voice is low, sharp like ice cracking.

“Всё прошло по плану.” Everything went according to plan.

His accent is almost native. Almost. But there's something strange in the way he says it—mechanical, hollow. Like he’s repeating words pulled from an old program.

Volkov watches him for a beat too long.

Then: “Хорошо.” Good.

But his gaze slides to you.

“Ты выглядишь усталой, девочка.” You look tired, girl.

Your jaw flexes.

“Я выполняю свою работу.” I do my job.

He leans back, smirking. “Иногда ты больше, чем просто работа.” Sometimes, you're more than just a job.

The edge behind his words makes your stomach tighten. A test. A threat. You don’t blink.

But you feel it.

A shift beside you. The faintest sound—leather glove tightening around a fist.

You don’t look at him. But you feel the Winter Soldier bristle, just for a second.

He heard it. He understood.

Volkov notes the silence like a man lighting a match near gasoline. He lets it burn a moment. Then shrugs.

“Свободны,” he says. You’re dismissed.

You both stand without hesitation.

But as you turn to leave, he speaks again.

“Солдат.” Soldier.

Bucky stops.

Volkov doesn’t look up as he says it.

“Девушка — хрупкая. Не дай ей сломаться.” The girl is fragile. Don’t let her break.

You look over your shoulder.

Bucky doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch. Just walks out, silent as death.

You follow.

In the elevator, no one speaks.

Not until the doors close and the security light turns green.

Then, in Russian—so quiet it almost doesn’t reach you—he says:

“Ты не хрупкая.” You are not fragile.

You stare straight ahead. Your heart stutters once behind your ribs.

After a long pause, you whisper back:

“И ты не только оружие.” And you are not only a weapon.

Location: Hydra Training Compound, Belarus Objective: Infiltrate and surveil ex-Hydra weapons broker operating under a NATO-aligned cover Alias Names: Alina & Ivan Morozov Cover Story: Married couple visiting from Kaliningrad for black-market tech negotiation

The base is colder than Moscow.

Not in temperature—though it’s frigid at dawn—but in design. Gray walls. Glass panels. Doors with no handles unless they want to be opened. The kind of place where every hallway feels like a test, and every reflection in the steel has eyes.

You stand in the armory, adjusting your tactical vest, eyes on the mission file. The photos are grainy, black-and-white. Surveillance stills of a man named Konstantin Mirov, former Hydra quartermaster turned freelance weapons broker.

Your job? Get into his meeting. See who he’s selling to. Get out without making noise.

No seduction this time. No backless gowns or hotel bar whispers.

This one’s quiet. Careful. Married couple traveling for business, Hydra’s handler had said.

You’d snorted. The Winter Soldier hadn’t reacted at all.

Now he enters the room, dressed not in his usual black ops gear—but something more civilian. Dark gray slacks. Black sweater. No gloves.

You glance at the arm.

He doesn’t bother to hide it.

Bold.

Or suicidal.

You zip your coat, grab your compact pistol, and glance at him. He’s adjusting his earpiece, expression unreadable.

Your handler enters with a clipboard and two forged passports.

“Your aliases are Alina and Ivan Morozov,” she says, Russian clipped and cold. “You’ve been married for five years. No children. No friends. You’re a quiet couple from Kaliningrad who want to buy access to Mirov’s smart-tech vault.”

She hands Bucky the ring box like it’s a threat.

He opens it.

Two simple wedding bands inside.

You stiffen. “Is this necessary?”

The handler smiles, teeth like knives. “You’ll be staying in a private villa. Shared bed. If Mirov suspects you’re spies, he’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll sell your location to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You take the ring.

Bucky slides his on with mechanical ease.

You follow.

Infiltration Point: Moldova border, safehouse en route to Mirov’s estate

The drive is quiet. Trees blur past the windows, and you feel the weight of the silence settle between you like fog. The radio crackles occasionally—local news, rain reports, nothing useful.

He’s driving with one hand, the metal one. The flesh one rests on his thigh, fingers tapping once, twice, in thought.

You speak without looking at him.

“Are you comfortable with close contact?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “I don’t need comfort. I need control.”

You glance at him. “That wasn’t the question.”

He doesn’t answer.

The Estate — Mirov’s Private Villa

By the time you arrive, the act has begun.

You’re greeted by a security detail with mirrored sunglasses and thick accents. They scan your car. Search your bags. But they don’t find the tracker tucked beneath the spare tire, or the bone mic embedded behind your left ear.

Inside, the villa is all excess. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Surveillance in every corner. You walk in like you belong.

Your room is on the top floor. One bed. No cameras inside, but you know better. Hidden mics, pressure sensors under the floorboards.

You wait until the guards leave before speaking.

“You take the side near the door.”

He nods once. No questions.

You unpack. Slowly. Deliberately. The room is small. Every time you turn, he’s close. Too close.

You kneel to unzip your weapons case and find yourself eye-level with the holster strapped to his thigh.

He doesn’t move.

Your fingers brush the hem of his coat as you reach for your knife.

He still doesn’t move.

Your heartbeat spikes—briefly.

I’ve been a temptress too long.

Now I just want to be human.

But I don’t know how to be near him without wanting something I shouldn’t.

Later That Night

The mission recon begins at the gala in Mirov’s garden.

You’re dressed in black. Minimal makeup. Armed with a compact camera hidden in your pendant. Bucky wears a suit again—same fit as Bucharest—but this time, you’re on his arm.

For show.

You link arms. Skin to skin.

He is warm.

You keep your smile fixed and your eyes on the crowd. Inside, you whisper:

“Three o’clock. Red dress. That’s the American buyer.”

He leans in slightly—lips brushing your temple in a way that makes your stomach knot.

“She’s carrying,” he mutters. “Ankle holster. SIG P365.”

You smile and laugh, loud enough for Mirov’s man to hear. Just two lovers sharing a joke.

But when you turn away, his hand on your back doesn’t drop right away.

You feel the heat of it through your dress.

You don’t speak on the walk back to the villa.

The guards let you through without questions. One of them gives you a knowing smirk, like he expects you to fuck as loudly as you kill. You offer him the barest smile in return—just enough to keep him stupid.

Inside, the bedroom light is low. Amber and shadow and the faint buzz of some generator humming through the floor.

You unclip your earrings and place them on the nightstand.

Bucky’s already unbuttoning his cuffs. No words. No wasted movement. Just a slow, methodical undoing of the man he pretended to be tonight.

You glance over.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

But his jaw is tight.

You strip off your dress with your back to him. No flourish, no invitation. Just routine. Your spine is bare and littered with scars in the mirror. You catch his reflection when he finally turns.

His eyes flick to yours, just once, before dropping.

He looks away like it hurts.

You slide on the black sleep shirt. One of the few things in your duffel that’s actually yours. Cotton. Worn thin at the collar.

Bucky changes into a pair of Hydra-issued sweats and a black t-shirt. The metal arm gleams under the soft light, all tension and symmetry and weaponized restraint.

He takes the side nearest the door, just like you asked.

You slide under the covers beside him.

The silence is too loud.

The bed dips beneath his weight but doesn't move again. He’s still. A wall of heat and control.

You close your eyes.

And then—after several long breaths—you whisper, in Russian:

“Ты не расслаблялся ни на секунду.” You haven’t relaxed once.

He exhales through his nose.

Then:

“Слишком опасно.” Too dangerous.

You open your eyes. The ceiling is textured with shadow.

“Мне казалось, ты был другим, когда мы танцевали.” You seemed different when we danced.

He doesn’t answer.

But he’s listening. You can feel it. His focus, always so sharp in combat, is now centered entirely on you.

You turn on your side, facing him in the dark. His profile is a study in contrast—scar and softness, human and not. The kind of face built for silence.

“I forgot who I was for a minute,” you murmur. “On the balcony. When you touched my back.”

His jaw tenses.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t want you to stop.”

The air between you thickens. Warmer now. And dangerous in a different way.

This isn’t flirtation. It's a confession. Two ghosts pressing against the skin of the living.

You feel his fingers move—just barely.

Then:

“Why are you telling me this?”

You don’t know.

Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because he saw you undressed without leering. Maybe because when you kissed him in Bucharest, he didn’t pull away—he just stood there, stunned, as if you’d woken something up.

“I want to know if you felt it too,” you whisper.

His voice is a thread of breath:

“I don’t let myself feel things.”

You reach for his hand under the sheet. Not the metal one. The other.

Your fingers find his fingers.

And he lets them.

He doesn’t pull away.

You fall asleep like that. Not tangled. Not pressed together. Just a point of contact—skin to skin.

A line crossed.

And neither of you can go back.

Location: Hydra Training Compound Day Three Post-Mission

They call it “recalibration,” but it feels like punishment.

Mission successful. Mirov neutralized. Intel secure. And still, they’re back on the mat like it means nothing. Hydra doesn’t reward precision. It doesn’t reward loyalty.

It rewards silence.

You’re already in the training gear—black compression top, reinforced leggings, bare feet on the polished floor. Your knife is strapped to your thigh even though it won’t be used today. Just a habit.

Across from you, Bucky stands shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower.

His metal arm catches the light like a warning.

You circle each other in silence. There’s no music, no overseer today. Just the distant hum of the base and the scuff of movement on the mat.

Then, in Russian:

“Готова?” Ready?

You nod.

He lunges first—fast, controlled, mechanical. You drop low, sweep a leg, and he pivots instead of falling. His movements are brutal but beautiful, like clockwork designed to hurt.

You block a palm strike, twist under his arm, shove your elbow toward his ribs.

He lets you connect.

Not full force. Not enough to bruise.

Just enough.

You both freeze.

Your breath hitches.

He stepped into it—on purpose.

Why would he let me land a hit like that?Why does it matter that he did?

You disengage fast, roll back onto your feet. He stays still, watching.

Eyes unreadable.

Then, quieter:

“Ты теряешь фокус.” You're losing focus.

You sneer. “Ты проиграл.” You lost.

He steps forward again—slow this time. Less like a soldier, more… man. His chest rises and falls in an even rhythm.

“I let you win,” he says.

There’s no arrogance in it. No mocking.

Just a fact.

You bristle. “Why?”

His eyes flick to yours—then lower. Just briefly. Enough to notice the slight swelling on your lip from the earlier blow he did land.

“Because you’re tired.”

You swallow, throat tight.

He noticed. And he cared. Not because Hydra told him to. Not because it helped the mission.Because it’s me.And that scares me more than it should.

You don’t reply.

You rush him again, but this time it’s sloppier. Emotion leaking in through the cracks. He catches your wrist mid-strike, and for one heartbeat, you’re just… there. Trapped in his grip.

His fingers tighten—then loosen.

He releases you.

Your skin burns where he touched it.

You step back.

“Again,” you say.

He hesitates. Just a flicker.

Then nods.

You spar for thirty minutes. No talking. Just the sound of bodies hitting mats, of breath caught and released, of two people pretending not to feel what they feel.

And after the last round—when you’re both on the floor, sweating, chests heaving, his arm braced beside your shoulder—

You ask, quiet:

“Why are you different with me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it:

“Because you don’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”

You look at me like I’m still human.You look at me like I deserve to be one.

You could kiss him right now.

You don’t.

You just stay there, breathing next to him.

Neither of you moves.

The sparring is over, but it’s still clinging to you—under your skin, in the beat of your pulse, in the shallow ache of your left wrist.

You sit on the bench in the armory locker room. Shirt discarded. Wrist tender. It throbs in waves now that the adrenaline’s worn off.

Hydra’s med supplies are cold and clinical: gauze, antiseptic, wraps. No painkillers. No comfort.

You’re wrapping the bandage sloppily, one-handed.

“Дай мне.” Let me.

His voice is low. Behind you.

You flinch, but you don’t stop him when he kneels in front of you.

You offer your wrist.

The metal hand holds it steady. Too gentle. The human one does the wrapping.

He’s meticulous. One layer. Then another. His breath fans across your forearm.

Your voice is soft:

“Ты заботишься.” You care.

He pauses.

Then—barely above a whisper:

“Ты не должна была заметить.” You weren’t supposed to notice.

You study him as he works. Down here, kneeling, close like this—he doesn’t look like a ghost. Or a soldier. He just looks... tired.

And young. Younger than you imagined, when he’s not under command.But you’ve seen his file. You know that doesn’t make sense. Unless something’s been taken from him.Time. Memory. Self.

“What do they call you?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up.

“They don’t.”

Not a name. Just a directive. A ghost.Winter Soldier. Asset.

You nod once. You won’t ask again. You’ve done worse to people with names.

When he finishes the wrap, he doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes the edge of the gauze. Not by accident.

Your breath stutters.

He touches like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Like no one taught him how to be soft, but he’s trying anyway.And you… you need it.God, you need it.

“You stay too long after the others leave,” you whisper.

He looks up at you. Those eyes—gray and still and far away.

“So do you.”

You pull your wrist back, slowly. His hand follows for a second longer than it should.

You rise.

He doesn’t stop you.

But before you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder.

“What's on your mind,” you say in Russian. “Just one thing.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to remember what counts as real.

Then, finally:

“Я боюсь забыть, каково это — не быть один.” I’m afraid of forgetting what it feels like to not be alone.

You don’t speak.

But something inside you breaks.

And you don’t fix it.

There are nights when the base goes too quiet.

Not silent—because no Hydra base is ever truly silent. There’s always the dull hum of the server banks, the pressurized hiss of sealed doors, the echo of boots in the corridor above.

But this? This is quieter. Hollow. Heavy.

You can’t sleep.

Your bed is too narrow, your bones too wired. There’s a tremor in your hands you can’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just… residue. From training. From life.

From him.

You slip from your quarters, barefoot. In a tank top and soft black shorts. You don’t bother to put boots on.

The halls feel colder at night. You glide through them like smoke.

Down one floor. Then two.

You know where he’ll be.

There’s a small chamber near the weapons lab—an auxiliary control room that no one uses after hours. No windows. Just a slatted steel vent near the ceiling where moonlight slices in, pale and ghostlike.

He sits there in the corner, on the floor.

Back against the wall.

Awake.

He’s always awake.

You don’t speak when you step into the doorway.

He lifts his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise.

Just looks at you like he knew you’d come.

You sit across from him, knees pulled up. The cold seeps through the floor into your skin.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

But that’s never mattered. Not with him.

The quiet between you has its own language.

He finally says, “Ты тоже не можешь спать?”

You can’t sleep either?

You shake your head. “Слишком много шума.”

Too much noise.

He nods.

You don’t mean the base.

You mean the static in your blood. The ghost-thoughts. The bruises that don’t bloom until morning.

You watch him. The way he sits so still. But you’ve seen him move—he’s lethal in motion, but now, in this shadowed room, he’s just… there.

Like a monument to some war no one ever won.

You speak again.

“Do you remember who you were… before?”

His jaw flexes. Not anger—hesitation.

Then he says, “No.”

Just that. One syllable that splinters something in you.

“I think I was someone else, too,” you whisper. “Before the Red Room.”

And maybe neither of you can get back to that person.

Maybe that’s what this is. Two weapons sitting in the dark, trying to remember how to feel like people.

You shift a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I think about it sometimes,” you say. “What it might feel like. To live outside these walls. Outside orders.”

He doesn’t respond. But his eyes are on you like he’s trying to see that world through yours.

You whisper, ��Give me a reason.”

His brow furrows.

You search his face in the low light.

“Give me a reason to feel like a woman again. Not a tool. Not a weapon.”

A pause.

Then he leans forward—barely, barely—and says, so low you almost don’t hear it:

“Because when I look at you, I forget I’m a weapon.”

The air between you crackles.

But neither of you reaches across the space.

You just sit there, two shadows in the dark, a heartbeat apart from ruin.

But after a while sitting on the hard floor gets uncomfortable so you rise up slowly.

You guide him by the wrist—his flesh one, calloused and warm—and not his metal one. That’s on purpose.

He follows you without a word, boots silent on concrete. You don’t need to look back to know he’s watching you. You always know when he’s watching.

Your room’s a concrete box. No windows, no comforts. Just a cot, a gray blanket, a single lamp. But it’s private. It’s yours. And he’s never been here before.

You close the door behind you, fingers slipping the lock into place.

“C’mere,” you whisper, and he does.

He’s quiet, always quiet. That’s how they trained him. But he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the whole damned place. Like your hands are the only ones he trusts not to hurt him. You pull him close, let your forehead rest against his chest. The cool metal of his arm touches your back as he hesitates—then wraps it around you.

He doesn’t know how to ask. But he wants this.

So you climb onto the cot, pull him down with you. No words, just breathing. The way his nose presses into your neck. The way his body curls toward yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You pet his hair. His breathing slows. You feel the tension drain from his body, even if only a little. You fall asleep like that—his arms around your waist, your hand over his heart.

But sometime in the dark, you feel it.

A slow press of his hips against your ass. The warm breath hitching against your neck. His hand twitching on your belly, the tremble of restraint in his thighs.

You shift, just slightly. You feel the outline of him—hard. Needy.

You whisper into the dark quiet of the room: “Soldat.”

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles, voice rough and ruined with shame. “I— I didn’t mean—”

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching back to touch his thigh, grounding him. “It’s okay.”

He goes still. Like he’s waiting to be punished.

You turn over in the narrow bed, face to face now. You tuck his hair behind his ear. “You want help, soldier?”

His eyes widened—blue and glassy and desperate.

“You sure?” you ask, your fingers brushing down his bare torso, over the soft ridges of his abs. “We don’t have to if—”

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it’s been torn from him. “Please. I don’t… I’ve never…”

That makes your heart ache. But it also makes heat twist low in your belly.

“Let me take care of you, then.”

You kiss him first. He doesn’t expect it, but melts into it like he’s starved for it. Like he doesn’t even know how to kiss back but he’s trying so hard it hurts. His metal hand grips the edge of the bed; his flesh one grabs your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You straddle him slowly. He’s shirtless, boxers straining against his hard length. His breath shudders when you grind down, rubbing against him through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “It feels… s’good. Don’t stop.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, dragging your lips down his jaw. “Just let me.”

He nods, breathing hard. He’s so worked up already, hips twitching under you.

You take your time. Slide your fingers beneath his waistband, and he gasps when you wrap your hand around him. He’s hot, flushed, leaking already. You stroke him slowly, watching him fall apart.

His head tips back against the pillow. His thighs tremble. He whimpers when you twist your wrist just right.

“You like that?” you ask, voice dark and honey-sweet.

“Y-yeah. Shit. Don’t stop—please.”

You press kisses to his chest, his neck, then whisper against his ear, “You wanna come like this? Or inside me?”

He chokes on air, like his brain short-circuits.

“I—inside,” he groans, eyes pleading. “Please.”

You slip your shorts off. Tug his boxers down. You don’t tease. You just line yourself up, wet and ready, and sink onto him slow. He shudders beneath you, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, brow furrowed, chest heaving. “You feel—god, you feel so warm, so tight—I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you murmur, rocking gently. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He whines at the praise. Whines.

You ride him slow, deep, keeping your forehead pressed to his, your hands in his hair. Every thrust makes him gasp. Every grind makes him moan, softer than you thought a killer like him could.

You rub your clit, and he watches, eyes glassy and wide like it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.

When you tighten around him, he loses it.

His whole body locks up, and he spills into you with a broken cry, hips bucking helplessly. You don’t stop. You work yourself over him until you come too, clenching tight around him, panting into his mouth.

You collapse on top of him. He wraps both arms around you—flesh and metal—and for the first time, he doesn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

He just looks like a man who’s finally been given something he didn’t have to earn.

The room is quiet again.

You’re both breathing hard, chests pressed together. His skin is slick with sweat, still flushed from the high. But his hands haven’t moved—still holding you like he’s afraid to let go, like the second he does you’ll be taken from him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice hoarse against your neck.

You shake your head slowly, nuzzling into him. “No.You were perfect.”

He lets out a breath, shaky and full of disbelief. You reach up and brush his hair back, gentle fingers gliding over his cheek. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need to tell him how good he was, or how beautiful he looked begging under you. He’s still figuring out how to believe those things. But you’ll show him. Again and again, if that’s what it takes.

You shift off of him gently, and he lets you go, reluctantly. You feel him twitch at the loss of contact.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over both your bodies. “I’m not going far.”

He blinks up at you, eyes glassy in the dim light. “Can I… hold you?”

“Of course you can.” You curl into him, tangle your legs with his, tuck your head beneath his chin. His arms tighten around you immediately—strong and possessive and scared.

You kiss his collarbone. His breath hitches again.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just lay there, wrapped around each other. Listening to the hum of the base outside the door, far away from this little world you’ve built.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and so vulnerable you almost don’t recognize it.

“I didn’t think it could be like that,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like it meant something. Like I got to feel good. Like… you wanted me.”

You tilt your head up and meet his eyes. “I do want you. Not just this.” You brush your fingers over his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm. “All of you. Even the parts they tried to erase.”

He closes his eyes. A tear escapes down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. You do it for him.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” he says.

You rest your forehead to his. “It won’t be.”

“You’ll stay?”

You nod. “As long as you’ll have me.”

That does something to him. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs you tighter into his chest and buries his face in your hair.

Eventually, his breathing slows again. You feel his body finally begin to relax beneath you. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he trusts you won’t leave.

You fall asleep like that, curled around each other in a narrow cot in a concrete room under Hydra’s nose. But none of that matters. Not now. Not here.

For once, he isn’t a weapon.

And for once, you both believe—just a little—that maybe this, whatever this is between you, could be real. That maybe you’ll find freedom not just from Hydra, but from the cold, lonely lives they built for you.

Together.

dividers by @cursed-carmine & @hyuneskkami 🏷️ @zevrra @millersdoll @littlemillersbaby @stell404 @perpetually-fangirling-blog @veraarora @layaispunk @surebutwhy @m00ngazing @devilslittlehelper @bxtchboy69 @cinderblock24 @lilylovesu

550 notes · View notes

razztazzel · 7 months ago

Text

Dandys

SOOO… I’m now realizing I’ve never told anyone about this au!! I don’t even know if you guys know this is an au… LORE DROP!!! I usually call this au the marketable plushie au since it doesn’t have an exact name, but it’s still “Dandy’s World” regardless

So Basically, The main toons look differently than their canon looks which are kid friendly for marketing and TV shows, The handlers sometimes make the Original variant mains watch the smaller toons, Marketable dandy gets to run the shop with the Original (to the au) dandy but he’s too small to fit over the counter… hehe he’s so cute, anyway there’s no scary stuff no ichor problems no dandy fucking everything up and killing everyone, so to cut it short the ichor operation hasn’t happened yet

Dandy’s actually really strict with them, He wears gloves not only because he’s a gardener but because his claws are actually really sharp and he doesn’t want to hurt someone, And because every time he takes his gloves off toons are quick to ask omg do you paint ur nails… besides the point He’s keeping the little ones safe, Isn’t that cute!!! his gloves are like those thick rubber ones so he can’t accidentally break them.. I imagine the marketable toons are somewhere around 3 feet and the The original variants about 5 feet or a tad taller than that, like Astro and sprout is, For specific’s Astro is 5’6 and sprout is 5’4

So they’re not technically taller than grown adults but most likely taller than some short ones that’s for sure.. Their heights are lowkey the reasons why the marketable plush toons were made, And because sprout is too sarcastic for his own good…And they can’t even do anything about it because he purposely taught marketable sprout how to be just as sarcastic

The marketable variants are like the exact same as they are in the game! — And the mains are the only ones with an original variant, everyone else without the main rarity, besides dandy look the exact same as if they do canonically!

I draw this au ALLLLLLLL the time :3 I even drew an updated version of their older redesigns, though I’m too lazy to color it meeehhhhh, some changed a lot, some changed a little, and some didn’t change at all

#dandys world #roblox #i love this damn game #art #dandy's world fanart #dandy’s world au #Dandy’s world #dandy’s world astro #dandy’s world sprout #dandys world vee #dandy’s world shelly #dandy’s world dandy #dandy’s world pebble

901 notes · View notes

keferon · 4 months ago

Note

Two Peas in a Pod: part 2/?

*slips another piece into your mailbox*

_____________________

Jazz was still feeling a little woozy from his donation in the dark hours of the morning. Blaster had breakfast changed from the usual to something that felt more like a treat, probably a reward for his good behaviour, and to help his body recover. Fish heavy in proteins, fat, all that healthy stuff. Something that normally he would have tried to savour, but he wolfed it down from excitement. Too many questions ran through his head, and most he couldn't bring himself to voice.

The mer, the mer would pull through. Blaster told him about how he had saved their life with his blood. Praised him high and low. Because Blaster knew how Jazz felt about seeing blood, about how hard blood tests were for him, and that was only a tiny vial. Not three big bags of it. Jazz hadn't seen how much they had taken – because he had kept his eye closed until they left in a hurry –, and hearing about it made him dizzy for other reasons, but he honestly felt real proud of himself.

It was a new feeling, different from other moments of pride – like when he figured out the lock codes. Yeah, this gave him butterflies and the drive to help more.

Blaster laughed when Jazz offered that the vets could take more if the other mer needed it. His handler didn't think it would be, but he would pass it on to the vet team.

Jazz's morning checks were a little off, expected with having a little less fluids and feeling off-balance, but it was kept short and quick. Blaster told him that if he learned anything more, he'd tell him next time he came by and then hurried back down to the staff area. Blaster was needed elsewhere, understandably as there weren't many mer experts here, though he did leave Jazz his waterproof stereo if he wanted to play some of his favourites.

But, the orca mer was far too busy causing a whirlpool from the laps he was swimming. He was too excited to sit still, and embarrassment be damned he started practising old vocals. He didn't remember much of his mother tongue, and he was pretty sure that his pronunciation was off, that or had one hell of an accent. Echo-speech was even more rusty. And once he had gone over and over what he could recall, Jazz began to really worry. A few sentences and handful or so of words was all he had? Gods, I hope I can at least make a decent first impression. Blaster said they were just like me, so hopefully, that will give me some starting points.

More than he cared to count, Jazz would swim into the shallow waters of the medical bay and hope to see something through that window. But no one ever came close enough for him to hear any news of the mer. He couldn't even see anything on his radar, wherever they had done treatment, it wasn't in the hospital ward. It almost felt like he was being purposely kept in the dark.

And just when Jazz was starting to worry that things had taken a bad turn, a group of staff turned up around four pm. He wasn't able to ask any questions, or rather they refused to answer. Shooing him away as they got to work. Starting with closing the gate to the bay to 'keep him out'. Jazz could easily climb those walls, but that wasn't the point. Even if the gate window was closed, he could pick up that they were setting up the water hammock. But it wasn't until he heard the cautionary beeping of the hoist lift approaching that it dawned on him – the mer was coming. Now.

"Jazz," Blaster called, "… Jazz," he blew the training whistle and finally got his mer's attention. "Stop pacing and get over here."

"But–" Jazz looked back longingly up the wall.

"Jazz," his tone dropped to a firm one, and Jazz begrudgingly swam over to the pier. The human crouched and made sure that they held eye contact before he spoke. "I need you to promise me that you will stay in your enclosure."

He sunk a little, trying to play into his cuteness, but being far too anxious to really pull it off. "What do you mean?"

"Jazz," now warning him. Blaster knew full well that he was more than capable of getting into or out of places he shouldn't, bloody Houdini mermaid, "this is serious. Things are going well, we want to keep it that way. Which means keeping things calm and feeling safe. You're excited, I get it, we all are. But in about an hour, they'll be waking up and – from past experience seen with wild Mers – they will likely freak out. And the last thing we need is you hauling your tail over that wall and making things worse. Understand?"

The beeping was louder how and the hiss of hydraulics caused Jazz to look up. The arm of the lift was visible over the wall. They're here!

"Jazz," Blaster hopelessly called for his attention once more.

Within moments, a massive bundle was carefully raised, the staff calling out and coordinating. Jazz's gaze was fixed on the black and white fluke poking out, it was the only part of them he could see, and his heart began to race. Once they became hidden by the wall again, Jazz moved back to pacing by the gate without even thinking. Listening to people hopping into the water to unstrap the mer and call back n' forth. "Careful, careful! – Watch the head! – Someone give me a hand over here! – We're clear on this side! – Keep the head up!"

Really starting to sound like a broken record, Blaster chirped the whistle and called out to him again. The expression he wore must have been pretty pitiful because the look on Blaster's face dropped. "If I open the view port… will you promise me that you will wait, that you will stay in your enclosure?"

"I promise," he answered hastily, placing his hands on the gate, over the panel that would slide open.

"And that you will wait until everything is in the clear, till the staff come to oversee the integration. There will be no rushing things and no asking staff when we will open the gate."

"I promise," he repeated, trying not to beg.

Satisfied, Blaster pulled out his radio, "Blaster to Control; when the team is out of the Mer enclosure's medical bay, open the view port. Jazz's stress is mounting without a visual."

"Can do," came a quick reply.

Though, opening the panel was not. Several minutes went by, the hoist had cleared out, and much of the staff had returned to their other duties. Only two remained double-checking the mer's breathing and pulse. The moment that the last of them left, Jazz heard the lock disengage, and he retracted his hands as the panel shifted and began to slide open. The window was too small to get more than his hand – maybe up to his elbow if he wanted to push it – through, and sat just at water level– any movement sending water hopping to either side. But it gave him a clear view of the surface area inside.

Oh.

Oh. Jazz stopped breathing. While the mer's body was mostly supported by the fabric of the hammock, cradling them on their side, effectively hiding most of them from Jazz's angle. Propped up on a soft floating platform was the mer's head, face towards the gate. Sharp features and elegantly shaped finials, with flattering lines of their markings complimenting the peaceful expression as they slept. The butterflies from earlier came back stronger than ever, his heart thundering as words fumbled from Jazz's lips, "he's beautiful…"

_____________________

-GLC

Orca Prowl really is just-- too fucking pretty, omg, I'm living through Jazz in this moment like when I first saw your designs of him.

I'm more than happy to continue writing for you, you bring me so much joy. I screamed when I saw how much you liked it. If you have any requests you would like me to add to the story, leave it in the tags or comments ♡ I now plan to continue until the tsunami and a bit afterwards, maybe more, we'll see~

Upd: There is a next part!

Oh. MY GOD. OKAY ALRIGHT OKAY ALRIGHT OKA

I'M ABOUT TO START PACING IN CIRCLES JUST LIKE JAZZ OVER HERE KDLCNFJFLFB PL E A S E THIS IS SO GOOD. The tension?? You can fucking TASTE it IT'S SO GREAT GLC I LOVE YOU

The way it all starts at night and then you (as a reader) have all this additional time to boil in your anticipation?? So fucking great. Like you can really feel how little power Jazz has over the wholse situation. The plot is moving but he doesn't have any saying in it. Well. Yet heheh

Anyway haha. Im normal and I made some art>:D

#apocalyptic ponyo #jazzprowl #jazz #prowl #blaster #ponyo jp writing #GLC #merformers #maccadam #transformers #damn imagine living your whole life with stupid dolphins and pretty much equally stupid captive merfolks #and then meeting a guy with an Engineering degree #must be wild~~~~#Wait I just realized. Those workers never had any experience with sapient merfolks besides Jazz #they all are like “he will freak out” but their understanding is based mostly on animals and captive mers #and those tend to become VERY stressed if they suddenly wake up in some new strange environment and discover they have a company #while with Prowl it would be the exact opposite I imagine??? omg. After all the time he was kept in those tiny ass temporary pools???#having no company besides humans who are constantly poking him and staring at him and making him take their weird medication an-#-d sometimes drugs if he acts aggressively?#like after all this shit???#I have a feeling he would see/hear other orca nearby and his first initial reaction would be OH THANK FUCK there's a company #orcas are very VERY social after all~#I got carried away haha. I LOVE THE FIC SO MUCH #MUAH #this is freaking amazing #.....damn okAY one more thought I just had #there's only a small window for them to look at each other #Prowl wouldn't properly see Jazz ehehehjfkfnfmfj. He would sorta kinda see him right. But then he would ACTUALLY look at him. like.#for the first time see his entire body? and Jazz looks SO wrong #Okay I'm done spamming haha

670 notes · View notes

frostgears · 4 months ago

Text

officer's ball

If there was one thing that eventually turned you against the aristocracy, it was the yearly humiliation of you, your handler, and your entire ground crew being forced into beribboned beyond-antique pre-starflight fashion every year for the Officer's Ball. They insisted. They said the nobles needed the human element. They said it'd justify your funding.

"Ammo doesn't grow on trees," the woman who directed your every combat action said. "And if it did, they'd be found growing only in First Landing family gardens. I hate this. I hate these people. Every fucking year, just to keep the program running. Don't they get bored?" and then she burst into tears and you had to do her makeup again, from the beginning.

You didn't mind it so much for yourself. The entitled fat old perverts of every gender trying to grab your ass and catching a handful of hoopskirt were entertaining. So was being forced to sample a continuous mix of canapés, sherry, cocaine, chocolate, PL-2141, and further canapés. If you really worked at it, you could approximate a slight buzz, the faintest echo of what interface drugs did on an average mission day.

But your poor mechanic wasn't used to being groped by the nobility or plied with anything stronger than hangar coffee. By two hours in, she was looking green around the edges and ready to puke in the nearest potted palm. Your avionics specialist, parted from her usual headphones and overlay glasses, was rigid with sensory overload and unable to dissociate because some third son of some electronics bureau minister had her cornered about a harebrained idea and wouldn't let go.

Your handler was worst of all: thoroughly miserable in her tightly corseted dress and constitutionally unsuited to any kind of discomfort inflicted upon her own person, rather than yours. She jumped at the slightest touch, gritted her teeth even more noticeably with every introduction. Your signed or whispered attempts to quietly reassure her that the "mission" was on track and would be over soon caused her to twitch and on one occasion even yelp, startling the admiral responsible for your fuel allocation. You smoothed it over as best you could, insinuating something about "combat nerves" — the old fool might have actually thought she was a pilot! But you didn't feel the need to explain, not that night.

The next day, as you hunted down a rebel tactical element in the hills above Seyan's Folly, she was still hung over. Not hung over enough to not notice when the pinned-down rebel lieutenant started in on an honest-to-God "you're not so different, you and I" speech, but hung over enough that she told your comms operator to cut the audio feed to Command, not your cockpit speakers.

"We're listening," you boomed over external PA speakers, forwarding her orders. "Wait? We're listening? Apparently we're listening."

"Shit. I mean. We're not that different, really, but obviously there's, uh, you're part of a system, and there's, redemption is on the table, I guess, maybe you'd like to, uh… honestly, I was just buying time."

"Don't get cocky, I've had your reinforcements bracketed by smart mortars for the last two minutes," you said. "You never had any time to buy. But… tell me about your side's command structure. Does it have a yearly ball?"

"Are you fucking joking?"

Things got complicated after that, with the improvised extraction, but what the hell, your team already worked well together.

You've had to work for every round and every joule and every mole of active nanomachinery since (much of it wrested from lesser units sent from your homeworld to drag you back) and you share a tiny, noisy cabin with your handler above the large bay of a rebel assault transport.

Maybe you're on the right side. Maybe there isn't one. But they're still letting you pilot, and your handler has happily returned to a tank top, fatigue pants, and what's left of her battered leather jacket, restoring her confident growl over the tactical link. The liaison officer they've got watching you has assured her that there's not a single brocade ball gown in the entire fleet. □

#mech pilot #fluff #microfiction

483 notes · View notes

sweetromanova · 9 days ago

Text

High Risk, Higher Maintenance🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: relationship abuse, emotional/verbal (not physical), stalking, manipulation/gaslighting, intent to hurt, minor character death, mentions of trauma, general emotional distress

Chapter One

The SHIELD conference room smelled like recycled air and consequence. Natasha sat in the centre chair like she’d been dropped there from a great height and told not to move. Arms crossed, leg bouncing once every few seconds. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack molars.

Across from her, Fury paced.

Not the kind of pacing that meant strategy. This was the kind that meant disappointment. The kind you earned.

“You compromised classified intel.” He said finally, without looking at her.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes followed him but her mouth stayed shut.

“You let Yelena into Tier Three access.”

“She needed it.”

“She didn’t have clearance.”

“She had need. There’s a difference.”

Fury stopped pacing, turned and looked her dead in the eye.

“You don’t get to redefine clearance based on gut feelings.”

“She was running point. I made a call.”

“You made a mess.”

His voice wasn’t raised, it never had to be but the silence that followed was loud enough to press against her ribs.

He dropped a file on the table. Thin. Civilian-grade. Not even stamped.

“You’re benched. Immediate suspension from fieldwork. No missions. No exceptions.”

Natasha didn’t move.

The words didn’t surprise her. But they hit anyway.

“You’re sidelining me for three months?” She asked, voice flat. “You want me filing drone logs with the kids?”

“I want you to feel the weight of crossing a line.”

“I’ve crossed plenty of lines.”

“Not this one.”

Fury leaned on the table now, hands braced. Every inch of him radiating the authority of someone who’d already decided.

“You want to stay useful? There’s one option.”

“I don’t do babysitting.”

“You do now.”

She scoffed but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m not a handler, Fury. I’m not a suit.”

“It’s not a suit gig. It’s a threat detail.”

That stopped her, just a fraction. Just enough for him to open the file and slide it toward her.

She didn’t reach for it but her eyes scanned the front page.

“I said threat detail, not glorified security for someone’s insecure C-list husband.”

“She’s not C-list. And it’s not a husband.”

At that, Natasha leaned forward, more intrigued than she wanted to be and finally looked down at the file properly.

Your photo met her gaze.

Soft lighting. Something formal, a charity event, probably. Your hair done, your smile poised. But there was a hollow edge to it. A stiffness. The smile never made it to your eyes.

Congresswoman Evelyn Prescott’s wife.

Her brow lifted.

“Prescott…” She repeated slowly. “The Evelyn Prescott?”

Fury nodded. “And she’s too busy shaking hands on the Hill to pay attention to her wife getting stalked.”

Natasha’s lip curled. “And Secret Service?”

“Stretched thin. They gave us jurisdictional clearance.”

She flipped the page. There were typed threats, low-level tracking. Nothing solid but it was growing. Something just beneath the surface.

“Why not send a junior agent?” She asked, still reading.

Fury didn’t blink. “Because I need someone who doesn’t blink when things go sideways. And I need someone whose instincts override bureaucracy.”

She looked up at him. “So suddenly I’m your ideal choice?”

“You’re the only one who knows how to deal with a problem before it becomes a headline.”

He left that there, like a slap disguised as praise.

She stared at your face one more second, then shut the file.

“Fine.” She said. Her voice was rougher now, somewhere between bitter and resolved. “Where is she?”

Fury didn’t smile but he stepped back.

“She’s waiting.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was glass and shadows and the kind of money that got things silenced.

Perched on a hill just outside the city, it looked more like a showroom than a home, all clean lines and careful distance. Not a single light on. Not a single plant or bush out of place.

Natasha had barely stepped out of the SUV when a staff member appeared at the door.

“Upstairs. Probably.” The woman mumbled, not quite making eye contact before vanishing back into whatever wing she’d emerged from.

Probably. Looks like everyone took this stalker seriously.

Natasha stepped into the foyer and let the silence breathe.

She didn’t call out nor did she go looking.

Just stood still, counted the seconds and let the house show itself.

It took twelve minutes. Exactly.

Then the soft pad of bare feet on polished wood.

You descended like you were walking into your own stage lighting. Not rushed. Not apologetic. Silk pyjama pants, hanging low on your hips. A barely-there tank top that looked like it belonged to the evening before. One hand resting lazily on the bannister. The other delicately holding a half-empty glass of white wine between your fingers.

At four in the afternoon.

You looked at her like someone might look at a painting they’d forgotten they owned, curious, detached, not exactly impressed.

“So.” You said, voice warm and wry. “You’re the solution.”

Natasha didn’t blink. “You’re the problem.”

You grinned slowly, not girlish or innocent but dangerous.

“God, they really didn’t send a suit this time.”

“Disappointed?”

“Surprised.”

“I’m not here to impress you.”

“Shame. You’re doing it anyway.”

Natasha ignored that. Eyes already sweeping the room behind you, every angle, every shadow, cataloging entry points, blind spots, weakness.

You sipped your wine, watching her with open interest.

“Where’s your wife?”

“D.C. Fundraiser. Or an press conference disguised as one. I lose track.”

“You live here alone?”

You twirled your wine glass. “Alone enough.”

Natasha moved once, slow, deliberate. She didn’t like standing still when someone like you was circling.

“Secret Service too busy?” You asked, cocking your head. “Or am I the lucky prize in SHIELD’s punishment rotation?”

Natasha tilted her head just slightly, like you were a problem that she was already solving.

“Are you always like this?”

You blinked, mock-innocent. “Like what?”

“Performative. Mouthy. Spoiled. Bored enough to make people regret showing up.”

You smiled, wider this time but it cracked just a little at the edges.

“I’m lonely.” You mock pouted, lips almost to the rim of your glass. “Not spoiled. There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“No.” You murmured, stepping past her. “But you’re still looking.”

That made her stop, just for a second.

You were close now, too close, standing with your wine like it was a shield, like your bare feet gave you power.

“I read your file, you act like a brat.” Natasha said, voice cold steel. “You act like that with me? And you’re going to get treated like one.”

Something flickered across your face.

You tilted your head, mouth parted. “Promise?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even flirtation. It was a wound, wrapped in silk.

Natasha didn’t respond.

You turned before she could, walking slowly back up the stairs, back arching just enough in that stupid tank top, wine glass trailing, feet silent.

At the landing, you looked back once, eyes unreadable.

“Let me know if you get bored. Most people do.”

Then you were gone.

And Natasha stood in the entryway, pulse unsteady, jaw tight.

She hated these kinds of jobs. She hated the politics. She hated the silence you carried like perfume.

The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut behind you, soft as a secret.

Natasha stared after you for a beat too long, long enough for her composure to fray at the edges.

She exhaled once, sharp, like it might chase away the air you’d left heavy in the room.

She moved, finally habit taking over. A sweep of the space, a practiced look for exits, surveillance, traps. But this wasn’t that kind of danger. This was personal. And personal was messier.

She turned toward the bar cart in the corner, the one you hadn’t touched, despite the glass you carried like a prop.

Empty.

Of course it was.

The ice in her stomach cracked a little as she leaned against the wall, palms flat against the cool plaster. Her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard. A victim stood in someone else’s war.

Yours, maybe.

She closed her eyes. Don’t get involved.

That was the rule. The unspoken one.

But rules were harder to follow when someone looked at you like they were daring you to break them. Or begging you to.

Natasha pushed off the wall and started for the stairs. She wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t ask but she would look.

Because beneath all the bravado and silk-wrapped wounds, there was something else she’d seen. Something real.

And Natasha Romanoff had always been terrible at walking away from that.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was silent when Natasha woke.

Early morning sunlight slanted through the kitchen windows as she moved barefoot across the marble floor. She’d already been up for an hour, her body too trained, too wired, to allow for sleep-ins or comfort.

She’d cleared the perimeter. Twice. Done a full workout in the gym downstairs, mostly cardio and bodyweight drills. Something to shut her brain up. The silence in the house had weight to it, like it had grown used to being empty or ignored.

Natasha threw a towel over her shoulder and wandered into the kitchen.

The housekeeper was already there, folding napkins for a breakfast that wouldn’t be eaten.

“Morning.” She said, offering Natasha a small nod. “You don’t look like a coffee person but I’m guessing you’re going to need it.”

“I look like I need something to punch to which I probably do.” Natasha replied, with a friendly smirk.

That earned a small smile. The housekeeper, mid-fifties, tidy in the way people from the old world always were, gestured toward the absurdly expensive espresso machine on the counter.

“Machine’s Italian. More sensitive than my last husband. Hold this button until it blinks, twist here, pray to God and it should give you something dark enough to stomach.”

Natasha leaned in, eyebrows raised.

“That’s a lot of steps.”

“Nothing in this house is simple. Especially not her.”

Natasha turned slightly. “She’s still asleep?”

The housekeeper nodded.

“Didn’t come down for dinner last night either. Had a party a few days ago. Didn’t attend. She’s supposed to be with her wife today. Fundraiser at The Newbury. 10:30am arrival, press already booked. Evelyn is expecting her.”

“And she won’t go?”

The housekeeper shrugged one shoulder, continued folding cloth napkins with mechanical precision.

“She might. She won’t. Depends how much she wants to be seen pretending she’s happy.”

Natasha didn’t respond. The coffee machine sputtered to life and the smell filled the room, bitter, grounding.

“She always like this?” Natasha questioned.

The housekeeper didn’t answer right away.

“She used to try.” She said, quietly. “Now she doesn’t.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Ten minutes later, Natasha stood at the foot of the grand staircase, coffee in hand and made the deliberate choice to stomp up each step like it owed her money.

She didn’t bother knocking.

The bedroom door creaked open under her hand, the lock disengaged, of course. No one in this house locked anything surprisingly for a household with death threats and stalkers circling it.

You were a mess of tangled sheets and rumpled silk. One arm thrown across your face, hair spilled over the pillows, the duvet kicked off one leg like you’d been at war with it.

Natasha stepped into the room with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

You groaned from under your arm.

“Jesus Christ, what time is it?”

“Time to stop hiding.”

You moved just enough to peer at her through one eye, still heavy with sleep and pure venom. “Are you seriously waking me up like this?”

“You’ve got an event in two hours.”

You didn’t move.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Fundraiser. Press will be there. Your wife expects a photo op and a smile.”

You sighed like you’d aged twenty years in ten seconds.

“I’m not going.”

“She thinks you are.”

“She thinks a lot of things.” You muttered, pulling the blanket back over your head.

Natasha was not a patient woman.

She crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the duvet and ripped it back in one motion. You yelped, twisting away from the sudden chill.

“Are you insane?”

“You’ve got forty-five minutes to shower and look like you haven’t been avoiding your entire life.”

You sat up sharply, sheets pooling in your lap, eyes blazing.

“Let me guess… SHIELD trained you in ‘Emotional Support and Manners,’ too?”

“They trained me to get the job done.” Natasha said. “And right now, you’re the job.”

“So you wanna ‘do’ me? Well, why didn’t you just say?” You smirk, eyes raking up the redhead’s body where you were met with an eye roll.

“Oh please I’ve looked after kids with a better attitude.” Natasha scoffed but she couldn’t ignore what was in-front of her. You might have been a pain in the ass but you were a hot one.

You stood, barefoot on the hardwood, silk slipping off one shoulder. Everything about you was infuriatingly perfect and profoundly out of place. Like a painting hung in the wrong museum.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Your voice had an edge to it now, like you’d stopped teasing and she’d got you where it hurt.

“Too bad. You’ve got one.”

“And I don’t need to be dragged to a fucking fundraiser to play happy housewife for a woman who hasn’t touched me in a year.”

Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You can hate your wife on your own time. But this is public-facing. You don’t show up, you make headlines.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

There was a pause, a long one. The air between you stretched thin, tight like a wire about to snap.

Then you said, low and vicious. “She didn’t ask you to wake me up like this, did she? You just liked the power play.”

Natasha stared you down, her expression blank but her jaw tight. “I’m not here to play.”

You stepped closer, close enough for the words to sting when you dropped them, honey sweet and full of poison.

“No.” You said. “You’re here to be obeyed, right? Alpha dog on a leash. You want me dressed and smiling by ten? Better tell me nicely.”

Natasha blinked once.

“I don’t do nice.”

Your breath caught just slightly but you didn’t back down.

“I noticed.”

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Not until Natasha leaned forward, just enough.

“You keep bratting out like this, I’ll stop treating you like a job.”

You blinked and your throat bobbed. Then you said, quieter now. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Natasha turned away before she could answer that. Before she could say what she wanted. Before she could do something worse.

“Be ready in thirty.” She said, over her shoulder. “Or I’ll pick the damn dress myself.”

You didn’t call her back.

You waited until she was gone before sitting back down on the bed, hands shaking, chest tight.

Because god help you, she’d touched something you’d tried very hard to bury.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The espresso was too hot and the mimosa was too cold, so you alternated between the two like they were medicine.

You stood at the kitchen island in a half-zipped dress and no shoes, hair still pinned up messily from your shower, sipping like it was brunch and not an emotional ambush.

The housekeeper, June, barely looked up from setting out your earrings on a velvet tray.

“Toast?” She asked.

“God, no.” You said. “Just feed me something I can won’t throw up dramatically in front of cameras later. Maybe a strawberry.”

June rolled her eyes and passed you one without comment. You plucked it from the plate with a lazy smile, voice softening as you spoke again.

“Thank you, by the way. You always know what I don’t want, which is honestly more useful than anything.”

That got a real smile out of her, small but real. She reached out and lightly adjusted the strap of your dress.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Natasha stood in the doorway watching all of it, the way your voice changed, the way you thanked the woman like it meant something, like she wasn’t just staff. The way June looked at you with something like pity, or maybe protectiveness.

It made Natasha pause.

Maybe you weren’t just a brat. Maybe you were also lonely in a thousand different directions.

But she still had a job to do.

“You ready?” She asked.

You didn’t answer. Just took another sip, this time from the mimosa.

“Dress is half done. Hair’s a disaster. Emotionally I’m a seven out of ten.”

“That’s generous.” Natasha muttered.

You turned to her with a sharp smile. “Don’t get testy. You’ll wrinkle your jacket and that would let terrible in the background of my pictures.”

“You said you weren’t going.”

“Changed my mind.” You replied. “Gotta give them the illusion that I’m still trying.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just motioned to the door with a clipped gesture.

“Car’s waiting.”

You downed the rest of the mimosa like it was a shot and followed her out barefoot.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was silent until your phone buzzed on the seat beside you.

You stared at the screen. Natasha did too.

Evelyn🤍

You let it ring out.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to answer?”

“No.”

“She’s your wife.”

“And that means she’s entitled to my time but not my patience.”

Natasha didn’t let up. “If you don’t take the call, it’ll be worse later.”

“I’m used to worse.”

The phone buzzed again. This time, Natasha picked it up and held it toward you.

You glared at her.

“Answer it.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t feel like spending the next two hours babysitting a pouting debutante in the middle of a charity circus.”

You grabbed the phone and answered it, speaker on before she could object.

“Hello?”

“Finally!” Evelyn’s voice came through, crisp, cool, direct. No affection or warmth. “Are you en-route? I have a schedule to keep.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was now watching you, arms folded tightly, jaw clenched.

“Yes.” You said. “I’m on my way.”

“Your dress is steamed?”

“It’s fine.”

“Hair?”

“I’ll fix it in the car.”

“You need to be more camera ready than you were last week. You looked tired.”

You blinked, slow and sharp.

“Thanks for the feedback.”

“I’m just saying-“

“I heard you.”

Silence stretched for a moment then Evelyn cleared her throat.

“Okay. I’ll see you at the entrance. Try not to be late.”

The line went dead before you could even pretend to answer back.

You put the phone down gently.

Natasha didn’t say anything.

But you saw it, the subtle shift. The way her expression changed. She wasn’t smug. Not even vindicated.

She was quiet and curious.

“She always like that?” She asked after a beat.

You shrugged, eyes on the road.

“She used to be less… clinical.”

Natasha waited. You knew she would.

“She hasn’t been home in a week.” You added, voice quieter now. “Hasn’t said she loves me in longer.”

Then, after a pause. “And sex is… off the table. She stays out her townhouse in the city most of the time.”

“You don’t stay with her?”

“She said I would distract her from work...”

The car filled with silence again, thicker this time. Natasha didn’t offer comfort. That wasn’t her style but you saw her fists unclench.

You laughed once, not bitter, just tired.

“Guess now I’m just the perfectly dressed political accessory who sleeps on the right side of an empty bed.”

“You don’t have to be.” Natasha said.

You looked at her. “And what-“ You asked. “-would I be instead?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t.

But she turned to face forward again, her voice low.

“Fix your hair.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The green room smelled like hairspray and citrus scented hand sanitizer. Light jazz murmured from speakers overhead, a polite buffer for egos and nerves. You were ushered in ahead of Natasha, still adjusting an earring, dress fully zipped now, posture immaculate.

She trailed you like a shadow, always six feet behind, always watching.

Evelyn Prescott entered five minutes later, like she’d been waiting for a cue. Press-perfect. Blue suit dress. American flag pin glinting under the soft lighting. A smile built for cameras already in place.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Evelyn said lightly, crossing the room with open arms. “You look beautiful.”

You lit up. Natasha saw it, the small inhale, the straighten of your spine, the desperate flash of hope.

She also saw what happened next.

Evelyn kissed the air beside your cheek, not even pretending to touch your skin. Then she turned to shake the event coordinator’s hand without missing a beat.

Natasha watched your shoulders drop by a millimeter. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Except her.

Politeness flowed like wine. Evelyn was warm to everyone. Her laugh was practiced, low and pleasant. She thanked every volunteer, complimented floral arrangements, mentioned donor names with impressive recall.

But when she looked at you, she didn’t touch, didn’t soften, didn’t call you anything but your first name.

It was like watching a politician thank their intern, a pat on the head dressed in pearls.

You didn’t seem surprised. You just drifted back into position beside her, folding your arms behind you like someone used to standing quietly.

Natasha looked away for a second, just one second.

And when she looked back, the transformation had happened.

You and Evelyn were standing under camera lights in the ballroom foyer, picture-perfect. Your face was made for this, Natasha realised. You knew exactly how to tilt your chin, when to laugh softly, when to squeeze Evelyn’s arm in a way that made it seem like you belonged there.

You looked happy.

No one would guess that you’d begged to stay in bed this morning.

Natasha kept near through dinner. Not too close. Not too far. A private table had been arranged, Evelyn flanked by donors and other congressional heavyweights. You sat to her right, silent unless spoken to, nodding along, sipping champagne like it was water.

Except… Natasha noticed you didn’t sip. You drank. Gulped. Fast.

You kept your fingers curled around your wife’s arm when she stood to toast. Held her hand under the table, even when she didn’t hold yours back. You laughed a second too loud at an anecdote, eyes glassy with exhaustion or champagne, probably both.

Natasha folded her arms and leaned back against a pillar, scanning the room like she wasn’t quietly dying inside.

When Evelyn finally stood and spoke. “Excuse us for a moment.” She took you by the wrist, not the hand. Her smile never faded and neither did yours.

Natasha didn’t follow.

But she didn’t stay behind either.

She stopped just short of the hallway. One door slightly ajar. No one looking.

Inside, your voice broke the silence first.

“Can we just… can we go home together? Just tonight?”

A pause.

“I’m exhausted and you haven’t been home and- god, Evie, I miss you.”

Nothing for a moment.

Then Evelyn’s voice, calm, practiced. “I told you this week was full.”

“I’m not asking for everything.” You said. “I’m just asking for something. Stay. Just stay. You don’t even have to-“ Your voice cracked. “-you don’t even have to pretend. Just be there.”

There was a long silence.

Then the thump of heels on tile. Most likely you advancing on your older wife, who you begged to just see you once.

“I’m not doing this here.” Evelyn said, this time quieter and more controlled. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” You snapped. “I’m desperate.”

Natasha held her breath. Then came the sound. A shove. Not loud but unmistakable. Fabric brushing against the wall. A gasp.

“You’re needy.” Evelyn hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself. I have a job. I have responsibilities. I don’t have time to coddle your every insecurity just because you don’t know how to be alone.”

Silence again.

Evelyn exhaled, sharp and rehearsed.

“I’m sending your babysitter in. She can take you home.”

Footsteps.

A door creaked.

Natasha moved fast, ducking back into position before Evelyn appeared. The congresswoman swept past her like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just bruised a woman’s heart in a soundproof hallway.

“She’s ready to go…” was all she said.

Natasha didn’t respond to the woman, watching her waltz back into the room like she was running the show. And if Natasha knew anything about politics the she probably was. She waited five beats then went in.

You were still standing by the wall. Makeup pristine. Eyes red. Holding the pieces together with the same strength you used to carry the whole damn marriage on your back.

You didn’t look up.

Natasha walked over slowly. She didn’t say anything but she just slipped her coat off and held it out.

You took it without a word.

Only when she opened the side door and led you out toward the car did you finally speak.

“She used to love me, you know.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since she arrived, she saw you, not the brat, not the wife, not the public figure.

Just a woman breaking quietly in the backseat of a black car, clutching someone else’s coat like it could keep her warm.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet for a whole two blocks.

Then your voice floated from the back seat, a slur of silk and spite.

“Hey, Benji?” You called up to the driver.

Benji, a greying man with a kind voice and the patience of a saint, glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take us to that place on Charles. The one with the blinking ‘OPEN’ sign that’s been out since 2009.”

“The… liquor store?”

“God, yes. The trashiest one. The one with the lollipops next to the condoms at checkout.”

Benji didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

Natasha, seated beside you, gave a slow exhale through her nose.

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.” You said. “Unless you have a minibar hidden in that jacket, Soldier.”

Benji gave a dry chuckle. Natasha did not.

Ten minutes later, you came stumbling back to the car with a brown paper bag and zero shame. You didn’t wait. Just twisted the cap off the tequila, threw it back like it was water.

Natasha flinched.

“That’s not how you sip tequila.”

“I’m not sipping.” You grinned. “I’m coping.”

She reached for the bottle fast but you pulled it back faster.

“Don’t, Natasha. Please. Not tonight.”

There was no fire in it or flirtation. Just exhaustion in silk and eyeliner.

She let her hand fall back to her lap.

You drank again. Harder.

When the car pulled up to the house, Natasha got out first. Opened your door. You stared at the steps like they were Everest.

“Come on.” She said gently, eyeing the half drink bottle of tequila in your hand that had clearly done its number on the drive over.

“I can do it.” You mumbled.

“You can’t even stand.”

You tried. You failed.

She caught you before you hit the doorframe.

Somehow, she got you inside, one arm around your waist, one hand gripping your wrist to keep you steady. You smelled like vanilla and heartbreak and cheap liquor.

Your head lolled against her shoulder as she guided you up the stairs.

“I don’t do this.” You murmured.

“Get drunk?”

“Fall apart.”

“You were already falling.” You didn’t reply.

By the time she got you to your bedroom, you were quiet. Not passed out or asleep, just quiet in a way that honestly scared her a little.

She sat you down on the edge of the bed and started to pull your heels off.

“You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.” She shut you down.

You blinked at her. Then smiled, weakly. “There’s that bedside manner again.”

When she looked up, you were staring at her. Like you were trying to memorise something you didn’t think you’d get to see again.

“Can I ask you something?” You said.

“Depends.”

“Am I ugly?”

Natasha froze.

“Because she doesn’t look at me.” You continued. “Not anymore. Not when I’m dressed up. Not when I’m naked. I don’t even think she notices when I leave the room.”

Your voice cracked.

“I used to be worth looking at.”

Natasha knelt in front of you, slowly.

You were flushed, eyes glassy, hands twisting in your lap.

“You’re not ugly.” She said, quietly.

You scoffed. “Then what’s wrong with me?”

She wanted to lie, to distract you, to offer some clean, packaged comfort but you looked too honest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” She said instead. “But if I had you-“

You blinked. She kept going.

“-I wouldn’t stop touching you. Looking at you. I wouldn’t let you fall asleep without knowing you were wanted.”

Your mouth trembled.

Something in your face cracked wide open.

You looked so young like this. Not in age but in pain. Like someone who still believed love was supposed to be safe.

“Don’t lie to me.” You whispered.

“I’m not.”

You stared at her for a moment longer, then nodded. Slowly. Like you were accepting a kindness you didn’t believe you deserved.

She eased you into the pillows. You clutched the blanket like it might disappear.

“Stay?” You murmured.

Natasha brushed hair from your forehead.

“I’ll be right outside.”

You were asleep before she made it to the door. She stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the floor, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.

Because somewhere in the mess of tequila, heartbreak and half-whispered confessions… she’d started to feel something she wasn’t supposed to.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #fan fiction #natasha romanov #fanfic #marvel #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #light angst #natasha x reader

238 notes · View notes

buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger · 1 year ago

Text

Bucky and Touch Headcanons

Bucky x GN!Reader

Description: Just some Headcanons about Bucky and learning to trust human contact again

Warnings: fluff, a little angst, Bucky’s trauma, abuse at the hands of HYDRA, insecurities, self conscious Bucky, pet names, no y/n used, no pronouns used beyond "you"

A/N: if you haven't noticed I definitely have a type when it comes to fic and that fic is hurt/comfort with Bucky. I kinda feel like everything I've written is like the same thing in different fonts, but oh well 😅 anyways, Bucky re-learning that hands on his body doesn’t inherently mean pain and becoming super cuddly and touchy with someone he loves is my SHIT inject that into my VEINS man

((18+ only below the cut please and thank you!!))

It takes Bucky a really long time to get accustomed to human contact again, after you two got together it took him a while to even do something so innocent as hold your hand.

It’s not that Bucky hates it

He loves being close to you, he wants it so badly

And he’s touch-starved

He’s so touch-starved

But he went so long without positive human contact, and now that he’s free he wanted it so badly he could feel his chest aching for it

But it made him so nervous to want to try

After one night where you mindlessly reached up to casually touch his face and he flinched away hard, after all open hand coming towards his face had meant pain for so long, you two had a long conversation about his comfort levels

You two took things slow initially

You would sit on the couch together, watching a movie and talking with your fingers intertwined, your thumb stroking his knuckles.

Sometimes you’ll fall asleep on his shoulder, something he’s slowly started to accept

At the very least he’s stopped freezing when he feels your head droop to his arm

But now that he’s grown used to it and learned to love it? He wants to be touching you all the time

Bucky almost always has his arm around you, or a hand on your back, holding your hand, etc.

He would never admit it to anyone but you, but he’s SUCH a little spoon.

Bucky loves when you hold him, resting his head on your chest while you rub his back brings him a level of calm that he’s never felt before

Or when you hold him from behind and he curls into your body

You slip your hand under his shirt and run your hands along his tummy, gently stroking your fingers along his skin

You know he’s a lot larger than you, being a wall of muscle that has at least a head of height on you

But seeing him sleeping peacefully, wrapped in your arms with a little smile on his face he looks so small

He loves when you play with his hair.

It took him a long time to be okay with it (too many memories of handlers grabbing and/or dragging him by the hair), but now?

If he had it his way your hands would never leave it

Whenever you two are holding each other your hands always seem to find their way to his dark locks, brushing them out of his eyes or carding your fingers through it

You learned that the quickest way to get him to fall asleep is to stroke his hair, and put him to sleep like that every night

When it was long, Bucky loved when you combed it for him after a shower, or braided and unbraided it while he laid in your lap during a movie

Now that it’s cut short (thanks to you, he didn’t trust anyone else to do it) you’re pretty much always playing with it in some way

As much as you loved his long hair, his shorter cut is nice because it’s a bit more manageable and still just as soft

Bucky loves when you massage his scalp, feeling your nails gently scratching against his head makes him melt every time

He also loves when you bathe him or bathe with him

Bucky had a lot of anxiety around being naked in front of you, too many bad memories of being stripped and hosed down after missions or beaten within an inch of his life

But with lots of time and comfort and assurances he eventually opened up and got more comfortable

Long baths with you are his favorite thing.

Whether you get in with him or not, he loves how gentle you are with washing his body, massaging sore muscles and peppering his chest and back with little kisses

He especially loves when you wash his hair (I know, shocking).

Usually when you’re done washing him you’ll guide his head to lay in your lap while you stroke his hair.

When it’s time for him to get out you usually have to wake him up, it makes you smile

Peace looks so good on him, you just want to let him bask in it forever

And oh GOD he loves skin-on-skin contact so much

It took so long for Bucky to learn that he was allowed to want things

When he first started opening up with touch, he would wait until the aching in his chest got unbearable before asking if you would do some skin-on-skin with him

You never wanted to push him, but you tried to teach him that he was allowed to ask for things he didn't need immediately.

He didn't have to wait until he absolutely needed something to ask for it.

He was allowed to just want things.

Once he finally gets used to asking for things he wants skin-on-skin all the time.

Most every night you end up cuddled up in bed, sans clothing, Bucky pretty much on top of you, his head on your chest while you play with his hair.

He'll press little kisses to your chest, making you smile when his stubble tickles against your skin

“I love you,” he whispers into your neck, “how did I get so lucky, hm?”

You smile softly and kiss his forehead

“Believe me Buck, I'm the lucky one.”

#bucky barnes #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #buckybarnes #hurt/comfort

1K notes · View notes

mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes · 29 days ago

Text

coney island | bucky barnes

summary: on the day of the election, you find bucky at his safe place and he shows you, his assistant friend around.

warnings: kissing, tooth rotting fluff, angst (if you squint) <3 + sexual tension; bucky is a sweetheart; both are down bad for each other; insecure bucky (?) kinda; i made shit up about coney island, i have never been there, sorry; a LOT of obsession over eyes; use of pet names (doll, sweetheart, sweets); no use of y/n; misuse of political jargon? author is clueless about political jargon lol; author thinks the ending is bad; I AM SHIT AT WRITING SUMMARIES SORRY!

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

author's note: this is kind of inspired by @dreamwritesimagines lovely series Declassified and its 6th chapter, but its still completely different. but do give Declassfied a read, because it is my favourite congressman bucky fic! i'm sorry if the ending is weird :/ I worked literally two weeks for this fic, pls show some love!

words: 7.2k (my creativity has been sucked out of me)

masterlist | for my other works <3

divider by @toastray

Bucky Barnes didn’t have time for love.

It’s what he believed; It's what he let everyone believe; It’s what you witnessed everyday.

You knew how tight his schedules were; You knew how much work had to be done; You knew how much stress burdened him. He had absurdly timed meetings, endless galas, campaigns that he had to take care of. The whole Valentina thing didn’t help him either. He had too many things on his mind and you noticed how it affected him. His pretty blue eyes would go dimmer, his left shoulder would start to ache more and you don’t even know how many hours he slept during the night.

Actually. You knew.

It was your job to know. To understand how many hours he slept because those eyebags didn’t do well during interviews; to understand how cranky he was going to get during the day so that you could schedule meetings with the more considerate figures amongst USA’s political landscape; to understand whether he would listen to you at least once during the day.

You knew, not only because it was your job as his assistant, manager and manhandler, but also because you have been in the hell that is politics for a long time. He might have been alive for longer than you, but you had more experience in this than him and you understood that the work he was doing, slaving his and your ass off for was worth it. So, yeah, you knew that Bucky Barnes didn’t have time for love.

But maybe, after sleep deprived and joy filling nights under the crappy office lights, your chest bloomed, just a little bit, as you hoped that there might be a cracked window, a chance, for some space in his heavy heart.

—

It was the day of the election.

You were running around with papers in your hand, phones blowing off with god knows what notifications and trying to find where the fuck James Buchanan Barnes is. The office was a whirlpool of chaos; people were sprinting, shouting over phones and all the pots of coffee were empty—and in the middle of this whirlpool, was you.

And all you could think about was why Congressman Barnes not picking up his goddamn phone.

You huffed and smoothened out your dress. He could’ve at least texted you, but now you had to resort to asking his driver, even though the poor man was not a reliable source. Bucky couldn’t stand another person driving him, like a chauffeur, like a child, like a handler. You had tried to convince him it was for his safety and that he was the driver’s boss, not the other way around, but he was so fucking stubborn, it made you want to pull out your hair.

I haven’t got the foggiest clue, ma’am.

Your lips curled a little at the old man’s lingo, but the worry in your heart and the stress in your brain only intensified. You thanked the man and kept your phone aside. You dismissed your manager, who asked you to draft up a speech, one that James Barnes would have to deliver, in case he lost—which was the popular opinion amongst many people. Many people that you threw out of your life, because ever since you started working for him, beside him and by him, and even if he made your life aggravating, you absolutely devoted your time, body, mind and soul to his ideas.

His dedication.

Him.

So, you stood outside his office, his space inside your chaotic office, with a false sliver of hope that he might be hiding himself in there, or maybe a note—tucked under his desk, in the secret crevice that only you knew.

You opened the door, cautiously walked around his desk and put your hand underneath the table to inspect. A sigh of relief left your body and your shoulder relaxed a bit as your fingers felt the small paper, a note in secrecy, left just for you. You hated to admit it but knowing this part of Bucky, knowing that he would inform you, if no one, even with a piece of paper that was meant for you, made you feel special: a warmth, akin to giddiness, settling in your stomach.

You opened the note and opened it up, only to have your hopes crash and burn. Your stomach twisted in knots at the blatant vagueness of the message written.

I can’t be there, but I'm safe. Don’t call for a search party, doll, I want to be alone.

You rolled your eyes at his teasing remark, but the nauseous feeling in your stomach was clawing away at you. You needed to find him. This was his moment. His and yours. You wanted to be with him, enjoy the night, reap the fruits of your hard work. Yes, maybe you were being too sure of him winning, but you had done everything in your capacity and his to make sure he gets this win. Because he deserved it. Because he was the only one that genuinely cared. Which was why you were attracted to him.

In a professional, ideological way, of course.

And if he knew anything about you, it was that you were as stubborn as he was.

So, you almost ran past everyone in your office, ignoring their quizzical, inconsequential looks, your manager’s booming voice and grabbed your coat: because you will not let that man be on his own tonight. You were selfish, perhaps, but he owed you this. After all, you were a team, were you not?

You called his driver and got in the car.

“Coney Island, please?”

—

He recognized your perfume, immediately.

It had notes of lavender, mixed with Jasmine and mandarin: your favourite perfume. At least he hoped it was, considering he was the one that gifted you the YSL perfume on your birthday and since then it was the only one you wore. At least around him. It was sweet and stubborn, just like you. The way you constantly nagged him and bossed him around, never left him alone yet still cared for him in an unconditional, unstaggering kind of way. It reminded him of you: when you calmed him down after one of his panic attacks for the first time, when you fumed at him for not memorizing the speech you had carefully curated for him and when he turned up at your house just for you to yell at him while serving him your sweet, drenched in maple syrup, pancakes.

You didn't approach him, not yet, still a few steps behind. The abundant breeze was doing a splendid job of flying your hair around and you tugged your coat around you, as if it was second skin.

“I told you not to put up a search party for me, doll.”

“I am not a search party, Bucky.”

“You are my assistant.”

There was a pause. A moment of hesitation after his teasing remark, where your heart sank as you spoke up again.

“Do you not want me here? With you?”

Your words were not accusatory, but rather fragile, a soft question that held your heart. Your gentle tone made him shudder, his heart skipping a dangerous beat. He had your back towards you, which tensed and slumped a little. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, breathing in the salty, sea air. “I don’t want numbers. I don’t want the…office.”

“I am not the office.” You recoiled and Bucky pursed his lips.

“You are my assistant.”

Your heart sank. Yes, you were aware he wanted to be alone, but his words still felt like shards in your chest. Your nose started to sting and you looked away from his back, to the ocean and breathed in. Did he only think of you as his assistant? Was that all that entailed between you?

It was a hit you were not prepared for. But Bucky understood your silence, almost reading your thoughts, your questions, your heartbreaking doubts. Because no, you were not only his assistant. After months of working together, spending every waking moment with each other, which ultimately included you holding yourself back from slapping him after his constant non-cooperation and him teasing you to your absolute flustered state: you were not only his assistant—you were his safe space now.

He opened his mouth again, to speak out, tell you that you meant much more to him, to ease the ache in your heart and the hurt in your silence. But before he even got his words out, you plopped down next to him. He turned to look at you, only to have his breath taken away.

You had taken your hair down from your restricting bun that made him wince after he saw it in the morning: it flowed freely now, your beautiful locks flying around haphazardly, just how he liked it. You had taken off your blazer, leaving you in your pretty blouse with a sweetheart neckline and your pantsuit. Your forehead didn’t hold fatigue lines, which he constantly tried to dissipate. But your face held a soft glow; One that he had seen rarely, only when you and him were alone: moments when he made terrible jokes, gossiped about other senators and congressmen, and made you laugh. Moments where he saw you, raw, vulnerable, unbearably you, under the warm light of the lamp in his living room, when you used to come to his aid and cared for him. The soft glow he believed was only reserved for him.

His heart softened in his chest.

You didn’t look like his assistant anymore.

“I am your friend, Bucky.” You gently stated, as if it wasn’t somewhat of a gross understatement. Because you held a place in his heart that was right beside Sam, his other safe space. You turned to look at him, your eyes meeting his, your soft gaze that wrapped him in a hug as it met his clear, stormy blues. You gave him a small smile, easing his heart and looked back at the ocean again.

“I bet you used to drag Steve here for ill-advised mischief.”

He scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes at your teasing remark. But his shoulders were relaxed as he gazed at you. Sweet and stubborn. He shook his head and gave out a chuckle which warmed your heart.

“He was the one who got into ill–advised mischief.” He mocked your words. “I was the one who saved his ass.”

“Whatever you say, Sarge.”

Bucky glared at you, playfully with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. You giggled and imagined a young Bucky alongside Steve, wreaking havoc wherever they went. There was a comfortable silence between you after, only the crashing of waves and the excited yells of children filling you up with happiness.

Bucky cleared his throat. “How did you find me?”

You turned at him and gave him a deadpan look. He raised his hands in defence at your pointed look with raised brows. “Just asking a question.”

“When your boss tells you all the tales about him and his partner in crime at the Coney Island and how it reminded him of simpler times, you catch on.” You quipped.

“Back to being your boss, again?” He asked. You pursed your lips and glanced at your lap, your fingers fidgeting.

“You know you deserve it, right?”

He huffed, exasperated. “I thought I told you—”

“I am not talking about numbers, James.” His eyes flicked up at you. You only ever used his first name, but the way you said it made his insides melt. “All I am saying is that,” You breathed and bore your eyes in his.

“You have worked so hard. You care more about these people than anyone I have ever seen, talked to or even worked for. The way you speak for them—the veterans, the soldiers, the people of the city ranging from all the minorities that deserve proper rights, such as universal healthcare—Bucky, I could go on and on.” You completely turned your body toward him, your eyes holding more compassion than he had ever witnessed. You held brain–wracking eye contact with him, your body crackling with sudden butterflies and fuzziness.

“All I know is that you actually care, Bucky. You are not one of those wolfish, perverted, power-lusted people that just crave control. You are the exact opposite—genuine, caring…” You gulped under his intense gaze, his blue eyes carving into your soul as you poured your heart out. “...loving. A completely bonafide candidate…and even if this whole thing was just to get information on Valentina, you were still doing good.”

Your hand reached out to his, reassuring. “You deserve it, more than anyone.”

A loud silence took over you both, but you didn’t, or more than that you both couldn’t escape each other’s gazes. Tension crackled between you both, like a silent bonfire, providing intense warmth in the windy atmosphere. Your cheeks and nose were flushed, from the wind or Bucky’s unrelenting eyes, you didn’t know, because all you could think about is how his eyes perfectly resembled the ocean, under a stormy sky. Yet they provided comfort and you couldn’t look away. As if they were a drug.

Bucky cleared his throat and your whole face flushed as you looked away from his face.

“You should be a motivational speaker.” He said quietly.

“There is a reason why I write all of your speeches, Barnes.” You scoffed. He gave you a small smile, but one that reached his eyes, crinkled around his cheeks. Why was he making you feel giddy? “Come on, you gotta show me around this place. You know I have never been here?”

Bucky stared at you incredulously. “What the hell do you mean you’ve never been to Coney Island?”

“You do realize I work 100 hours a week, right?” You quipped, making Bucky shake his head.

“I told you, you can take a leave whenever you want.”

“And leave you alone? How would you even survive without me?” You raised your brows at him, challenging him. He just shook his head, giving you an annoyed look, but safe to say, he was elated. To be here, with you.

“So are you going to show me around or what?”

—

“I am NOT getting on that, Bucky.”

“Live a little, doll. Besides probably isn’t even that hard—”

“Says the super soldier! Did you not see the way that man got yeeted across—”

“He did not get yeeted across—what the fuck is ‘yeeted’?”

You rolled your eyes and stared at the bull ride that they had recently installed at the park—and there was no fucking way you were going to get on that.

“I’ll pay you 100$! Come on, doll—” He spoke up again.

“I may complain about it, but I get paid enough to deal with you.”

Bucky looked at the bull, the girl on it with a cowboy hat letting out drunken yelps while other people cheered her on.

He moved his eyes back and forth, from the ride to you, and then his eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but you could catch on easily. You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head, hardening your glare at his forming smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing,” He shrugged, nonchalantly. “Just thought you never backed down from a challenge.” He said, in a dangerously low tone, challenging you. Your jaw dropped, just a little, at this man’s audacity! Slowly, a ghost of a smirk formed on your face as well.

“Okay, fine, I'll go on the goddamn bull, but only if you come with me.” You raised your brows and Bucky rolled his eyes, tilting his head. “Seriously?”

“Oh, okay. I see you are one of the people that easily backs down from a challenge.” You mocked his words, jabbing back at him. His eyes narrowed at you but then a sly smirk greeted his face. The smirk that made you fucking crazy. It was when you knew he was not going to back down. That smirk aggravated you to no end, because that smirk came into display whenever he was not going to listen to a single word you said about the press training and he’s going fuck up everything. That fucking smirk, infuriated you, because you saw it often, especially after he flustered you, made you stutter or even saw a small sign of a blush dusted on your cheeks. That smirk made you go weak in your knees. And it frustrated you.

Goosebumps arose on your skin as you felt Bucky’s warmth creep up your body, even if he was just walking towards you, agonizingly slowly, as if he was teasing you, hunting you, craving you. He stepped forward, his hands in his pockets, that goddamn smirk paired with those devilish eyes, and did you just notice how hot he looked with just a pair of trousers, shirt and his loosened tie? Fuck.

You gulped as he towered over you. You could smell his cologne. Your knees almost buckled. What the fuck was happening? Why was he so close? And why did it feel like you just wanted to grab that tie and—

Suddenly, the cheers slowed down, faded away, you didn’t know why—because all you could think about was why he was making you feel hot? Parched? Starved? All because of what, his cologne? The tie? His hands? That fucking smirk?

Somewhere in the background, the girl got off the bull, more drunk now than she was before, clinging onto her girlfriends, giggling about god knows what.

The host took the mic again and called out for volunteers—all while your cheeks had turned burning red. Bucky started to lean down, getting closer and closer to your face, his pretty pink lips almost brushing your cheek as he pressed them against your ear. You shuddered, restraining the need to hold onto Bucky’s shoulders so that your trembling knees would have some support.

“After you, sweetheart.”

—

You don’t know how you survived that. But your head was spinning, your body was fuzzy and warm, and your balance—completely uncontrolled. Bucky still had his hands around your waist, steadying you, as he did on the bull ride. You gulped down, the warmth of his hands leaving you trembling, and somehow you found yourself falling again.

Your knees buckled and he held you up, his hands tightening, almost lifting you off the ground, as if you weighed absolutely nothing. It scared you. How comfortable you felt, almost leaning into him, craving more of his touch—not only because of how addicting it was—but also because he grounded you. Comforted you. Kept you steady when you felt like the world was going to disappear underneath you.

“That was one hell of a ride.” He whispered, near your ear, his breath spanning your face, making you go hot. You hummed, voice strained, afraid of what will come out of your mouth. Because all you do, all you could feel right now were his hands. His body. His warmth. The way his metal hand drew soothing circles on your waist, as if he knew it was the perfect cure to your nausea. The way his chest was almost pressed against your back, radiating the kind of intensity you did not dare to confront. The way his sweet words kissed your neck, smooth like honey, voice like velvet.

“Are you okay, sweets?”

Sweets. That was new. You tried not to bask in the tooth rotting attention he gave you, the absolute saccharine–like concern laced in his voice, for you.

You turned around, abruptly, to look at him. His eyes looked at you like as if you were the only person he cared about. Like right now, in this moment, only you mattered. Not the thousand children running around, the women giggling and complaining and the men shouting and groaning. It made you feel…cherished. Something you hadn’t experienced in a long time.

You cleared your throat and looked away, blushing. “Yeah, yeah…”

But he was relentless, determined to hold your eyes, understand how you’re feeling. He bent down, his face looking for your eyes, seeking you out. Your eyes flicked back to him and you almost gasped because those fucking blue eyes, god, they left no room for you to wallow in distress. “I’m perfectly fine, Bucky.” You whispered, your eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips.

Bucky froze. He followed your gaze and reciprocated it. His perfect blue eyes dropped down to your perfect lips. He licked his lips, as if he craved something. Someone. You.

Suddenly, a loud bell rang, a loud announcement, a swift yet harsh slice in the middle of…whatever just happened. You both broke apart, his hands ghosting your waist, and you resisted tugging him close to you again, missing the solace his hands provided.

“The last ride for the Wonder Wheel is starting in 20 minutes!”

It happened fast. His hands found yours again, gripping them like vice, like he wouldn’t let go of you ever again. His eyes widened as he processed the words said over the microphone.

And you started running.

“What—Bucky!”

“Come on, we can’t miss the ferris wheel!” An impish smile adorned his face, and your heart raced faster than ever before. “I’m wearing heels, Bucky!”

“I can carry you—”

“Absolutely not—”

Bucky let out a giggle and it was as if time had stopped because right now, it felt like both of you were back in the 1940’s.

And he was happy.

—

where the fuck are you

and where is the man of the hour

You gulped down the wash of anxiety as you looked at the text. You resisted looking at your watch, but you knew it was time. They were going to start counting the votes. And you both were supposed to be there, at your office, in the conference room, where they had set up a dinner spread. You had insisted on booking the bar that Bucky liked, that all your co–workers liked, but least to say your manager was a bitch. “Keep it professional or you will drown.”

Who even says that?

You internally scoffed and rolled your eyes.

come here, right now, he looks like he’s about to explode.

Your nerves and stress were conjoining hands and you could feel it. There was no way they would get to the office, in time. You imagined your manager throwing disapproving glares at you for more than two months, he will probably give you warnings disguised as threats. Maybe throw in some crude insinuating comments about you and Bucky. “Trust me, committing to your responsibilities is more dignifying than ignoring and…sleeping your way up. Just look at Senator Gray’s assistant—”

You shook your head, remembering the lewdness of his comments. Keep it professional.

He would explode if he could see what was happening right now.

You were standing in the line, ready for the next and last ferris wheel ride for the day. There were kids jumping up and down, frustrated workers who tried to calm the complaining parents.

Your body was tensing up because the count was going to start soon. They will announce who got the most votes. Declare whether your hard work paid off. Whether Bucky won. If it was the end to your team, your partnership, whatever you both were. Would Bucky want a new team in DC? Would you have to move to DC? Or was he going to have to hire another assistant—

Bucky squeezed your hand, gleefully. He looked back at you and all your worries melted away, drained from your body all because of that damn smile. He probably had no idea that he was blowing your concerns away. Because, right now, blind enthusiasm was buzzing from his body, almost resembling that of the kids near you. He looked younger, if that was possible. The worry lines from his forehead, long faded away. His posture was more confident. Welcoming. Relaxed. His shoulders no longer slumped from stress, fatigue and paranoia. No longer was he seeking out the ways anything could go even slightly wrong.

He was just there. In the present, without any burdens on his body, without constantly having to stare down the barrel of a gun. With you.

Not his assistant. Not his manager.

Just you.

You moved ahead of the line and Bucky did not let go of your hand. He kept it, in his, safeguarded, as if he was preventing anyone taking you away. So that you wouldn’t fade into the crowd. So that this moment wouldn’t vanish.

As both of you got in front of the line, waiting to get entry, Bucky immediately reached for his pocket. “How much for two?”

The operator gave the price and then looked up. You felt Bucky’s hand freeze in yours, his body going tense. The operator was giving him weird looks and stood, almost defensive in front of the booth. “Have I seen you somewhere?”

You quickly answered. “No, you haven’t.” But he just looks you over, dismissively. A few seconds after he tries to wrack his brain, Bucky clears his throat. “Listen, we’re just trying to get on the ride…if you could please move aside?”

He hesitantly moves aside, letting you both on the booth. “Have a nice ride, I guess.”

You both sit, side by side, thighs almost touching, intensity crackling. The booth starts to move and the wind sweeps through both of you, calmly. You glance at him; Bucky was peering at the sky, as you moved upwards, towards it.

He looked…melancholic. Longing. Almost forlorn. As if he never thought he’d see the sky like this again. As if he would never feel the same wonder he felt when he was just a boy with a childlike laugh and an unnecessary bravery to take on the world.

But here he was. With you. And it felt surreal.

“Can I ask you something?” You softly broke his silence. He sighed and looked back at you, nodding to let you continue. “For a man who hates being in the spotlight, hates overbearing attention and certainly hates talking to snooty senators, discussing power moves to win over people’s votes, why did you even step into politics?”

He was taken aback. Bucky looked at you as if you asked him to solve the question of all the why’s in the universe—that would have been easier. His gaze started to become distant, his eyes seeking answers that he did not like to face.

“Even if you leave Val aside, Bucky, you have more than enough resources and capabilities to spy on her and her plans. Why politics?” You ask, gently.

Your tone was soft. Free. Like sunshine mixed with the kind of care he didn’t dare yearn for in the last 70 years. Like he wasn’t just a ghost; a trauma–filled bomb that everyone was waiting to blast. Like he was a person. Whole. Deserving. Your words didn’t slash through him; They didn’t glare at him, daunting, demanding, as if they were entitled to an answer. Your words, your sweet words were a soft nudge. A nudge that he needed.

“I–,” His breath shook and you slipped closer to him. Gazing at his eyes, holding his sight, reassuring, that you both were the only one existing there right now. “Amends.” His voice broke. Bucky thought you would flinch, but you stayed put. Not leaving him astray.

“After the court–mandated therapy ended, I didn’t know what to do with myself. With this,” He looked at his hands. “I felt the obligation, the need to make it right. Wipe it off, all of it, from my hands. After the Flag–Smashers and when I saw the things they went through, I couldn’t just sit. I thought—” He gulped, breath trembling. But then you moved closer, held his hand, as if a sign. A silent promise. You rubbed soothing circles on his hand with your thumb and he grasped your small palm with his rough, calloused hand. You didn’t force him. Pressure him to go ahead.

“I thought that maybe, this way, I could make a difference. Make lives easier. Safer.”

He exhaled, like he had just let a flood of his emotions flow after holding it for so long with his walls. And you stayed. You didn’t push. You let him exist. Without any judgement. His breath trembled, heartbeat hammering in his ear, brain numbing as he finally let himself feel. And you.

You grounded him. You let him breathe. Understand his emotions. You weren’t prudent around him like you were watching him; observing; stalking: just so you can capture the moment he fucks up.

A sudden ping threatened to interrupt this. The secret oasis that you both had carved in the night. He thought you would move away to check it, your incessant notifications, abandoning him and leaving him high and dry without your warmth. Your kindness. Your perfume. But you didn’t budge; didn’t move an inch from your place. Your eyes didn’t leave his and it was as if they wrapped him up in a security blanket. You softly smiled at him and lifted your hand, gently tucking Bucky’s outgrown hair behind his hair. You gazed at him with such care, such intricacy, so much affection, that he would have melted right there.

“You can find a way to make a difference without torturing yourself, honey.”

He grew shy. “I didn’t realize it at the moment. Thought this was the only way.” You softly chuckled. “I can make a list for you: community service, youth programs, fundraisers for veterans. You can’t make a difference if you suffer inside. If you feel suffocated.”

He breathed in deeply, taking in your words.

“Thank you.”

“Bucky—”

“No, hush,” He took your face in his pulsing, warm hands. “Let me say this please.” You nodded, wordlessly. “You—” He let out a shaky breath and smiled at you, oh-so-softly. “You have been here for me, through this hell, like no one has.”

“You stood by me, helped me, tolerated my uncooperative ass and you still look at me like I deserve something. Care. Hope. Peace…Love. If it weren’t for you…someone who took more than necessary effort to understand me, help me, know me, I wouldn’t have lasted.” You gasped, and his big hands resting against your reddening cheeks started caressing you. He looked at you like you hung the stars up for him. Like you were the only reason. His oxygen. His breath.

“Thank you so much for everything.”

Tears welled into your eyes. You leaned into his touch, his hands that molded perfectly with your face. You were about to open your mouth to say something, until your phone started buzzing again. “Oh god, it must be the results.” You put your hand on his which was still resting on your cheek. “I won’t ask if you don’t want to know, Bucky. This is your moment,” He pursed his lips, hesitating for a moment. But then he looked at you.

You. Who has been here with him throughout every step. Through his first media press, through all of the stupid, pretentious galas, through all of the debriefs. You, who sat with him in silence when he could not bear another noise; who held him at his worst, when the nightmares used to come back and he couldn’t stop trembling; who made him mac and cheese at 3 am because he hadn’t had any decent meals. You, who worked your ass off, ensuring his ideas would come into execution; You, who defended him at every corner when Bucky’s career as Winter Soldier came up; You, who was more faithful in him than he was in himself.

“This is your moment as much as it is mine, doll.” He leaned forward and your heart started pacing faster. As if his earnest words hadn’t already made your insides flutter: he kissed your forehead. A long, meaningful peck. That held more weight, that defied every other sign of affection ever. He lingered, his lips still ghosting over the crown of your head. You closed your eyes, reeling in this moment, holding it close, not wanting it to fade away. He sighed and you knew it was time.

“Hey?” You picked up the call. Nerves were firing through Bucky’s body and he squeezed your hand, trying to ground himself. He couldn’t bring himself to eavesdrop on your friend’s words nor was his anxiety sparing any energy for him to decipher your expressions. What if he didn’t win? Would you leave him? Would you find some other upcoming political hotshot to work for? What would he do with his life?

Almost as if you could read his doubts and anxiety—you didn’t need to, they were literally jumping off his body—you squeezed his hand back and consoled him. A small gasp left you, spreading rapid goosebumps on his skin. He couldn’t understand whether it was a good one or not. Wouldn’t you smile if it was good news? God, what he would give to see that smile…Does that mean he lost? Your hand slipped out of his and his heart broke in two.

Of course, he lost.

You quietly said goodbye to your friend and cut the call. He gulped as he saw more tears in your eyes and he hoped for the worst. For a regretful look, a fit of anger. But he got something worse: unfathomable silence. Your silence. Not a peep of a word. Not one indication of what you just interpreted from the call. You slowly raised your tear–filled eyes and Bucky was stumped. He didn’t know whether you were going to sob or kiss him. He wished it was the latter. Wait, what?

But then suddenly, in that cramped space of the booth, you lunged towards him.

His breath got knocked out of his lungs as you pressed your body against him. Quivering. Barely Containing. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his neck and you nuzzled your face into his neck. Bucky froze as you whispered something.

“We won.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath. “We won?”

You lifted your head. Tears threatening to fall out, your cheeks filled with glee and your wobbly smile giving him more life than anything else possibly could.

“We won, Bucky. You won.” Bucky completely engulfed you, holding you tighter to his chest, burying his head in your neck. He was consumed. By your sweet and stubborn scent, by your honeyed words and soft sobs of joy. His hands ran from your back to your waist, wrapping them around you as if you would vanish into thin air. He had to cherish you. Hold you.

You sighed into his body, almost as if your souls were entwined, breathing in each other, as if you couldn’t live without each other. You softened more to his touch, melting like snow in his warmth when he ran his hands from your back to your waist. He smelled like faint citrus and lavender, his woody scent completely enthralling your senses.

You both clutched onto each other, embraced each other, because you found comfort. Both of you found home.

“You are the only reason.” He whispered.

“W-What?” You asked, quietly between hiccups.

He cradled your face in his hands and looked at you. He scanned your face, taking in every intricate detail: How cute you looked with your nose red and puffy eyes; How your perfect lips spoke with sweet melodies aligned in every word; Your hair, cascading like an angel’s and your eyes, god, your eyes looking at him like he hung up the moon for you. And to be honest, he would. And you would be worth it.

He locked it in his mind, for safekeeping, because he never wanted anyone else to witness you in your state right now. Because that? That was for him. Just him. And he was damn sure, he wouldn’t let anyone else see you like this. Because right now, even with your eyes, fresh out of tears, your cheeks stained, your face red, and your heaving breaths: you were utter and complete perfection.

“You are the only reason I am right here. As Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. As a man. I wouldn’t have done it without you, doll. You are my reason. My miracle. My rock. You put up with me, you stood by me, you defended me, you trusted me. Believed in me.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

You processed his words, the fervour in his voice, the great vehemence throwing you off. “We did it, James.”

You pulled him closer, tugging him at his shirt, like you couldn’t get enough of him. Your hands travelled from his chest, to his collar, to his stubble. You looked into his eyes, your hands softly caressing his beard, his cheeks, as if you were holding the object of your desires for the first time in your life. Like what you have been waiting for, yearning for is right here, in front of you, close enough to kiss. Both of you understood that this was more than just a victory.

You slowly leaned in. Hesitantly, to see how he would react. But almost immediately, Bucky locked his eyes on your lips; gazing at them like he has been wanting to ravish them for months, years. Your eyes were still on his, shy, asking for permission. But you didn’t need any, because according to Bucky’s mind and body, he has been yours to take for longer than he could care to admit.

His lips brushed against yours, like a question. You gasp, just slightly, with feather-like volume, delicate, willing. But that gasp sent a nuclear reaction through Bucky’s body, like fire; Something more sweeter had taken over him and his mind.

Because then his lips were on you.

Not fast, not rough, not aggressive in any way. But with a slow and agonizing intent. There was desperation, but in a way that said ‘I have been waiting too long for this, so I am going to savor every single second.’ And that, he did.

He tasted you. Gently. Sweetly. Softly. Lightly. Almost as if he kissed you any deeper, he would drown and he would never be able to resurface. As if he was still afraid; Afraid, that you might pull back from him. Feather–like, in case this was just a dream—a figment of his imagination, like paradise—which would make his reality a nightmare.

But god, he was already addicted. To the way you tasted; the way you slightly gasped when he kissed you; to the way you melted into his touch. You tasted like faint cotton candy that he just bought for you and your raspberry mouth freshener—the one you were so picky about because ‘the regular mint ones left a weird aftertaste’. He was addicted to the way you breathed him in, to the way you let him take you. Because that just meant that you trusted him.

And that you did. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

When you sighed into the kiss, you knew your soul and heart had been snatched. Stolen. Taken away from you. You poured every ounce of your love in the kiss; your heart was palpitating through your chest, your hands and your ears. You could feel him everywhere.

His breath, his kisses, his soft groans and hums. The tingly feeling in your stomach just raged throughout your body. Just because of him. His scent. His hair. His oh-so-perfectly soft lips.

You felt like you were floating. His lips felt like a dream but also secure. Secure in a way that says ‘I will always be there for you’. In a way that said ‘you are my future’.

What felt like an eternity that fell too short, you both pulled away, unwillingly. But you didn’t let go: none of you wanted to. You were lost in each other, dazed by each other’s touch. His hands were at your waist, now gripping, almost lifting you from your position, putting you on his lap. One of your palms was resting on his broad chest, unclenching and clenching his shirt, the one on his nape, softly scratching his baby hair.

Your heads softly banged against each other as you rested your foreheads. He breathed softly and you bit your lip, shying away from his eyes. He lifted your chin with his index finger, searching for your eyes, his intense gaze making heat crawl up your neck.

Bucky leaned down and softly kissed your nose and you let out a giggle. Joy bubbling up both of you, with barely contained smiles. He took his thumb and sweetly caressed your lower lip and pecked you. “You are my everything.” He whispered, content adorned his face. You kissed his cheek, lovingly: “I love you. Bucky,”

“You have been the only person who made me feel safe, made me feel seen, made me feel special.”

“Do you remember that day when I had to skip work because I couldn’t even get out of my bed?”

He frowned. “Because of your period cramps?” You nodded and scanned his face. “You fought with my manager and you skipped too. You came home with insane amounts of chocolate, cold coffee and even a new heatable plushie.”

“That day, you took care of me, like no one ever had. And I didn't even have to ask you…You made sure my blankets were fresh so I would be comfortable, you put on my favourite TV show and you held me while I cried about a dog I saw on the street.”

“You cooked for me, my favourite meal, that nobody had ever taken the effort to do before. You made sure I didn’t overwork myself and you reassured me again and again. Even if it might’ve been strenuous. How could I not fall for you?” You kissed him again.

"You're perfect, Bucky. I love your eyes and the way they light up when you're with the people you care for. I love your smile and how raw and vulnerable you are when you are actually happy. The way you make sure everybody is comfortable and safe. You, Bucky, you are so much more than you give yourself credit for, my love. Your existence, Bucky; Every since we started working in that crappy office, you made my life easier, you instantly made all my worries fade. I didn't know I could be this happy in my life."

There were unshed tears in Bucky's eyes.

“I love you so much.” You said, gentle tears welling up in your eyes and Bucky cradled your face again. “I love you more, my doll.” You giggled as he leaned in yet again, kissing you more deeply, more fervently, more firm.

So, yes. You concluded that: Bucky Barnes did have time for love. Because Bucky Barnes’ heart belonged to you. He was yours and you were his.

Under that sky, at coney island, on that ferris wheel, you both began. Began to create a life together, for each other and by each other. You both vowed to never let each other go and whatever whirlwinds came in your way, you would face them together.

At coney island, Bucky and you promised each other love, like an oath, never to be broken and always to be held.

if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did —lana del ray thank you for reading! requests are open <3 reblog, like and comment!

233 notes · View notes

syoddeye · 1 month ago

Text

ghost x reader in the same vein as seconds, but not quite the same storyline. cw: reincarnation (and not always human) and fucked-up soulmates, animal death (chickens, dog), suicide, weird vibes

Across all of time, the chase endures.

One fleeing, one giving chase.

Every people, every mythos, every woven inch of the world’s story holds versions of it—echoes of this. The hunter, the hunted. The desperate and dogged. The terrified and compelled.

Sometimes, rarely, there’s laughter in the chase. Mischief. A light-footed thrill.

But that’s never the case with you.

Not once, in any of your lives, has Simon glimpsed even a flicker of joy when your eyes land on him for the first time. No glimmer of recognition, no fondness, no pull.

At best, your gaze is headstrong. Defiant when you’re feeling brave. A wobbly, half-formed smile when you think you can bluff your way through it. Beneath it all, always, that tremor of unease. Regret you won’t admit to. The slow, succulent realization you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

And at your worst? It’s unmistakable. The full whites of your eyes and pupils blown wide. Your lip curls like you’ve smelled something rotten, scented him in the wind. You recoil, shuddering with naked loathing and revulsion.

But no matter the life, no matter the shape you wear or the name you answer to, one thing never changes.

You always fear him. Every time, every version.

You fear him.

He does not always hate it.

You’re a stray this time. A mutt. A mangy, mistrustful thing. All ribs and reek and bite. You’ve lived your whole life on the street—no collar, no name, no warmth of a hand or home. He came looking for you, and he’s found you too late.

And because of his poor timing, and because this time he’s the man and not the dog, he’s you backed into a shed. A dead end from which you will not escape.

You thrash on the end of his catchpole, growling and snapping your teeth.

(That, at least, is not so different from some of his favorite past lives.)

Chicken’s blood coats your canines and feathers stick to your gums. The homeowner wails in the background, shrieking at him to kill the monster—kill it, kill it! And Simon has to chuckle as he reels you in. How many times have you screamed something similar, when he’s found you?

You fight like a devil when he scruffs you, and you don’t stop even when he slots you into the kennel in the back of his truck. You whine pathetically the whole way to the facility, only to start again once he drags you inside. He ensures no one else touches you. Not the other handlers. He barely allows the vet.

It’s unfortunate, when it ends like this: inhuman and incompatible. The differences so irreconcilable it warrants a clean slate.

He tries, like he always does. Feeds you by hand. Talks to you soft and low. Lets you smell his skin, gives you one of his shirts. You don’t soften. You don’t eat. You curl in the corner of your kennel like you’d rather die than be tamed by his hand.

He blames himself. He knows if he’d found you sooner—if he’d raised you from a pup, spoiled you, trained you—you could’ve been magnificent. Loyal. Sharp. A good little gundog. He recalls a handful of lives where you were a vicious little thing, but you’re all animal now. You never stood a chance without him.

Seven days pass. The shelter’s full. The chicken’s owner wants his pound of flesh.

So Simon does what he has to do.

He holds you as they fit the muzzle. You buck and struggle until the sedative slows you. Even then, he holds on. Dismisses the tech. Cradles you close as your breathing slows and as your muscles go slack. Your growls turn to whimpers, and your whimpers to quiet breathing.

Simon strokes between your ears, soothing, whispering the only promise that ever matters: Maybe not this lifetime, but the next. You’ll come back right, human, and he’ll be there to find you. He’ll wander the earth if he must.

He walks off his shift after taking care of you himself. Drives in silence until the bridge, high and skeletal in the afternoon sun. He pulls his truck over to the shoulder, leaves the keys in the ignition, and his boots on the passenger seat. Hands his wallet—ID and all—to a homeless man.

The wind is sharp. The drop, long enough for a good think. He steps off the edge like he’s disembarking a bus.

He pictures you already—what shape you’ll take next, what kind of life you’ll lead, and how he’ll crash it. What he’ll be when he finds you again. A man. A beast. Both or something else entirely.

He smiles at the thought of your heartbeat under his fingers. Fast. Frantic. Beautifully afraid.

He shuts his eyes just as he slams into the next.

#posting this weird thing and then logging off. a rat on your doorstep.#ghost x reader

318 notes · View notes

monstersflashlight · 2 months ago

Note

I have been dying to hear more about a dragon breeding farm, where the farm hands chain up their praised dragon stag and run him through different breeders, all who have paid good money to get their girls stuffed by the legendary beast. The handlers keep him clean and tidy, and love to tease him while he's locked up in chains~

A/N: I don't know if this is what you wanted, but I think it ended up pretty good. Hope you like it! <3

The most prized possession

Dragon x gn!reader || bondage, (very light) body worship, size difference, breeding, (mentioned) cum inflation || tw: implied non-con (not with reader)

Imagine having a lovely dragon. He’s just perfect, perfect to caress, perfect to stare, but above all, perfect to breed.

That’s what your father had, the most precious specimen, tied in the farm, sold for seed every chance he could… But nobody knew the truth, nobody knew that you were the one burning is inner fire, the only one who could be breed with him.

They tried and tired, and sometimes he didn’t even get hard, he just looked nonchalant as they tried, and failed, to get him aroused enough to breed one of the ladies who paid good money to fuck a dragon. You had to go away not to laugh at their attempts, knowing full well he wouldn’t do something he wouldn’t want to.

And when the night fell… then he was all yours. Your father thought you were just a doting child, cleaning and helping take care of his most precious possession, and well… you were taking care of him, just not the way your father expected.

Because when night came, you walked down the path to his chambers, where he was tied down and restrained in case he decided he wanted to leave. What they didn’t know is that he could break free any moment he wanted to, but why would he? You were there. His human, his mate, his little breeder.

You walked up to his already smirking self, his dick hard between his scaled thighs and his whole body vibrating. He didn’t breed anyone today, he refused much to your father’s demise. But to you? To you it was a gift. It meant you got all of him today, he would fill you until you were overflowing and your lower abdomen was a bit distended. He would fill you until he had no doubt you were his. And good goddess if you didn’t love that.

He growled when you let your robe fall around you, still too far away from him to touch. You made it a show for him, taking your time, teasing your most sensitive places as he watched, erupted by your movements. By the time you approached, his dick was leaking profusely and his fangs were bared, his eyes blown wide as he reached for your body and pressed you together.

You giggled as he probed your entrance, the tip of his fingers already bigger than any man you’d ever seen. He wouldn’t talk, he didn’t need to. He finger fucked you until you were pliant and drenched, and then he would push his huge dick inside your welcoming heat, his hands around your middle, bouncing you up and down.

You were nothing but a human fleshlight to him, a toy for him to use until his balls were empty and you were a mess. And you couldn’t enjoy it enough, you couldn’t praise and groan enough… He ripped the orgasms out of you, wave after wave of pleasure as you melted between his hands and he filled you to the point of overwhelming ecstasy. And only then, when you were nothing but a mindless toy, he would fill you up to the brim, sending you into another orgasm.

The dragon could be your father’s most precious possession… but you were his.

315 notes · View notes

anomaly-hivemind · 9 months ago

Text

A Taste of Fire ☆ Dragon! Kyojuro Rengoku x Reader | Kinktober Day 2

Summary: You’re unfortunately chosen to be sacrificed to a dragon, but Rengoku being well Rengoku he is not going to kill you. You're definitely not off the hook, though.

Word Count: 4134

Tags: monsterfucking, monster/human relationships, dragon, Rituals, Predator/prey, size kink, size difference, marking, knotting, dragon shifter, fluff and smut, oral, penis in vagina, overstimulation, aftercare, mating, Teratophilia, slight cockwarming, slight dacryphilia, blind and you’ll miss it.

It was that time of year, when the scorching summer sun began to cool, and the leaves began to change in hue. The whole world grew slower, it was also that time of year when your village chose someone to be a human sacrifice. About a day's walk away high up in the mountains was a dragon, of course, it wasn’t always there, however, it had been there for as long as you’d been alive.

The beast didn’t leave the mountains that often, and no one was allowed to venture that high up into the mountains to come across its lair aside from village guards and the sacrificial lamb. However, when it did leave everyone would stare in horror and awe as it soared through the open skies.

Though most of the village lived in fear, some also worshiped the dragons because of the power they wielded. Some time ago some foolish ignorant cowards got the grand idea that if they had a human sacrifice they could keep the dragon away from the village since a so-called “dragon expert” told them that dragons only need to eat once a year or some other stupid shit like that.

Unfortunately, before you could gather enough gold to hightail it to another village or a city you were chosen to be the sacrifice for the year. As they called your name your stomach churned and you felt like you were gonna be sick. The crowd parted around you as the village elders beckoned you forward. Your teeth were clenched tight and your muscles tense. You wanted nothing more than to run, but you couldn’t move, your feet were fixed to the ground.

Two people dragged you away to the village priests’ home where you got scrubbed clean and put into the boring beige sacrificial robes. Another person comes to him leading a sheep which the handler made to stand beside you. You were told loudly to get on your knees to start the ritual.

The Priest tells everyone to bow their heads, your heart was beating so erratically that you were starting to think you may have a heart attack before you could get eaten. He starts murmuring a few words as he cleans a wavy-looking knife.

“And our keeper, the Red Dragon, will let us all stay in the name of the lamb of Sacrifice!” The Priest rams the knife into the back of the sheep's neck, you jump at the loud cry of the farm animal as its wool becomes stained with its blood. He drops the knife back on the table and looks down at you. His eyes were etched with determination and confidence as he placed a hand on your chin. You wanted to cry, you could feel the urge blowing into your eyes and you could feel the hairs on your body bristle.

“You are saving us.” He whispered as he placed two fingers over your eyes to make you close them.

The two men picked up the sheep and tilted it above you. You let out a loud gasp when your body becomes coated in blood. The hot sticky liquid coats your robe and body. The viscous content matted your body as it started to slowly dry. You open your eyes, looking at the crimson color on you, its slow dripping almost causes you to disassociate from the experience. They yanked you off the ground roughly and

you stumble to a stand. Dragging you to the outskirts of the village they began chanting in low rumbly tones as they forced you against a pole and tied you there so you couldn’t run.

This was all your life amounted to, nothing more than a sacrifice to a bunch of people who didn’t hesitate to send you to the slaughter. These people who had known you your whole life and now they were simply throwing your life away.

Not too long after you hear the faint sound of wings flapping rhythmically, and the townspeople quickly begin to second the mountain. The blood was starting to cake up and dry a bit in places on your body. You hated feeling all sticky, but you guessed it wouldn't matter all that much when you were about to get eaten by a dragon.

The sound of the dragon was growing louder and louder. When you looked up at the sky you could see the dragon closing distance in the air. You feel like you should be crying, or begging the great heavens to save you but you don’t. You knew it wouldn’t help you, in fact, no one was coming to help you. You close your eyes and accept your fate, a quick meal to “save” a bunch of scared townspeople.

Moments later you were wrapped in a warmth, which you assumed was the maw of the beast. You were dead… at least that's what you thought before you felt the wind ripping around your body. You opened your eyes to see you were thousands of feet in the air in the dragon's claws. A scream gets stuck in your throat and your mouth goes dry as you choke on the feelings of dread. It overwhelms you, so much that you go limp and faint.

You slowly wake up on the cave floor, surprisingly still alive. You look around, jumping and scrambling back when you meet the almost hypnotic eyes of the dragon, very clearly staring at you. Yellow rings wrapped around reddish orange pupils with white slitted irises, unmoving and unblinking; with its head tilted, almost curiously you supposed.

The dragon was just looking at you, motionless and breathing softly, at least that's what you assumed was soft for a dragon. You are scared now, more than ever, there’s no reason to try to put on a brave face when you are getting ready to die. You could feel the warm breath waft over your naked body… You look down at yourself, your bloody sacrificial robe is gone.

The dragon moves closer, you lean back further wondering why this large beautiful creature hasn’t torn you to shreds yet. You squeezed your eyelids shut when you saw the dragon open its mouth. What you didn't expect was to be met with the hot tongue of the dragon licking the blood off your body. It brings a chill up your spine as confusion slaps you.

You were a deer in headlights, frozen with fear as the dragon licked you like a mother cat would its baby. The licking suddenly ceased, you opened your eyes, the blood was gone and the dragon moved away.

“Thank you?” You tilt your head as you sit in front of the dragon, why are you thanking the dragon that’s going to eat you? You didn't know what was going on right now. The dragon let out a loud huff before you watched it visibly start to shrink. Your eyes widen as you hear the bones of the dragon actively start to shift and their skin glows a hue of different shades. Some of the lights were actively making your eyes burn a bit so you closed them and just listened to the snap, crackle, and bop.

When it stopped you slowly opened your eyes to an unexpected sight. Before you were a man? Well, a humanoid of great stature and musculature. He had choppy blonde hair with red tips, however, his eyebrows were… black. And strangely shaped a bit like arrowheads.

His torso, arms, and legs, had red scales of various sizes, along with a few spikes on his arms and legs. Long thick red horns with ridges protruded from his head, curving slightly to the back. Then there was the matter that he was well, naked, you were trying not to look but you couldn’t help but notice the…large assets he possessed.

Trying to find something else to focus on you looked back to his face, and he had such an unyielding stare, wide diamond-shaped eyes with such a unique color, white slitted pupils with red and yellow rings… red and yellow rings? The dragon turned into this “man”?

“You’re… the dragon?” You asked, unsure if he could even understand you, maybe he couldn’t even speak.

“Yes! Is that not clear from my appearance!?” He said, placing his hands on his hips. You looked up at him from your seated position, you felt so small, and helpless and the fear was still present within you, even if you couldn't take your eyes off of him. He was very beautiful and you felt almost drawn to him, like you're not supposed to look away from him.

“What are you planning on doing to me?” There was no better time than now to ask this question. Even if you were afraid of the answer.

“I'll keep you unless you want to go back to that village of yours.”

“So you're not going to eat me?” You kind of felt like this was instigating. You don't really want him to change his mind. You were happy that you weren't going to have a meal.

“No. I don’t feel like it right now,” The fact that he said right now and still a feeling of dread within you. So there was still a chance that he was going to devour you.

“Then what happened to the other people that’ve been sent to you?” If he was eating people then you were not going to be the last The only reason why you assumed that he did eat People. Because you weren't the first to be sent up here. All who have never returned.

“Don't worry about that.” He shrugged and got down to his level. He was crouching right in front of you now. The smile on his face revealed his sharp teeth.

He grabs your chin and gives you a once-over. You let out a squeak at the feeling of his warm skin radiating on you and sharp talons so close to puncturing your flesh. This close you get a better look at his size compared to yours. A wave of heat shoots to your core; why was there a part of you seemingly aroused right now?

“You smell delicious,” He complimented, as his touch loosened. His eyes are intense as they look at you with an odd gentleness.

“Delicious?” You were wondering how he could find your smell any kind of pleasing. You feel like you still smell like the remnants of the metallic twang of animal blood that was once on you. Which was also mixed from the time when he had run his tongue along your body to clean you off.

“I'll keep you nice and right.” His horns brushed against your head as his face was near your neck. You could feel his teeth against your skin causing you to shiver. You felt like you should be fighting him off, pushing him away, and booking it as fast as you could.

But you knew that you couldn’t, that you shouldn't. There was no point in risking making this dragon in human form anger. He was larger than you, stronger than you, but something within you liked that.

“So do you have a name?” Your voice quivered.

“Kyojuro,” he said with his unwavering and almost uncanny smile. The small amount of evening sun that was filtering into the cave made his teeth glint, and once again you were reminded of how sharp they were, he could probably tear flesh apart in an instant, no problem.

A shiver ran down your spine at the thought.

He places a kiss on your skin but you let out a wince when you feel his sharp teeth digging into your skin. He holds you in place so you can’t pull away and tears almost form in your eyes. His talons were so close to making your bleed, that didn’t stop any pain though as they dug into your flesh.

“Oh that hurts!” you complained out a whine.

“You’ll feel all better soon, I'll make you feel much better.” He whispered and pulled you onto your back. You let him, staring up at his hypnotic eyes as he looked down at you with a hungry gaze except it didn’t like the type that would involve you being a meal at least not fully. But the way he bit you told another story, even more so when he takes another bite at again on your collarbone.

Then he would suck on the mark before creating another one somewhere else. He was getting lower by the second he was looking up at you, running his tongue on your skin. You let out a gasp that finally catches Rengoku’s attention, a smirk grows on his face.

“Am I making you feel good already, I can smell your arousal,” Kyojuro spoke, a devilish smile on his face.

“I-i- um,” Your words were caught in your throat and your mouth was dry as you looked at him. He could smell you, the effect this was having on your body and mind you should be scared and in a way, you are still afraid of him but there was the underlying attraction.

“It smells delectable, time for a little taste,” he said, licking his long tongue over his lips. Fear coursed through your body as he sniffed down your body. Rengoku smiled as he propped your legs up and open. You knew he said he wasn’t going to eat you but you still had that underlying fear.

When you felt his warm breath and his hair tickle your inner thigh you let out a yelp of surprise. His teeth dug into the fat of your thigh as he moved up, he was so close

to your cunt.

He licked a stripe up your pussy and let out a satisfied hum before going back in lapping and sucking with vigor. His tongue slipped into your hole, wow he was really eating that puss. You closed your eyes and let out a moan, gripping his horns and holding them in a tight grasp to pull him closer, you wanted more of this. Even though you feel like this is the opposite of how you should be feeling right now.

Lewd slurps and moans bounced off the cave walls. He took his tongue from your hole and began swirling it around your throbbing bud you couldn’t help but cry out in pleasure. The pleasure was almost overwhelming but you knew you wanted more.

“Ha-h more~”

Kyojuro happily obliged and he worked to devour you with added fervor, you couldn't stop yourself from humping his face, your hips bucking up and pleasure coursing through you every time your clit brushed against his nose. He tightens his grip on your thighs to hold you in place, clearly, you were moving too much and he wanted you fully under his control.

Your chest heaved as you tried to control yourself, however, your eyes were watering and you could feel the small amount of control you had slipping away from you. The way his tongue reached inside you writhing around or the way it flicked your clit just made waves of euphoria over you, your insides fluttered and it felt like you were floating.

At the back of your mind, you were thinking about his teeth so close to such a sensitive part of you and the marks that littered your thighs certainly didn’t help that fact, however, that only seemed to make your juices flow more.

“Oh- a-augh~!” The coil that had been slowly winding deep in your core released, your body tensed and your body raised slightly off the ground as pleasure ripped through your being. As you came down from your high your chest heaved as you attempted to catch your breath. You closed your eyes only to have to force them open after being given a light pat on the face.

“We’re not done yet, I still have to get my fill… and once I’m satisfied, I'm going to ravage you.” He pulls you a bit off the cave floor, your legs against his thighs and the rest of you still limply on the ground. He rubs his cock along your wet entrance, you could feel his fat head pressed against you.

He rubbed the tip along your folds, teasing it. Your hips bucked forward though you knew it would surely wreck your insides. That was definitely too big, this was by far the biggest you saw let alone take and it caused a pit to form in your stomach but also a wave of heat in your cunt. He was getting ready to move into you, he let out a hiss as he stretched you out. It was certainly too big for you and you let out a pained whine, it didn’t help that you were as wet as you were.

“Oh my gosh,” you moaned repeatedly, trying to cope with the pain, but there was also an underlying pleasure, you liked that you were triple times stuffed full. As Rengoku began to slowly rock his hips into you you could feel yourself slowly adjusting to his length. More and more it became easier for him to slide in and out from the mix of juices and precum. The pain turned into pleasure and you found your cries turning from moans of pain to pleasure. It still hurt but you liked the pain, it felt good.

Rengoku’s hands gripped your hips roughly and vigorously pounded into you, his fat balls slapping into your skin. It felt like his dick was carving out its own spot in your insides, bullying all the sweet spots inside over and over, again and again. You felt like your eyes were going to roll into the back of your skull as he started to make up a rhythmic pace. Your legs made a weak attempt to wrap around him, it caused him to let out a breathy chuckle.

“Look at you, all mine, I can't wait to fill you up. ” He smiled and cleaned down to sink his teeth into your shoulder, you let out a moan. You wanted that, the words he said just echoing in your ears after he said it. You felt like everything was on fire, your blood, your body, mind, and soul was begging for another release. This was evident when you could feel your walls clench around him getting ready for another climax.

Your legs quaked and your walls clenched and spasmed around his magnanimous cock. Each thrust felt like too much, too overwhelming, too stimulating, and yet you couldn’t get enough. You feel like with the way your moans were echoing throughout the cave the village would have been able to hear you.

He smirks and leans into your neck, nipping over the other bite mark this time, the sensitive skin and causing you to try and squirm. His hips bucked against you becoming aggressive. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, wanting to pull him deeper into yourself, and urging him to take you harder. Your body is trembling with the pleasure and pain of his thick cock stretching you out. You felt like you were being torn apart, but you couldn't stop yourself from wanting more.

You felt like you were going to cum all over again, and you could feel him start to throb. You screamed out as Rengoku rammed into you, his cock being the thing pushing over the edge this time. Your body convulsed beneath him, legs tightening around his waist as you tried and fight the overcome by waves of pleasure. Your tight walls fluttered, trying to decide if you should loosen up or tighten to hold him inside you with a vice grip.

“There you go pretty” he doesn't stop, in fact, it's the opposite as when he starts to pick back up to chase his own high. You didn't even have time to process the ending of your second before you started to feel the weak building of a third one.

“I'm sure you have one more left in you” It wasn't a question, he was telling you to have the strength and willpower to stay conscious long enough to have another orgasm and that was easier said than done.

Your body felt limp, and your mind was fuzzy, all with the added blanket of building pleasure. You felt like you were on fire and everything was hot you could almost taste it.

“I can't take it anymore!” You pant and groan.

“You can” he hissed and you saw his eyes contradict even more than before into a predator-hungry gaze. It makes you shiver, his voice was harsh, if not encouraging. But even though he said you could, you went so sure.

He moved faster, and harder and you cried out. He was letting out sounds that made your ears hot and your cunt harder. He grabs one of your hands, holds it in a firm grip and they both get closer to finishing.

His thrust got messy and rough and his claws started to dig into your hand. You could tell he was close, and you weren't that far behind. Then you felt it, the throbbing of his cock then he started to swell up. You could feel him getting bigger, ripping you open and stretching you past your limits.

You could feel him right on the edge of ripping you in two with his knot, but you found yourself craving more of his touch. You held onto him tightly, milking every last drop from him as you writhed beneath him. You lay beneath Rengoku, your body still trembling from the intensity of your coupling. Along with being filled far past the brim, and you know that you would never feel this full by anyone else.

You felt his weight on top of you, his cock still buried deep inside you, feeling like it was getting bigger by the second. You reached up, tracing your fingers along his chest, feeling the sweat on his skin. You could feel his heart beating against your hand, the sound of their shared breaths filling the air around them.

He places a kiss on your cheeks, then forehead as he holds you closer to his warm form. His warm seed, trapped in you by his knot. His hold is gentle and protective, as you murmured incoherent curses as you feel yourself climaxing around his knot. You could feel your jelly legs dampened with small rounds of love juices that managed to seep out.

Kyojuro wrapped his large arms around your waist and flipped both of you over so you were lying on his chest. He was so warm it was pretty comforting. You could fall asleep if it wasn’t for Kyojuro's large cock still semi-hard inside of you.

“How are you still hard?” Kyojuro just laughed at your question; the small shifting of his body from laughing made his dick twitch and you were still sensitive.

You let out a whimper. Kyojuro placed a kiss atop your head. “Shh, it’s okay,” he held tightly and rubbed your back soothingly. You feel your eyes start to get more heavy, and your body starts to become lucid. You both just lay there and claws lightly tracing patterns against your skin as you worked on getting your active senses to calm down.

His hips rocked forward as much as they could. Even the little movement was far too much, you could barely take it. You tried to focus on your breathing, or his breathing, or anything else than the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling right now.

“You’re doing so good,” Kyojuro whispered, patting your head comfortingly.

Waves of pleasure washed over you so many times, you were so fucking out you didn’t even know your name or where you were. All you knew was that you couldn’t stop cumming. Kyojuro let out a grunt and you were pumped full of more cum. You could feel it leaking out the sides of your hole, which was thoroughly stuffed. Finally, you could feel his dick going soft, however, the knot at the base of his cock which was keeping him inside, had not.

“My knot will go down in a few minutes, just relax till then okay,” Kyojuro said. Soon enough the knot did go down and he could finally pull out, cum flowed from your cunt, slipping down onto Kyojuro. He sat up and lifted you into his arms before standing up.

“Huh, where are we going?” You asked, a bit drowsy.

“There are hot springs up here in the mountains, going to clean up you, you’re gonna be hurting so the spring water should help,” he carried you gently and all you could do was start to fall asleep.

638 notes · View notes

rkiveinmarvel · 10 months ago

Text

upon a different life - james bucky barnes des. barnes never trusted you, not once. but upon a different life, he would. notes. angst/comfort, establishing relationship, slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers, i miss bucky, avengers being siblings (and weak for plot),mentions of violence,

hello! it's my bucky fic! i had a bucky fic back then but I deleted it anyway, this was supposed to be a one part but i got carried away, enjoy barnes knowing you! *i wrote this around 3am so, if i have some mistakes, i'm sorry!!*

(part i) (part ii) | w.c: 3.5k

James Buchanan Barnes is slowly getting used to in living with Avengers and the era he is in, in general, he enjoys the slowly yet steady step to forgive himself and earn forgiveness to those people around him as well familiarizing the more advanced world, but nightmares and remarks of his past action come and go; everyone notices it, especially his friend Steve Rogers, but despite this minor setback, he still move forward because it’s not every day, that you die in the 80s and woke up 75 years later.

In terms of forgiving, the sergeant doesn’t know if the genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist have forgiven him—it’s not a secret Stark gives the money and sponsor on the compound they live in but despite his hesitation to live with them, Stark still offered him—it might be a silent agreement with Rogers but somehow, Barnes hopes Stark acknowledges how sorry he was.

But among other things, he wishes he can finally get used to. He finds himself not getting used to you. Even the entire team knows how much James hates you; to you, it’s no secret: you’re his last handler afterall and if the tables are different, you would hate Barnes too. Before Zemo took control of Barnes as Winter Soldier, you were his last boss, a menace actually, you would let him be used. He gets used by someone, you get rich, a simple deal between HYDRA and you. But that changed, when the Winter Soldier regained his memory; with no leverage in making a deal with HYDRA, the Black Widow offered you a place to stay.

It was a nice place, really, a lot nicer than the one you lived in, except, maybe for the fact that you’re still under someone jurisdiction: while the sergeant is able to roam around the city, you keep staring at the wonderful electronic tag in your ankle: in your deduction, you believe that the Avengers are only keeping you alive because of what you know—it’s not even sympathy why the Black Widow offered you stay with them, it’s more of a business.

From the moment you receive glares from everyone in the room, you know damn well that this is just another business. So, it is indeed a surprise, when the A.I enters your room.

“Ha, did Stark send you to check on me again, Vision?” You asked as the artificial intelligence gave you a look. Despite the team’s lack of enthusiasm with you, Vision, Clint, and Thor are the only ones who seem to talk to you. You have talks with Natasha, Tony, and Bruce as well, but it is more of a business than a talk.

“No, I was wondering if you wish to join me, Clint, and Wanda to watch Dick Van Dyke, she seems very excited about it.”

“What makes you think she wants me to join you guys?” You asked hypothetically.

Vision nodded as he glanced at your electronic tag. “If it makes you feel better, they don’t really hate you that much. In my defense, I think you only did the things you have done because you want to survive.” You scoffed as you said that.

“Well, tell that to Sergeant Bar–” but Vision cut you off. “People won’t always use you. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you realize you’re more than just a HYDRA pawn.” You stared at him, as he continued. “At least, that’s what I observed with Sergeant Barnes.”

“Thanks, Vision.” You gave a bland smile, as he left your room. A part of you wants forgiveness, but for someone who learnt life in a hard way, you’re hesitating to give this one a try. Yet for once, a robot was more human than you.

A year after an endless discussion between the Avengers, they decided to remove the electronic tagging and let you roam freely, but still under their jurisdiction. Somehow, Stark and Banner acknowledge your knowledge while the rest give respect to your fighting ways and quick judgment; well, all of them are getting used to you. Well, maybe except for Bucky. Steve told you it takes time, but to your knowledge, it won’t take time because it won’t happen. You accepted the terms that Barnes will not and never forgive you, you don’t blame him though, mostly you blame yourself.

In this scene, you finally learn to adjust, not going out of your room if he was outside, not training–the same time as him, and definitely not talking to him; even a spare glance, felt like a struggling pain of unforgiven lingering. The team respected Barnes more than they respected you, but somehow, it felt like you finally belonged to something. Well, atleast, that’s what you thought.

Their mission to infiltrate HYDRA failed terribly, despite the information you gave them, they weren’t prepared and outnumbered. Despite their failure, they were able to take a hit on HYDRA’s camp, it’s not much but still affected HYDRA. As the quinjet landed on the hangar, the medical team supported those who were injured. A lot of them were, including those who sometimes get out without a scratch.

In the med bay: you saw Clint and Sam—they somehow, took a toll, as you walked further, you saw the entire team taking care of their small cuts, with them helping another, they were able to close the wounds, well, maybe except for the Winter Soldier—or as they call him the White Wolf. On the back of his right shoulder, he was bleeding badly, despite having all the needed things to tend his wounds around him, he sat on the bed feeling out of place, besides it’s only a shoulder wound.

Due to the lack of people in the med bay, you offered help in the team. As you finished to tend some of the team’s wounds including Rogers’ and Romanoff’s. Your eyes met a struggling Bucky Barnes, grasping his right shoulder with his metal arm. Your footsteps were slow as you walk towards him.

“...Do you need help?” He wanted to say no, everything part of him says no, but as he glanced that there’s no person who can help him in his injury, he nodded. Afterall, you’re also the one who patches him up whenever he gets injured in his missions back then.

You carefully clean his wound as you tend him, you wipe the dirt and the things visible that might infect the wound, as you try to start a talk. “Was it bad out there? In the mission, I mean..” He just let out a grunt, which you expected, but he replied with. “They have three more Super Soldiers and one enhanced, just like Wanda.”

You didn’t respond, just continued stitching his wound. As you finish, you put on some bandages as he asked. “Did you know?” Barnes asked.

“Did you know about the Super Soldiers?” He asked again, for a quick moment, you realized that he is still an assassin, you felt his anger and bloodlust. At that moment, you wish you didn’t work with HYDRA. In truth, you didn’t know where they were but you knew HYDRA didn’t stop making them. But your stuttering left the Sergeant furious even more.

“I–I..” That was the only thing you could say when you suddenly felt his metal hand around your neck, at other times this can be hot and daring, but at this time, you were damn sure that the Sergeant would be able to crack your neck: he could kill you. The team in the med bay immediately sat up.

“Buck, put her down.” You assumed it was Rogers who was talking to the Sergeant. As it was getting hard to breath, James starts to explain that you knew there were Super Soldiers, in that Rogers asked you.

“Did you actually know?” Barnes shook you, as you met the Captain’s eyes. “I did.” Before James finally kills, you continue. “I didn’t know they were stationed there.”

If this was a HYDRA facility, they would’ve shot you despite you telling the truth, Wanda nodded, a confirmation that you were telling the truth. Steve asked Bucky to let go of you, with an angered stare, he let go. As you try to catch your breath, you notice some of the bandage of Rogers came off. You reached your hand to help him but a metal hand covered your wrist.

“Stop pretending to be a good guy, we know you’re глупая игрушка of HYDRA.” He grabs your wrist tighter. “You’re not even part of the team.” That was the last straw, you pulled your wrist away, as you searched for someone to stand with you but all you saw was them looking away from you, even Vision. You nodded as you felt some tears sting. You never actually belonged in the team. Just like Barnes said, a глупая игрушка.

A stupid toy.

Stark spotted you, making tea in the middle of the night. “So, you’re the one that’s drinking tea.” His voice echoed in the empty kitchen. You nodded as you asked him if he wanted some, as he nodded. “Heard what happened.”

“Of course, you do.” Stark eyed you as you finally sat down and Stark rolled his eyes. “I forgave Terminator a while ago.” You looked at him.

“I know he took everything from me, but, I guess it’s just the way it is…Pepper is really good at convincing , I give her that, well, maybe because we–”

“Are pregnant…?” You asked, in which Stark immediately shook his head and chuckled. “Well, no, but, I just want peace, you know.”

“That’s a bit out of character.” You commented. “Ah, the secret service have their humor.” The billionaire chuckled. As he glanced at the stair towards the rooms. “You did not know about the soldiers but, the information you gave was really helpful. We can start with that.” As Stark stood up. He added.

“Oh, and next time, make sure you suit up. You can tag along in the mission if you want, secret service.” Stark walked away with a smug smirk. “You sure, they’ll allow me in the field, Mr. Stark?”

“Maybe not. But, we have a higher chance of winning if they don't know what they’re up against.” He said as he left. But, when the morning comes, there’s no trace of you—only the cup of tea you shared with Tony and a room filled with your stuff, as well as, a folder with all of HYDRA’s information and coordinates in sticky notes. As the team assembled, they wondered if you were stolen from them or you were actually planning to betray them a long time ago.

And there’s only one way to find out.

As the Avengers rode the quinjet, Stark drove peacefully as Romanoff shared her side. “Steve, if we do this and see her there, we can’t save them like we did back then.”

“We didn’t save her, Romanoff. We used her…” Steve added. “But, you guys cared for them too.” His eyes fall on Bucky. “Buck, I know this is—”

“It’s a mission. As long as we’re done. I don’t care what happens to them.” James added.

As they reach the base of HYDRA, with the coordinates in the folder, they immediately search for you, but to their mistake, they fall right into a trap. Not even their strongest and the witch was able to see the trap, as they sat and chained in chairs, Natasha cracked a joke.

“This is probably their revenge.” In which none of them find them funny. Especially the guy with a metal arm. As the time passes with the endless blabbering of the man on the computer, lights and warning signs alarmed the area: as the Avengers look for an escape. It was an unfamiliar site, even for Bucky, all of the soldiers on HYDRA are getting deployed, what could possibly be the reason? As the chain, holding the Avengers finally loose, they stood up immediately, they ran in the door meeting you.

“ROGERS?!” You asked breathlessly. They were all confused but much more concerned about the blood painting your entire body. “Oh, it’s not mine.” You said in a smile. “We have to run, quinjet is outside the building.” As the team sprinted outside, surprise to see the number of bodies you took down.

“You took them all down?” Natasha asked as the quinjet was finally visible. “Ah, yeah. I was raised by them so, nevermind, we have to go.”

It was going so well, but in the escape, a lot of missiles were aimed at the quinjet, as you, Sam, Tony, Wanda, and Sergeant Barnes fought the trailing jet in the back of quinjet, James rode a jet that is about to crash with another, he dodged the explosion but fell unconscious. Without thinking, you jumped out of the quinjet to save his unconscious body, hoping it’s water underneath all the chaos.

As the cold temperature of water hit you, you swam to get the sergeant’s body. People in quinjet knew what happened, but in the height of the situation, they had no choice but to continue to flee; hope to save the sergeant and you, tomorrow.

The sergeant woke up in a bed made of leaves and an open night-sky. As he familiarize with his surroundings, he saw the heat radiating from a bonfire and you sitting by the shore. It was as if you sensed him.

“You’re finally awake.” You said as you walked towards him; he immediately tensed up. “Oh, right.” you placed the sugarcane on the sand as you sat down. “Tony would probably search for us tomorrow, once the sky is cleared.” You added but he is still weary of your presence.

“What’re you playing at?” He asked, as you looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“You being a goody-two-shoes, you know, none of us trust you.” He added finally, grabbing the sugar cane munching it. “And now, you leaving and suddenly appearing at the HYDRA facility, makes you more of a traitor than a help to us, so, what’s really your play?”

“...I want to help—”

“You have a funny way of showing it…” He grumbled as you replied. When you hear him grumble, you grab a swiss knife in your pocket, as you did when he was on guard but then, you place it on the sand and look at him. “I wasn’t there because I wish to betray anyone, I was there because…..”

You sighed and looked at him. “I wanted to apologize to you. What I did in those years is unforgivable, hell, even I would be angry if I was in your position. I wanted to apologize to you and your family, the one you grew up with. I want to see if HYDRA knows about them, in that way, I can apologize for manipulating Winnifred’s only son and Rebecca’s only brother.”

Bucky stared at you. “But who am I kidding, it is full of shit..I just really hoped because—I finally felt like I was part of a team. It’s a bit much, right? I was ahead of myself.” You chuckled. As you stare at the sea, you continue. “The swiss knife will be there, do whatever you want with it. Whether you used it for survival or against me, it’s up to you.” You smiled at Bucky.

“This probably will make you hate me even more but it truly means everything, I am really sorry, Bucky.”

That was the first time he heard you mutter his name. His first time seeing you smile. His first time hearing you say sorry; his first time seeing you. As the night grew deeper, you fell asleep, except for the guy with a metal arm, he fidgeted with the swiss knife and kept glancing at you. He has you, he can kill you, revenge. With a lot of contemplation; balancing his morals, he stood up, gripping the swiss knife tightly and went to your sleeping body.

He was really thankful that you were asleep.

You watch from upstairs as you see the God of Thunder, the White Wolf, and Captain America struggle with their new phone given by Stark.

“10 Bucks says Barnes will break it.” Sam told you as he stood watching the three as well. “20 Bucks says Odinson will be the one who will break it.” You added; to anyone’s surprise, it was Steve who made the screen crack.

“Dammit.” Sam muttered as you noticed his suit. “Got a date or something?” Sam just nodded and said something about meeting his sister in the bank, as he left, you called Barnes out. “Sergeant, we’re losing daylight, let’s go.” You said as he ran upstairs, leaving the compound as well, with you next to him.

He grips the swiss knife tightly, as he walks to your unconscious body as he shakes you awake. “Hey.” he muttered slowly: “Did you find them? Rebecca, I mean…” In your state, you would have said something random but as you met his eyes, he was just pleading as you nodded, he retracted the knife and handed it to you.

“Go say your apologies to them then. Bring me to them.” In that he awkwardly smiled but was sincere. “Okay.” As he went to his side on the sand, he then sighed, “It means everything, Thanks for saying that.” With a soft heart, you slept soundly and Barnes did too as the sand felt more like the best bed in town.

As you drive, Barnes asks how you find his family. “It was more of how HYDRA hid it, what surprised me is that—they don’t pick dead bodies up in the 40s?” In that, Bucky eyed you. “What do you mean? I fell of the—”

“If I was like one of the bosses, I would’ve.” Bucky sighed. “It was war back then, it was better to leave them, I guess.” You sighed and acknowledged his explanation. As you two reach Brooklyn, his eyes wander. “First time back in Brooklyn?” he nodded as he explained how different times were. He wasn’t talkative much, but you saw how his eyes lit up when the corners of Brooklyn hit him home. As we reach the cemetery, you glance at the grave.

“This is Rebecca’s and your Mom’s. I couldn’t find anything on your father, I’m sorry.” As Barnes walked out the car with flowers in his hand, you watched him but then he opened your door, “Aren’t you going to apologize to them too?” You smiled and got out of the car, “I did say that.”

We stayed there for a few minutes, as Bucky walked to get something in the car, he heard your voice talking to them as if they were still alive, it felt new to him, this side of you, it’s more warmer than before. He walks cautiously as he slowly hears a bit of your words. “Rebecca and Mrs. Barnes you have an amazing brother and a son.”

Despite everything and hate lurking in his chest towards you, his painful experience, he was willing to give this forgiveness a shot, because he was a human and not a machine.

As the two of you drove back to the compound, the silence was now replaced with a calmer one, which Bucky glanced at you. “Something wrong?” He asked you.

“No, it’s just, I don’t know what we should talk about, I’m still getting used to this too. Food that is warm, going to places that don't require guards, a bit warmer home, and bright home, and a house full of people, still getting used to it, I guess.” You explained.

“Well, me and you are on the same boat.” He added assuring you. The ride back was more of a relaxed one, as you heard Bucky’s stomach growl. “We should eat something.” Before he could protest, you parked the car and you two went inside a diner.

As you two sat, you kept glancing at the machine on the edge of the table, as you saw Bucky eyeing it as well. “What is it?” You asked him, as he cleared his throat. “A Jukebox.” but your lack of response made him look at you. “You don’t know what—”

You shook your head. “Well, with HYDRA raising me I only know the static radio.” You explained, looking away awkwardly. “Oh, it’s a music box, like a vinyl but you need a quarter to play a song.” He explained as you nodded. “I have a quarter.” As you give him the quarter, he signals you to press a button to play music. As you two eat a meal in the diner: the low volume of Chet Baker’s I Never Been In Love Before plays, it is safe to say that two people felt more human than before and a lingering warm feeling in their chest. Safe to say, they’ve never been in love before.

⚘ masterlist 1 | 2 | 3

410 notes · View notes

dark-konohagakure2 · 11 months ago

Note

I just read your sexually abusive bf sasuke post and oml that made me feel smth. I was wondering if you could write something like that for Madara, Indra or kawaki. Please feel free to just do one of them, no need to do all unless you want to :) I hope you have a great day loves 🫶🫶

tw: noncon, abusive relationships, misogyny, age difference, breeding, dehumanization, neglect, possessiveness, emotional abuse

All characters depicted are 18+

Madara doesn't have a girlfriend or lover, he has a novelty, a womb with legs, a breeder. Nothing more nothing less. She is so far beneath him that he might as well be a superior species to her, and he treats her accordingly.

He rarely spends any time with her, having a myriad of more important things to attend to aside from humoring the worthless affections of some silly lass, but when he is around her, he isn't very pleasant to say the least, figuratively and literally keeping her at arms length unless he wants a certain something from her, that something being the only thing he ever wants from her, the only reason he keeps her around.

Being the head of the Uchiha clan, he's almost always either out on the battlefield or training himself half to death for his next battle, so Madara gets very worked up and stressed, and when he's pent up, all Madara wants to do is squeeze his favorite stress toy until she pops.

Her consent and feelings are less than irrelevant to Madara, she is his property, and that means he is allowed to do whatever he wants with her, including but not limited to filling her up with his offspring.

"Stop moving so much, you mewling quim. You're just a tool to me, and tools don't cry and struggle against their owners..."

On the rare occasion that he puts aside time for her, that time will be spend either degrading her, trying to impregnate her, or both at the same time. He'll spend hours on top of her and bullying her poor womb with with his cock, not stopping until he is absolutely certain that he's successfully knocked her up.

If Madara ever does take her out on a 'date', it'll only be after much pestering from her and for the sole purpose of showing off his property to the less fortunate men of the village. He'll keep his hands on her to make sure she doesn't wander off like a wayward child, whether it be an arm around her waist or shoulder or even a hand gripping her ass, signalling to everyone that she's Madara's bitch.

Despite his habit of showing her off, Madara doesn't let her around anybody besides himself, not even letting her near people trusted by him such as Izuna and Hashirama, it isn't because he doesn't trust them, it's because he doesn't trust her. She was a lowly stray slut before he so graciously tamed her, and once a slut always a slut.

If she ever dares to try and leave him, be it due to falling out of love or just plain old self preservation, Madara won't physically stop her at first, instead he'll attack her with his words, picking at her insecurities and keeping her in line with his words better than any fist ever could.

"You want to leave me? Fine then, go back to being an unloved little harlot, see if I care. You don't deserve all of my love and care anyway..."

Madara isn't a bad boyfriend to her at all, because he doesn't even consider himself to be her boyfriend at all, he's her handler, and she's just an unruly mutt who needs him far more than he needs her.

tw: noncon, abuse, power imbalance, master/pet, degradation, possessiveness, collars

Indra isn't as cruel as his reincarnation, but he's still very cold, and views herself as being far above a pitiful little human like her, he sees her as a pet, a pet he takes care of, but still a pathetic little kitten regardless.

He doesn't start off too bad, while he's still possessive and forceful, he still dotes on his pet in his own distant way, petting her hair and graciously forcing allowing her to sit on his lap, and he'll even gift her a lovely collar that symbolizes their strange union. Although the peace won't last very long...

When his father unexpectedly makes Asura the head of the clan instead of him like he had anticipated, Indra is enraged, believing that his dimwitted younger brother has stolen his rightful position out from under him, and he is in dire need of someone to take his anger out on.

Indra's sudden turn from coldness to red hot anger is as jarring as it is terrifying, his Sharingan glowing a bright ruby color as he holds her down, his face etched into a scowl as he forces her to bare the brunt of his fury.

"Don't resist me, stupid girl. You're my pet and it's your job to keep me happy, and I am the furthest thing from happy in this moment, so do your job, now."

After that day any semblance of fondness that Indra had for her is seemingly gone. He still keeps her around, but he no longer pats her head or acts affectionately, instead yanking on her leash harshly whenever he wants her close and forcing her to service his erection whenever the urge strikes him.

He doesn't let her out of his sight either, Indra doesn't want her to be around anyone except for him, especially not wanting her near his father or that damn Asura. She's like a consolation prize for him in a way, Asura might have gotten the position of their father's succesor, but Indra got the most perfect toy in the world.

Indra also won't be as forgiving of disobedience from her as he used to be, in the past he would simply lecture her or give her a slap on the wrist if she went against him, but now if she steps out of line his punishments will be much more swift and brutal, be it a slap across the face or a harsh face-fucking.

If she ever tries telling him that she wants to leave him, Indra will show some mirth for the first time in a while by laughing at her, although it's more of a mocking laugh than a happy one, letting her know that leaving him isn't an option for her.

"You're leaving? Oh how funny, but you seem to have forgotten something, little one. I own you, and you are never leaving me unless it's in a casket."

Indra is nothing short of cruel towards her, but the Otsutsuki doesn't see it that way, he truly believes that the way he treats her is justified because he loves her, because he owns her, and that means he can do whatever he wants with her.

tw: noncon, abuse, threats, semi-public sex, possessiveness, jealousy, victim blaming, noncon kissing

Kawaki actually makes a semblance of an effort to be an actual boyfriend, but he doesn't fully understand how to be one, he thinks that being someone's boyfriend just means having someone he can kiss and order around and nothing more, so that's how he approaches it.

He doesn't try to be mean, but she's always pushing his buttons, trying to hang out with other people that aren't him and not putting out for him, so he sees ever instance of her raising his hand or berates her as completely justified, she's being a bad girlfriend.

Despite how he acts, he doesn't hate her, but she's just so annoying and ungrateful, hardly worthy of all the love he's pouring into her, but he does love her quite a bit, but he isn't able to express those feelings without force and violence due to her tumultuous past.

His gruff disposition will give way to anger when he sees her talking to other men, Kawaki is paranoid when it comes to the people he claims to love, and seeing his girlfriend talking to other guys when she already has him just amplifies these feelings. Why does she always have to be such a bitch? Such a bad, bad girlfriend?

"Who the hell was that? Do you like him more than me? Huh?! If you really love me so much then stop being so damn cold to me and prove it for once.

Kawaki will take her right then and there. She doesn't love him enough to put out, he'll just take what he wants. Fucking is what boyfriends and girlfriends who love each other do, and he's going to fuck her extra hard so she can feel the full depth of his feelings for her.

He's incredibly rough out of both anger and inexperience, he'll try to make up for his harshness in a way by kissing her, but Kawaki is a bad kisser too, his teeth slamming against hers as he presses his lips onto her own, nearly choking her when he forces his tongue down her throat, his bad kissing just makes the entire experience worse for her rather than acting as a band aid solution to his harsh thrusts.

After their 'first time', Kawaki takes that as meaning that their relationship is good and healthy again. Couples are supposed to kiss and have sex all the time, that's the entire point, so he has no idea why she's crying. Maybe she's just shy, or maybe she's just trying to play the victim and make him feel like a bad partner.

Kawaki won't take her seriously if she says she wants to break up, dismissing her words as stupid empty threats, but if she persists, he'll get mad, threatening her with a fate worse than death if she talks like that ever again.

"What?! Leaving me?! Pssh, don't be stupid, if you talk that nonsense again then I'll just send you to the same place I sent Lord Seventh..."

Kawaki doesn't try to be a mean boyfriend, but his intentions don't match his actions in the slightest, but he still tries to justify it regardless, he's trying to be nice, but she just makes it so hard for him.

654 notes · View notes