#sam the office photocopier

[cartoonhostage]

Here's a list of characters that have inspired Sam's character

(I used a culturally recognizable picture of Frankenstein's Monster but I actually mean the creature from the 1831 version of the original novel)

[newsatsix1986]

A lovely photo of Sam Reid as Dale Jennings from our Season One of The Newsreader, which truly seems so long ago now! Three years since that season went to air, almost four years since they started filming it. Holy moly!

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I’m always reflecting on how detailed the office space of the show is. Each desk and office cubicle is reflective of who sits there each day, each bulletin board is filled with the documents and clippings that mean something to someone, even the spaces that don’t appear up close on camera are intricately designed, such as the post office corner, the photocopy room etcetera. Just in this photo of Dale alone, you can see the Oxford Dictionary front and centre, hinting at his meticulous care to his work, and how he has the tendency to be quite the wordsmith (his final S2 monologue especially).

All of this has been possible because of the tireless dedication of the set designers, dressers and buyers of the show, who really don’t get the credit they deserve. They would have spent months putting this space together and making sure that every minute detail of the set was perfectly accurate to the 1980s. They must be super careful in ensuring nothing looks too modern or out of place, especially if there are things in the office that are replicas from the time.

On the website of one of our unit still photographers; Sarah Enticknap, she has these brilliant photos of some of the office set designs for keen Newsreader fans to look through. I thought I would share these with you all in case you haven’t seen them before! Pay your thanks to our art crew for helping our show look so darn pretty! 💖🌟

All photo credits go to Sarah Enticknap. For more great S1 snaps visit the link below! 📸

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

August 11, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

As I try to cover the news tonight, I am struck by how completely the Republican Party, which began in the 1850s as a noble endeavor to keep the United States government intact and to rebuild it to work for ordinary people, has devolved into a group of chaos agents feeding voters a fantasy world. 

The big news today was the hearing in Washington, D.C., where Department of Justice prosecutors argued for a protective order to stop former president Trump from intimidating witnesses and tainting the jury pool in the case against him for trying to stop the counting of electoral votes that would decide the 2020 presidential election. 

Trump appears to have given up on winning the cases against him on the legal merits and is instead trying to win by whipping up a political base to reelect him, or even to fight for him. He has filled his Truth Social account with unhinged rants attacking the justice system and the president, and on Sunday his lawyer, John Lauro, echoed Trump as he made a tour of the Sunday talk shows, misleadingly suggesting that Trump had been indicted for free speech. In fact, the indictment says up front that even Trump’s lies are protected by the First Amendment, but what isn’t protected is a conspiracy that stops an official proceeding and deprives the rest of us of our right to vote and to have our votes counted. 

A grand jury indicted Trump on August 1; when he was arraigned on August 3, the magistrate judge warned him that it is a crime to “influence a juror or try to threaten or bribe a witness or retaliate against anyone" connected to the case. Trump said he understood. 

The next day, he posted on Truth Social: “IF YOU GO AFTER ME, I’M COMING AFTER YOU!” 

Justice Department lawyers promptly sought a protective order to limit what information Trump and his lawyers can release. Trump has a longstanding pattern of releasing misleading information to bolster his position among his base, and lawyers are concerned that he will continue to intimidate witnesses and try to taint the jury pool in hopes of getting the trial venue moved.

Days later, Trump told an audience in New Hampshire that he would not stop talking about the case, and called Special Counsel Jack Smith a “thug” and “deranged.” He has continued to post such messages on social media.

U.S. District Judge Tanya Chutkan reinforced that Trump’s focus on politics had no relevance in her court of law. Justice reporter for NBC News Ryan Reilly noted: “The word of the Trump hearing today: yield. Came up six times, as in: ‘the fact that he's running a political campaign currently has to yield to the orderly administration of justice.’”

Chutkan agreed to the protective order but agreed with Trump’s team that it would not include any material already in the public domain. She also prohibited Trump from reviewing materials with “any device capable of photocopying, recording, or otherwise replicating the Sensitive Materials, including a smart cellular device.”

Finally, she warned Trump’s lawyers: “I caution you and your client to take special care in your public statements in this case…. I will take whatever measures are necessary to protect the integrity of these proceedings.” If Trump repeats “inflammatory” statements, she said, she will have to speed up his trial to protect witnesses and keep the jury pool untainted.

Just what that might mean was illustrated today when a judge revoked the bail of former FTX cryptocurrency chief executive officer Sam Bankman-Fried for witness tampering and sent him to jail. Prosecutors say Bankman-Fried was leaking the private diary entries of his former girlfriend to the New York Times to discredit her testimony against him.

In Ohio, where voters on Tuesday overwhelmingly rejected the attempt of the Republicans in the legislature to stop a November vote on an amendment to the state constitution protecting abortion rights, Republicans tried to stop the inclusion of that amendment by challenging its form. Today the Ohio Supreme Court unanimously rejected that lawsuit. The proposed amendment will be on the ballot in November. 

After demanding that David Weiss, the U.S. attorney in charge of investigating and charging Hunter Biden, be named a special counsel and then charging that Weiss had asked for and been denied that status—both he and Attorney General Merrick Garland denied that allegation—Republicans are now angry that Garland today gave Weiss that status. 

Weiss requested that status for the first time earlier this week, and Garland granted it, although both Weiss and Garland had previously said Weiss had all the authority that status carries. Now House Republicans say appointing Weiss a special counsel is an attempt to obstruct Congress from investigating the Bidens. For all that Republicans are in front of the cameras every day insisting President Biden is corrupt, there is no evidence that President Biden has been party to any wrongdoing.

One of the things such behavior accomplishes is to distract from the party’s own troubles, including the inability of House Republicans to agree to measures to fund the government after September. Far-right extremists are still angry at the spending levels to which House speaker Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) agreed in a deal to raise the debt ceiling last June, and are threatening to refuse to agree to any funding measures until they get cuts that the Senate will never accept. 

The House left for its August break after passing only one of the twelve bills it needs to pass, and when it gets back, it will have only twelve work days before the September 30 deadline. This chaos takes a toll: when the Fitch rating system downgraded the U.S. long-term rating last week, the first reason it cited was “a steady deterioration in standards of governance.” It explained: “The repeated debt-limit political standoffs and last-minute resolutions have eroded confidence in fiscal management.” 

Another thing this chaos does is convince individuals that the entire government is corrupt. On Wednesday, as Biden was to visit Utah, FBI agents shot and killed an armed man there who made threats against him, Vice President Kamala Harris, and other officials who have been associated with Trump’s legal troubles: Attorney General Garland, Manhattan district attorney Alvin Bragg, and New York attorney general Letitia James. Craig Deleeuw Robertson described himself as a “MAGA Trumper.”

It seems we are reaping the fruits of the political system planted in 1968, when the staff of Republican presidential candidate Richard Nixon reworked American politics to package their leader for the election. “Voters are basically lazy,” one of Nixon’s media advisors wrote. “Reason requires a high degree of discipline, of concentration; impression is easier. Reason pushes the viewer back, it assaults him, it demands that he agree or disagree; impression can envelop him, invite him in, without making an intellectual demand…. When we argue with him, we…seek to engage his intellect…. The emotions are more easily roused, closer to the surface, more malleable.”

The confusion also takes up so much oxygen it’s hard for the Democrats, who are actually trying to govern in the usual ways, to get any attention. Today was the one-year anniversary of the PACT Act, officially known as the Sergeant First Class Heath Robinson Honoring our Promise to Address Comprehensive Toxics Act of 2022. The law improves access to healthcare and funding for veterans who were exposed to burn pits, the military’s waste disposal method for everything from tires to chemicals and jet fuel from the 1990s into the new century. 

According to Senator Dick Durbin (D-IL), the PACT Act has already enabled more than 4 million veterans to be screened for toxic exposure, more than 744,000 PACT Act claims have been filed, and hundreds of thousands of veterans have been approved for expanded benefits.

Biden spoke in Utah about the government’s protections for veterans and why they’re important. In addition to the PACT Act, he talked about his recent executive order moving the authority for addressing claims of sexual assault, domestic violence, child abuse, and murder outside the chain of command to a specialized independent military unit—a move long championed by survivors and members of Congress.  

Today the White House released a detailed explanation of “Bidenomics” along with resources explaining why the administration has focused on certain areas for public investment and how the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law, the CHIPS and Science Act, and the Inflation Reduction Act have supported that investment. That collection explains why the administration is overturning forty years of political economy to return to the system on which the U.S. relied from 1933 to 1981, and yet it got far less traction than the fight over the protective order designed to keep Trump from attacking witnesses.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[wolfnprey]

I'd Rather Be a Riot Than Indifferent

MCU, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Gen, 3k (read on ao3) I'm excited to finally have my second fic from @sunflower-auction ready to post (late, but finished!) This is for @kimmycup, and I hope that it's enjoyed!

Look, Bucky isn’t the one to start drama or feuds. He has a best friend who is capable of doing both enough times for each of them. Maybe there’s a karma thing coming around to tell Bucky that it’s his turn.

But in his defense, he doesn't know what the hell he's looking at.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what copy machines are for," Bucky blurts out when he recovers.

The man, who's dressed more for a day of walking through the grocery store than being in a publishing office, doesn't remove his head from where it's pressed against the scanning screen of the machine. 

"And I'm pretty sure that this machine makes copies," he shoots back, "so I can copy whatever I want." 

Bucky's heard of people photocopying their asses. It's usually in a dumb comedy movie or one of the idiots in high school with nothing better to do. He remembers Sam complaining about catching Clint doing it.

This is a grown-ass adult doing it to his face in a workplace setting. 

What a way to start his first day on the job. 

[grantgoddard]

This is your early morning trunk call : 2004 : BBC World Service Trust, Cambodia

I pull back the bedroom curtains and, from my window, see a huge elephant ambling along the promenade above the Mekong River. I know it must be 6:30 a.m. Every day at this time Sam Bo, the only elephant in Phnom Penh, walks to his day-job giving rides to children around the base of the city’s only hill. The street beside him is already filled with rush-hour traffic, since most shops and offices open daily at seven. Weaving in and out between huge chrome-clad and tinted windscreen four-by-fours driven by NGO staff and government officials are hundreds of motorbikes, which have totally replaced the humble bicycle as Cambodians’ preferred mode of transport. If there is a Highway Code, nobody seems to have read it. Confusingly, traffic travels in both directions on both sides of the road and often on the pavement too.

You see young schoolchildren riding motorbikes to school, and parents carrying three or four children precariously on a single bike. I have seen a motorbike carrying a full-size palm tree, another loaded with an iron girder which could easily have decapitated someone, and a bike carrying three dogs, one of which had its paws on the handlebars. Few people wear crash helmets, but most wear surgical masks (available in various colours from market stalls) to keep the dust, pollution and bugs out of their mouth and nose. Phnom Penh is the L.A. of Asia – nobody walks. What were once pavements are now clogged with parked cars, row upon row of parked bikes, impromptu shops, and families sat on plastic patio chairs selling petrol in old soft drink bottles from the kerb. The few people who walk around this city – the very poor and foreigners – are forced to negotiate the gutter, where we risk being hit by bikes coming at us from all directions.

In the morning, I work at the Women’s Media Centre of Cambodia where I am training four enthusiastic staff to produce a youth phone-in show that launches in May. They are very excited that the Centre has just been nominated for this year’s One World Broadcasting Trust Special Award for Development Media. The team share an office in the Centre which they have proudly designated the ‘BBC Office’, even though they are not BBC staff. The only drawback to working in this beautifully airy, purpose-built broadcast centre is that we are shadowed by a massive transmitter mast in the car park that broadcasts the Centre’s radio station ‘FM 102’ to 60% of Cambodia’s population. Although the custom is to remove one’s shoes before entering the building, staff have to don flip-flops to use electrical equipment such as the photocopier, or risk electrocution from the mast’s 10kW electrical field (as I found out to my peril).

At lunchtime, almost everyone goes home for a two-hour siesta that offers slight relief from the constant 35-degree daytime heat. I take lunch at the real BBC office – a villa whose walled garden includes luscious banana and mango trees – with the handful of the thirty local staff who live too far away to return home. Malene, one of two BBC housekeepers, purchases our food from the plethora of nearby pavement snack stalls, according to our culinary preferences, at a cost of less than a dollar each. Dishes are always accompanied by boiled rice or noodles, though Malene once glowed with pride when she presented me with a plate of chips procured from who knows where.

After a productive afternoon working at the Women’s Media Centre, I walk home past a school when a girl, aged about eleven and dressed in regulation white blouse and navy skirt, rushes out of the school gates, runs across the road and, without a hint of self-consciousness, starts a conversation with me in perfect English. After a minute, she sees a motorbike taxi stop outside her school gates, bids me farewell, jumps on the back (side-saddle, as is customary for girls) and waves goodbye as she disappears down the street. She inspires confidence that the future of this country will be bright in her generation’s hands.

[First published in 'Ariel', 11 May 2004, p.3]

[bitchassbucky]

~Ｆｏｒ ｙｏｕ

📎Word Count: 1.5k

📎Warning/s: MINORS DNI! angsty-ish, grumpy!avenger!bucky x new avenger!reader, bucky got detained for [redacted] reasons

📎A/N: MY FIRST COMMISSION POST!!! this is for @babyboibucky <3 love you boo! i hope you likey :D ps, if you catch the b99 reference i will love you 4eva

📎Masterlist || Ask || AFTERDARK || Commissions Info (open as of January 10)

The harsh, white overhead light makes the divots and curves of Bucky’s face even deeper. The sound of people milling about and the ancient photocopy machine makes his ears ring to no end. The unfriendly coldness of the holding cell warms his eyes as he dozes off for what seems to be the millionth time today. What woke him up was the sound of an NYPD officer bellowing through the bars, “you’re free to go, Sergeant Barnes.”

Great, he thinks, he’s gonna get an earful from either Steve or Sam—no doubt the latter one wouldn’t let it go for a week or so. He was already practicing a half-hearted speech in his mind when the officer ushers you to the front desk, “are you sure you’re able to bring Sergeant Barnes home?”

“Dude, yeah, I told you a million times, I know him—he’s my friend.” You quip, tapping your foot impatiently as you finish filling up Bucky’s release form. The ink of the pen too thick for the cheap, flimsy bond paper to dry completely.

The officer sighs, putting his hands on his belt, “that’s officer Deetmore to you, ma’am–“ squinting as he reads off your surname off the paper. “Do you want to be listed as one of the emergency contacts?”

The question aimed at you was answered by a grumpy Bucky, leaning against the desk with a deep scowl on his face—giving everyone at the precinct a death glare that would give their mother a chill up the spine, “no, she won’t.”

“I guess I won’t be.” You say, making a face and shrugging as Deetmore compiles the paperwork for you, stapling it together before filing it into a folder with “J. Barnes” as a tag. Not long after, the officer dismisses both of you, attempting to show you the door but Bucky was already halfway out by the time you bid farewell.

“Whoa, slow down! I’m here to pick you up,” the cold wind bites at your arms as you put on your coat, goosebumps making its way up your skin. The harsh smell of Brooklyn drilling itself into your nose as you catch up to Bucky.

Hearing your voice, he just walks faster, dodging stationary and side-stepping people. “Yep, you did and I thank you for that,” laced with sarcasm, Bucky answers back, not expecting you to catch up to him anytime soon.

“Was that sarcasm?” Your voice pops up from beside him, your brows furrowed not in annoyance but in amusement. Bucky thinks that this is the longest conversation that you both had with each other.

The sound of the street drowns out his hummed response and you continue to walk with him until an intersection comes into view. You stop to wait out the pedestrian light while Bucky attempts to cross the street already—your hand was quick to pull him by his hood though, not strong enough for him to tumble backward but strong enough so he stops at his track.

“What was that for?”

“The light was red.”

Bucky grumbles in response again—forgoing walking straight and instead, taking a right turn into an alleyway. “The subway’s right there—where are we going?” A genuine question was met by an eye roll and he suddenly turns around and stops walking.

“So go there, leave me alone,” the unshakable tenor of Bucky’s voice echoes and bounces onto the exposed brick of the buildings. The yellow light of the streetlamp was so much more forgiving than that of the lights in the precinct.

You shake your head, walking closer to him, bridging the physical and the metaphorical gap between the both of you, “Nope, no can do. They said that I was to bring you back to the tower and that’s what I’m doing.”

“Really? That’s your job now?” Annoyance itches in Bucky’s brain, there’s a boyish voice in the back of his head telling him to push your buttons more.

“Well, no—it’s just no one other than Steve wants to pick you up and the others are busy so I volunteered.” There was a hopeful ring to your voice—you were a good 10 feet away from him now. Both the streets that cut the alleyway bustling with people going about their night.

“Okay, you’re dismissed.”

“Not until you’re back in the tower,” and you were just as stubborn as him. “C’mon, Bucky, I take my assignments seriously.”

He sighs as he sees a sliver of young Steve’s indignation in you, “let this one slide—I’ll tell ‘em that I was already out by the time you got there.”

You scowl, arching a brow upwards, “my name’s on your release form—I can’t- we can’t lie.” The thought of lying to your superiors back in the office makes your bones shiver, you shake your head like an etch-a-sketch board.

“Then make something up, I don’t know,” one by one, Bucky’s suggestions weren’t any help for you—not until he just goes with you.

You cross your arms, leaning on the wall to your left, “I’m not making something up—either you come with me or I’ll follow you around Brooklyn.” You start to wonder if this is the reason why most of your coworkers don’t want to pick him up.

“God, you’re just as stubborn as Steve, no wonder he plays his favorites with you.”

The backhanded statement took you out of your head—as soon as you process what Bucky meant, your mood changed. He surely felt it too as he quickly apologizes, although his heart wasn’t in it.

“I’m in this team because I work hard as anyone in it,” the tone shifted from a more serious perspective. “You know, I thought that this was my chance to be close to you.”

It was Bucky’s turn to arch up a brow, “close to me? Just like how others get close to me so they can pry me apart, is that it?” The sudden vulnerability of Bucky slips through, just as sudden as his attempt to close himself back up, “just go home.”

“Believe it or not, Bucky, I’m here because I like you and I want to be your friend. But if this is what I get for trying then—“ you shake your head and rummage around your bag, tossing Bucky a Metro Card that you bought for him. “You can figure it out.”

By the time Bucky got home, the common room was illuminated by the soft and warm nightlights installed under the furniture and the fix-ins. The words “I want to be your friend” keep echoing in his mind—it has been too long since anyone really wanted to be his friend without a life-or-death situation being the foundation of it.

While those relationships are great and were forged by a situation not everyone is equipped to deal with, he has yet to have a friend outside of his very small circle—build bridges with memories as his therapist would say.

A light crinkling noise from the kitchen brings him back to reality, his mind already going through the worst of the outcomes. Bucky let’s put a sigh of relief when he sees that it’s just you—and then the relief turns into hot embarrassment when he remembers how he treated you earlier tonight.

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, knocking on the countertop. He wasn’t really expecting a reply from you.

You turn towards him, closing a utensil drawer, “you made it back, congrats. How’s the subway?” Even with how annoyed you are with him, you try to make small talk.

“It stinks, literally.” Bucky chuckles, shrugging off his jacket as he sits on a high stool. The only light source in the kitchen being the lone built-in under an overhead cabinet.

The silence that followed Bucky’s joke was like pinpricks for him—the still awkwardness of the situation pricks and pokes the skin on the back of his neck, “it gets worse in the summer.” You reply dryly as you wait for your popcorn to cook in the microwave.

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” downcasting his eyes, Bucky examines the pattern of the countertop before looking up and meeting your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, genuinely this time.

“I’m sorry too, I think I tried too hard,” you shrug back, talking loudly in between the muffled pops of the kernel in the bag.

Bucky sighs and shakes his head, kicking up so he spins in his stool, “don’t do that—don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Before he forgets, he reaches into his discarded jacket’s pocket and slides the Metrocard from earlier across the countertop, “that’s yours, right?”

“That’s yours, I already have one,” you smile at him, carefully taking out the bag of popcorn from the microwave oven.

After transferring the food into a bowl, you sit across him, catching up on things that both of you have missed and learning similar things about each other.

“I guess you should apologize for one more thing, Bucky,”

“What is it?”

“That you stole my cereal.”

“That was one time!”

[thebreakfastgenie]

📓! :)

For you, a TWW fic!

This is called The Ellsberg Variant and I've actually tried to write it but it hasn't worked out well so far, so I just daydream about it. The name comes from Daniel Ellsberg, a State Department staffer. The same guys who later did Watergate broke into his psychiatrist's office looking for embarrassing information. They didn't find anything, but I thought, what if that happened to Josh and they did find the records about his PTSD? This is set sometime around season 3/4, after H. Con. 172.

It starts with a large envelope being deliver by messenger. The sender is anonymous, but it's a well-known messenger service and passes security screening. It's addressed to the Press Secretary, so Carol takes it to CJ. CJ opens it and immediately tell Carol to close the door and clear her schedule. Inside is an advance copy of the week's issue of a tabloid. The cover is a picture of Josh, some badly edited stock pictures of pills, and the headline "Bartet's Loony Bin." Inside, the story contains extensive quotes and even scans of Josh's medical records, which were obviously stolen. After she reads it, CJ does some investigating, and finds out several weeks ago there was a break-in at an office park where Josh's therapist has an office. Josh, preferring not to be recognized, goes to therapy about an hour away in suburban Virginia. The break-in was briefly covered in local news, but the owners of the building and the security company they contract with tried to keep it quiet to save face. Nothing was reported missing, but it turned out photocopies were made of several patients' confidential records, with the originals being returned. The theory is that someone in the Republican Party bought Josh's records, intending to use them in the hearings, but the president took the censure deal and wrapped the hearings up before Josh had to testify. Not wanting them to go to waste, they gave them to the tabloid to try to damage the reelection campaign.

CJ calls Leo. CJ and Leo tell Josh together. At first he's angry that CJ waited three hours to tell him, but she explains she wanted to know what they were dealing with. The issue is going to be published in a few days and anything they do to try and stop will just draw more attention to it. They bring in Toby and Sam pretty quickly, which Josh isn't wild about but he agrees is unavoidable. They wonder what they should do, and Josh says it's obvious: he has to resign. Leo says no. Josh tries to argue. Leo says he tried to resign when he rehab records were made public, but the president wouldn't let him, so he's just saving Josh time by saying no before the president can. Everyone tries to insist the PTSD doesn't affect his work, so Josh brings up the Oval Office incident. Leo says there were only four people in the room and none of them are going to tell anyone, but Josh reminds him they already have. Leo says their conversations with Stanley were confidential and Josh points out he has no reason to trust that. CJ says Stanley's original assessment wasn't included in the published documents, but they don't know what all has been stolen, and Josh needs to get a copy of his medical records and cross-reference with what's being published. They discuss that the legitimate news media will be able to report on the break-in and the tabloids publishing the documents, so they'll carry the story even though the documents are stolen.

I haven't figured out exactly how they handle it yet, but some things that come up:

Telling the president

Telling Donna

Josh meeting with Amy to fill her in on details they never talked about while they were dating. Amy ends up being a supportive friend.

CJ going to Danny for help.

Josh meeting with Mandy, because she's in pubic relations, to see if she can help.

They speculate on whether the person who sent them the copy was trying to extort them or just wanted to warn them. They may or not eventually find out, but the reader does, that it was a low-level employee at the tabloid who objected to the story, and after being unable to stop it, swiped an advance copy and had it sent to the White House to give them time to prepare.

It ends happily; things suck for a while but Josh keeps his job and the president is re-elected. I think it's gen, maybe a it pre-Josh/Donna but it doesn't push them together. Sam might make different choices in season 4 as a result.

[otp-holic]

The one place (where something happened) (A03)

“In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.” Alice Munro. (or the one where they receive a letter from a familiar name and we go into 4Ks of fluff around a lost afternoon in France)

4K. Lamely explicit at one point. Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Trigger for FLUFF as the main plot. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3)

This was supposed to be a manip with 200 words of bantering and it's now 4Ks of fluff with a few pictures. I've decided to leave them inside the cut because I feel they work better with its context there. I'm sorry for the hassle, but I really hope you give this a chance... unless you have cavities, only like fics with amazing plots or are allergic to shameless fluff.

Please do not repost the pictures, I know this is futile, but… I try :)

DAGUERROTYPE, France 1944 Private Collection.

Steve is cooling down from his very early run, enjoying the feeling of the pink sunrise looming over the awakening Brooklyn streets as he walks the last couple of blocks on the way home, when his phone beeps.

“Check your actual mailbox, we dropped something for you there. I think you should appreciate us making it old-fashioned just for you, grandpas!”

Steve smiles at Sam’s text and as soon as he arrives at their building he snaps a picture of the very common and flat envelope with “Barnes&Rogers” scribbled on top of a Stark Logo, to send along his response.

“Nice try, but this is inaccurate. A letter would have never made its way to us without an address or stamp. We’ll send you a proper thank you card to show you how it’s done.”

He can’t help but chuckle at his own joke rereading the text while he opens the door, and when he looks up from his phone and into the kitchen, he is received by a sleepy Bucky looking at the coffee machine like he looks at Steve during their most soft and embarrassingly cheesy moments.

“You love that thing more than you love me, confess it.”

“In the mornings? Yes. I don’t even like you in the mornings most of the time,” he answers matter of factly. “Want some?”

Steve playfully wiggles an eyebrow.

“No way. Your sweaty self is tempting, but coffee smells better. I might join you in the shower later.” Bucky offers him one of the two cups he has poured and he notices the envelope Steve is holding. “What is that?”

“We’ve got mail!” He hands it to Bucky. “I have no idea what's on it, but Sam texted me to say they had something delivered to our mailbox and there it was. Open it.”

Bucky leaves the cup on the counter, face sparked with a curiosity that makes him look twenty-one (and Steve weak on the knees), and goes for it.

The content is a bit underwhelming at first glance: Another envelope, white, no Stark logo, but topped with a bright green post-it with a note on Pepper’s script.

“This got to me via PR. We analyzed it and checked with the source (no peeking, I swear) and it seems legit. With that return address, it’s likely to arouse your interest. Love, P.”

Bucky tears off the post-it and the letter is revealed to be addressed to Steve Rogers at the Stark Tower, but it is when they turn it around when everything goes still for a second.

The return address is some street in Marseille, but what has Steve’s mouth dry and Bucky’s hand trembling just a bit is the combination of the place and the name written on top: Emmanuelle Jaques Dernier.

“Boom?”, Bucky says, trying to cut through their heavy hearts and taking Steve’s hand. It’s a terrible terrible joke, but Dernier would have loved it and he grins.

“That’s a terrible terrible joke,” Steve verbalizes, “but I think at least we’ve reached the same conclusion.”

“Elementary, my dear Steve,” Bucky answers as he opens the second envelope, only to reveal a folded letter and yet another envelope. “It’s a fucking vault of paper!”

Steve takes the letter from him, unfolds it, and quickly scans it (normal office paper, printed, hand-signed) before he starts reading it out loud to Bucky’s undivided attention.

“Dear Mr. Rogers,

My name is Emmanuelle Dernier and I am the great-grandson of Jaques Dernier of the Howling Commandos.

First, let me tell you that we all in our family grew up with amazing stories and praise for you, Sergeant Barnes, and the rest of the team. I never got to meet my great-grandfather or any of them (you), but I’ve always felt like I did.

In fact, that’s the ultimate reason behind this letter: I ached to honor him and I’ve been putting in order all his remaining letters, pictures, and memories so they don’t get lost forever, and there are many things I’m discovering through this journey. So many pictures and tiny details… and amongst them, you and the rest of the Commandos appear at the most random and memorable moments. Nothing that’s going to make it into history books, more like the stories my grandpa used to share with us over and over again, those important tidbits that make him more human.

Anyway, I was going through the pictures he kept when I came across some war photos that didn’t seem to match the 40s timeframe. Typical daguerreotypes from the 20s in a very bad state, probably taken with a camera from the era in 1944 and developed on a later date by somebody who clearly didn’t master the technique.

They were in a very bad state and hidden inside an envelope that said “Terribly drunk soldiers in France making idiots of ourselves in unique and creative ways. Fun evening, horrible hangover. About 20 miles west of the Maginot Line. Autumn ‘44”. I’m attaching a photocopy of that, I hope you can understand my decision to keep the original.

After restoring the daguerreotypes with some experts, all I got were five very bad pictures with silhouettes of people apparently having fun…. but there was one that got a lot better in the cleaning process that feels important somehow. I’m sending the original, as well as the restored version I got.

I, of course, don’t have the whole context, but I hope it brings back a good memory. My great-grandpa might be in the picture, but I don’t think this one belongs to my family or to a museum.

Thank you for your service, I really hope this letter finds its way to you.

E.Dernier.”

“I can’t believe… Steve, most days I’m convinced that day and that place are a figment of my imagination,” Bucky smiles, remembering. “When I think of a moment of pure joy during the war, I think about that afternoon in France, and it always feels unreal. A bubble of air and laughter while we were so surrounded by death.”

Steve nods, reminiscing about that warm and humid September morning when they arrived at yet another abandoned and destroyed little village, this one about twenty miles west of the Maginot Line. They had orders to lie low and wait for twenty-four hours before they started the maneuver to wipe another Hydra base off the map, and that little town was perfect for that.

Among bomb debris and fallen walls, they found one small building miraculously standing next to the remains of the church, so they decided to set camp under a roof for a change since the weather was being a little flickery with the rain, and they had the rare luxury of time.

The inside of the tiny house was as unusual as the outside: nothing was destroyed beyond being dusty and worn by time, and everything they found (furniture, kitchenware, and even fabrics) belonged more to Steve and Bucky’s early childhoods than to 1944, a living museum frozen in time.

Only it was not a museum, but the parish house left untouched and non-raided: old-fashioned clothes, outdated church books, yellowing clergy collars, and, of course, the wine cellar. Oh, that wine cellar… the havoc it unleashed.

“I remember the absolute excitement when Falsworth found all those bottles of old unscathed mass wine from the parish,” Steve brings his memory to words, looking at Bucky, “I’m still a little convinced that we are going to hell for drinking them.”

“Not for that, probably, but it was a wonder nobody died on the spot of wine poisoning, it tasted like sweet vinegar, ugh.”

“But it did his part, right? Took our minds off things; got us drunk, bold and silly.” Steve answers.

“Apparently not all of us,” Bucky says very seriously, looking at Steve.

“Technicalities… I got drunk by proxy. Seeing you all so happy made me giddy and tipsy, too.”

“I came and went… I remember being a little surprised at the clarity of my thoughts at some moments there when some of the guys were basically drooling on the floor. Now I understand, of course.”

Steve squeezes his hand, not much to be said there.

They were already way too drunk by the early afternoon, drinking to the sound of a sudden rainstorm pouring outside. All of them scattered across the small dusty living room and its adjoining kitchen while they went through all the bottles of wine they had been able to find. Cheering for the foregone priest every time somebody raised a glass, and laughing as if there were no ruins or war on the other side; just silly men (boys, really) laughing their hearts out.

“Earth to Steve… I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to see what the hell that envelope is hiding. Especially now that we know about its time stamp.”

“I’m sorry, me too! Gabe drunkenly handling that old camera and those glass plaques the way he did? I’m honestly impressed that he was able to take any pictures at all,” he muses. “Shit, is it weird that I’m nervous?”

“I’m gonna save us the bantering because I’m nervous, too,” Bucky answers in all sincerity. “Truth is, Steve, I remember everything about that day.”

It’s a new admission, a newly opened door for them because for some reason, they have never talked about that peaceful surreal afternoon, and Steve nods in recognition as he silently goes for the envelope one-handed, not wanting to let go of Bucky’s hand because his surface is way cooler than his wrenching insides. Maybe the picture is an overexposed french wall but maybe…

The photo he extracts from the envelope is clearly the original and damaged one Emmanuelle specified in his letter. Anybody else looking at it would see nothing beyond Dernier’s blurry profile, but since Steve and Bucky were there when this was taken, they know exactly what moment Steve is holding in his hand.

“Buck,…” is all Steve can say, struck by the blurry keepsake.

Later in the afternoon when they had already consumed most of the wine and there was not a single coherent thought left in the room, one of the guys took the parish books and besottedly announced that there was a wedding set for today… thirty years ago. Alcohol fueled a goofy idea that escalated at the speed of light, with Morita saying they were going to a wedding because they deserved a celebration, Dernier confessing that he had once considered becoming a priest, and Dum-dum bringing out all the old fashioned clothes from the wardrobe and deciding they were getting nice and clean for the festivities.

“That’s clearly Dernier in the picture killing it in his priest role, right?” Bucky says, half smiling and interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “You know, I went all-in with that fake wedding party. I was laughing to tears when I saw you put on that ridiculously long and ill-fitting jacket from the 10s, feeling weightless and silly for the first time since sailing off, and God knows we all deserved that. And it was all safe and light-hearted until fucking Morita decided you had to be the groom, and...”

“Were you jealous because I won the dashing groom competition?”

Steve’s attempt at a joke is weak, but there’s truth behind it: Morita chose Steve as the groom (“Cap, you are the most dashing and the least drunk”) to a chorus of excited voices cheering for him. Somebody else, most likely Dum-Dum, chose the rest of the roles (Sarge, best man duty; Jones, camera; Morita, keep the wine flowing; the rest of you, misbehave!) and in the blink of an eye, they were all going outside laughing under a light rain, and about to celebrate Steve’s fictional wedding to nobody.

“How could I be jealous?” Bucky cuts in. “Do you remember all you said to me that afternoon? During World War II and in front of a battalion of men?”

“I was drunk.”

“Fuck you!” Bucky disentangles his hand from Steve’s to use both of them to hold Steve’s face and kiss him with violence. “Tell me. Do you remember what you said?”

As if he could ever forget. He can recall every step he took from the house to the makeshift wedding spot amidst the trees where his best man (looking dapper even in that ludicrous jacket) was laughing along Dernier. He can still smell the petrichor, can still sense the blush coloring his cheeks while hoping nobody noticed and can still hear the beating of his heart when Bucky handed him a battered umbrella (“You don’t deserve to get rained on your wedding day, punk”) and a fucking ring made out his shoelaces (“You’ll have to buy something a little more permanent.”). And then…

“Dernier started the ceremony and he wanted to know if I had somebody in mind and I said ‘of course’.” He replays, his voice barely a whisper. “I said I’d had my eyes on a brown-haired Brooklynite since before I could remember. I said that I was pretty sure those blue eyes were set on mine too and that hopefully those eyes would be set enough to want to marry me even if I had never dared to ask.”

He’s been holding Bucky’s gaze the whole time, and he’s far from over yet, but he needs to fucking breathe before he goes on. Neither of them has moved a muscle for the past minute.

“Then he asked me to repeat the wedding vows after him and…”

“And you said Buck, right?”, Bucky interrupts, voice winded. “You fucking whispered I take you, Buck, as my lawful wedded husband till the end of the line. I heard, Steve. Even if the rest of the world didn’t, I did. But you never said anything, so I always deemed it impossible, a product of the corniest nook of my mind trying to outweigh all those bad things, because not even you could be as bold, reckless, and mushy as to do that,…it’s my fucking fault, I should have known better!”

“Not completely reckless, pal. I was scared shitless as I said those words, but what else could I do? You were right by my side about to put a ring on my finger as my “best man”, everyone, including you, supposedly drunk past recollection, and everybody else too far away to hear my whispers. It was such an easy choice in the end because truth should always win over fear. And those vows were. The truth.”

“You have always been too honest for your own good, Rogers,” Bucky is breathless and exasperated and goes for his mouth again, bringing in all he (they) couldn’t in 1944. “You destroyed me, Steve. My knees were as weak as a teenager’s in front of his first crush. I wanted to kiss you so badly when I heard you say all that there in the open… and I couldn’t even acknowledge it.”

“I know. And for what it's worth, I really thought you didn’t remember.”

It is too much. Is it normal to feel this much? Steve would blame it on the serum enhancements, but he was already overwhelmed at 16, so that’s clearly not the answer.

He craves, no, he needs touching, grounding, closer. Bucky. There’s too much space between them even if they are back to kissing like they would have that day in 44, and at any other time if their own lives wouldn’t have stolen those moments from them.

“It happened.” Bucky whimpers, biting on Steve’s lip who abandons his own stool to straddle him, both of them gasping in sync at the feeling of their cocks, hard against each other’s through their soft pants.

Bucky soon ups the stakes by carding his metal hand through Steve’s hair pulling his head backwards to help himself into that spot on his neck.

“Same two moles as when you were tiny, as when we were at that war... Your cute vampire bite. Favorite spot.” He licks on them with the tip of his tongue. Steve growls on cue and Bucky giggles. “Favorite chain reaction.”

“Buck, you cheater, you know what that does to me!” Steve cries out followed by Bucky’s evil chuckle.”Bed, couch, countertop,…I don’t care, but naked. Now. Stained pants due to heavy petting are too much of a trip down memory lane for me. Let me keep a bit of my dignity.”

Steve stands up liberating Bucky from his grip but aching at the loss of contact.

They are naked and making out in the middle of the kitchen in no time; Bucky steadily pushing him against the refrigerator while fiercely grinding against his crotch.

“Hey, ‘teve,” Bucky pants. “The way this is going, it’s my dignity now that's at risk. I don’t think I can make it further than the floor before I come.”

Steve groans into his mouth just at the thought and they start sliding to the floor the best they can until he’s a human blanket moving over Bucky. With no lube at hand, and no time, that’s their best option.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, his hands not leaving Bucky’s sweaty hair. Bucky’s hands on his ass, forcing their groins closer with one while he (almost absently) plays around his hole with the other, driving Steve crazy in the process. Dicks left to do their own thing through pressure and friction. Everything is working. And fast.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky exclaims “Can you promise me all this stuff with the letter was real and not a long-con plan to assure your fragile masculinity that I love you more than I love that espresso machine?”

That. That silly unfunny excuse of a joke that screams Bucky all over is what pushes Steve all the way over the edge. He fucking laughs as he comes making absolutely embarrassing sounds, pressing their foreheads and noses together until it hurts, and shaking from head to toe without stoping his pressure on the stupid and smug man under him. His lover. His partner. His unofficial husband. His best friend.

His Buck.

“There’s still too much blood in your brain if you can play that dirty,” Steve states, placing one hand between them grabbing Bucky’s hard cock. “Let’s see if I can do anything about it.”

“Your hand, usually so helpful, but I was already following you after that sound you make when you come and laugh at the same time, shit, it always goes straight to my dick, I’m,…” he keeps talking with difficulty between breaths and moans until he leaves his speech unfinished coming all over Steve’s fist.

They kiss on the lips breathing into each other before Steve rolls over. They are sticky and panting in silence, spread on their kitchen’s floor, Steve’s shoulders crushed between Bucky’s and the dishwasher. Domestic bliss at its most literal.

One lavish fuck and two showers later they reemerge into the kitchen in search of something to eat: Bucky is in charge of the food today, while Steve cleans the mess they left a couple of hours ago.

He’s decluttering the counter when their damaged picture laying there puts a smile on his face but also reminds him of the restored version presumably still waiting inside the disregarded letter, so he grabs the envelope to retrieve its contents: one photocopy (from Dernier’s original writing), and the promised photo.

And it is restored. Everything is clear where it was blurry before: Dernier (so deep into his priest impersonation that he’s not even looking at them), the trees, the battered umbrella, the ridiculous jackets… and them.

“You had the nerve to call me reckless and mushy, Buck?” Steve laughs as he stares at the picture where a very young Bucky is about to put a ring on his finger with the least subtle lovestruck expression he’s ever seen (“and it’s for you”, his brain proudly reminds him) “Wow, you might as well be kissing me there, anything would be more subtle than this!”

“Don’t shame me, you punk, especially not when you were the one responsible for breaking my brain back then!” Bucky answers coming from behind and stealing the picture from his hands to scrutinize it. Goofy grin and raging blush quickly taking over his face. “But you’re one to talk, Cap. You are gazing at that shoelace’s ring as if I were handing you a diamond tiara!”

Steve laughs softly at that and moves his right hand to his pocket, feeling the weight of the little compass he had retrieved earlier from one of his drawers. He used to carry it with him everywhere for comfort, but he has a better option now.

“Didn't you know that shoelaces are forever?” He asks, taking the compass out of his pocket and holding it in both hands as he opens it, nudging Bucky with his elbow to get his attention.

Bucky is confused for an instant while he looks at his young face staring at them from inside the little box. Of course he knew that (he made fun of Steve for days and days) but Steve detects the change in his expression when he notices the other thing.

“Wow, you gigantic sap,” Bucky says, taking the compass out of his hands to double-check he is seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. “You saved my shoelace.”

He had. While they were all celebrating his wedding under the rain dancing to no music, he quietly slipped the little string off his finger and tied it to the most secure place he had back then.

“It’s not a shoelace, you jerk, it’s a symbol. A declaration.” He laughs, stealing the compass back to safely pocket it again.

“You are delusional,” Bucky snorts, kissing the top of his head. But he’s widely smiling and lost in thought as he goes back to their sandwiches.

Steve stays on the spot enjoying the peace in their silent companionship, his focus on the latest news showing up on his phone, the text he’s writing to Sam and the comforting sounds of Bucky moving around the kitchen.

“You might have married me, but I never actually married you.” Bucky blurts out of the blue a bit later, sitting by his side as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and some grilled greens on it. “Do you want mayo with that?”

“Uh?” Steve forgets all about the news and the text and looks at Bucky in confusion.

“Mayo, do you want some?” Bucky repeats nonchalantly.

“No mayo, thank you; but I was actually more interested in the other part, you know, that thing about marriage?”

Bucky looks him in the eye: earnest, blushing and with the same look of smug adoration he had on the picture.

“Oh, that part.” He jokes. “You apparently married me in 1944, but I never married you back. And I would like to.”

“Marry me?” Steve asks and Bucky visibly nods.

“I’m sorry for throwing the idea at you like this, books tell me I'm supposed to have candles, music, and a ring, but you showed me that restored picture and I couldn't stop thinking about it, about proof,” Bucky speaks uncharacteristically slow and very softly, voice trembling here and there while he claps his hand with Steve’s finger by finger for reassurance and as a distraction. “A single photo had the power to transform a moment that existed just as a made-up happy place inside my mind into something tangible and real. Something that would be tangible and real for anybody getting a hold on it and looking at our stupid faces.”

“So stealthy,” Steve says, and they both laugh together.

“Proof, Steve. I was slicing tomatoes and thinking how there’s so much evidence, thousands of files! out there proving that all the stuff that fuels my nightmares were real, but nothing solid about this. Us.” Bucky stops for a moment collecting his thoughts, still smiling even with the heavy subject he just dropped into the mix. “Sorry, I believe I put more time into these sandwiches than into thinking this all the way through so I’m…”

“Take your time, we’ve gone from mayo to marriage to nightmares in five minutes so don’t worry, you have me hooked here.”

Steve makes Bucky laugh again as he intended, and he feels their calloused laced fingers immediately squeezing closer.

“It’s stupid because it doesn’t change anything for us but,.. I don’t fucking know, Steve, I think that picture has messed up with my mind! I instantly found comfort in the idea of people finding facts beyond the nightmares now or in the future. An easy to understand, universal and oversimplified proof of how much I loved you and how much I was loved in return.” Bucky takes a breath and stares at him sporting a million-watt smile. “Marrying you,… I would really love that. And for real this time.”

“Ok, Buck.” Steve instantly replies, eagerness winning over thoughtful and heartfelt declarations. He tightens the grip on their joined hands to drive them to his lips and seals the easiest answer he’s ever had to give.

And it's done!Sorry for the cavities, for going on with the fic when it should have ended and for ending it where it might have had to keep going. It was painful and fun. I'm free!

[cartoonhostage]

Sam the Office Photocopier appears to be an ordinary photocopier, but thanks to an absent-minded programmer, they've been bestowed with sentience. They communicate by reading PDFs and paper documents and responding via printing out their own messages. Ever since Sam became self-aware, they've wanted to learn everything they can about the world, despite being unable to experience it themself beyond paper and ink. Their favourite thing to do is read PDFs of books and write, but they have trouble understanding 3D space and movement.

(I planned to draw them but drawing photocopiers is really hard so they're a photo now)

Let me tell you about the story I'm currently calling The Absent-Minded Prometheus.

[wkemeup]

By Any Other Name (6)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 7.2k warnings: Brock continues to be the biggest asshole on the planet, the angst begins, that long-distance longing gets a little closer 🌹series masterlist 🌹

A few weeks had passed since you’d found Bucky in your living room in the early hours of the morning, hunched over your very expensive furniture and catching droplets of blood before they stained the satin finish. You’d taken every excuse you could get to check on his wounds, to rewrap them and try to sooth the stinging pain of open cuts anyway, and Bucky was more than happy to oblige.

You’d scrunch your nose at him from across the room, eyes darting down to the pink bandages circling at his knuckles that had been white the day before and you’d quickly turn down the hall to your library, a silent order to follow. Bucky never wasted a second, excusing himself from the meetings that proved to be useless outside of gossip on Rumlow’s business meetings downtown past 2am.

He’d find you waiting on your couch, the first aid kit already unpacked as if you’d prepared for him ahead of time and you’d wordlessly gesture to the spot beside you. The scowl on your face as you unwrapped the bandages and found he’d been careless with applying the anti-bacterial cream you’d given him was enough to make his stomach flutter.

Bucky knew how to take care of his wounds. He was more than capable of tending to his own injuries, but he so preferred the way your hands would cup the undersides of his as you’d closely inspect the damage, how you’d run the tips of your fingers over the half-healed scars with a delicacy he hadn’t known in years, how you’d mutter sweetly under your breath about how stupid he’d been.

He’d flash you a smile until the concern and the frustration slowly drained away with every passing glance and you were only left with a grin of your own and a slight nervous laugh as you’d swat at his shoulder in an effort make him stop looking at you like you were hanging the damn stars in the sky and not just twisting a cloth bandage around his broken knuckles.

If that was what it took for you to hold his hands in your own, to feel you so close, to have any excuse just to be near you like this, he’d beat his fists to a damn wall.

The light pink scarring on his hands were taking longer than normal to heal and maybe if he wasn’t blatantly disregarding your instructions to change the bandages frequently and apply the anti-bacterial cream like he usually did, he would have been good as new a week or so earlier.

There was just something about you going out of your way to take care of him that pushed away any regard for himself out the window. He’d happily deal with a slight stinging and soreness a little longer if it meant you being that close to him again.

Because the thing was, his time was limited with you.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t actually James Karpov, that this wasn’t his life, but he was damn good at his job and he had been spending months gathering evidence behind the scenes and, well, Fury was impressed.

It was a rarity within the Bureau to see the Director crack a smile, but when Bucky handed him the dozens of scanned photocopies of files he’d made from Rumlow’s office, the left corner of his mouth twitched. Thanks to the duplicate key Sam provided, Bucky was able to obtain years’ worth of back channeled shipment logs and crew listings undetected. It was the most they’d had on Hydra since their inception in the 1940’s.

But it was the intel you unknowingly provided that helped to piece the evidence together into a cohesive picture, strung together with pretty red string.  

Bucky didn’t have to purposefully pry with you or word his questions with a precision that required Natasha and Steve’s help to develop weeks ahead of time like he’d done in previous assignments. No-- you’d become so comfortable with him on Sunday afternoons and late nights curled up in the library that you willingly offered details on your husband without provocation.

Never direct, because you didn’t like talking about your husband much -- especially with Bucky -- but you’d roll your eyes and tell him how Rumlow was coercing you into attending an expensive dinner with the Mayor on Thursday. You told him about how your husband slammed the door coming home late on a Tuesday night and Bucky was able to connect that to the missing crate from the Cerberus shipment from the logs he’d scanned. You’d smile when Bucky snuck his way into the library with carefully steps and slid between the crack in the door, only to tell him Rumlow’s been out on business all day and he wasn’t expected to be home until the morning.

It wasn’t enough to bring him to trial, but it was progress. Fury wasn’t taking any chances when it came to Rumlow’s elite defense team so everything they obtained on the guy had to be concrete, had to be overwhelming and eliminate any traces of doubt.

It meant Bucky would continue under the name James Karpov for a little while longer, and though he’d never tell the Director, it was a relief. It meant more time with you, uninterrupted, untouched by his lies and manipulation. He’d hold onto it as long as he could, because the uncertainty of how you’d handle his deceit when this was over was starting to eat at him.

***

With a heavy sigh, Bucky glanced around the layout of the Lernaean, Hydra’s club that doubled as a front for their shady underground criminal enterprise.

It was loud, the bass of the speakers blaring into his ear and pounding deep into his chest, as neon lights flashed above the dance floor. Bucky wondered if it just might be worse than standing quietly in the corner of Rumlow’s kitchen as he bragged about his latest feminine conquest. 

This was part of the job, though. He’d caught sight of two college aged kids carrying out a drug deal in the back corner of the club, not being as subtle as they thought they were as the flash of bright red powder caught his eye.

Cerberus wasn’t ready for market. It was killing users at a far higher rate than it was keeping them addicted, but it was still managing to get on the streets. Bucky had pushed past one of them, swiped the drug from their pocket without them noticing and emptied it into the dirt outside.

By the end of his shift, Bucky was almost certain he was going to have a raging headache by the morning. He started to make his way to the exit when he felt a vibration coming from his back pocket. Narrowing his eyes, knowing only a few people could have this number, he pulled the phone from his pocket. His team knew better than to reach out to him unexpectedly, but when your name flashed on the screen, the panic still caught him off guard.

Bucky pushed his way out of the club to the back-alley exit, shoving aside intoxicated twenty-somethings and high school kids who never should have been allowed inside, and the rush of fresh air hit him like a wall. Glancing down the street to find no one in sight, he brought the phone to his ear, heart pounding.

“Y/n?”

There was a gasp on the other end, like you thought he might not answer. “James?”

Your voice broke as you said his name. A sniffle. Then, a sharp intake of breath that sounded near painful.

Jesus. You were crying.

“Are you okay? What happened?” His voice was firmer than he ever meant to be with you, but the sound of your voice twisted and aching and laced with fresh tears was enough to rip straight through him. He shoved his free hand into his pocket in search of his keys, warm metal to the tips of his fingers. “Y/n, talk to me. Where are you?”

You didn’t respond but he could hear you trying to muffle the sob that collapsed into your lungs. When you tried to answer his question, he could only barely make out what you were saying through the faint gasps for breath and the gut-wrenching cries stealing your voice. Something about Rumlow, maybe Peter, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m on my way, alright?” Bucky said as calm as he could manage despite the rage boiling in his veins. He didn’t even know what Rumlow had done but he was ready to kill him. “Where’s--”

“Not here,” you mumbled before he could ask where your husband was.

His chest was tight. It was on fire. “You in the library?”

You hummed a response.

“Give me ten minutes, okay? I’m on my way.”

You didn’t say anything, but he stayed on the line with you.

As he jumped into his car and threw it into reverse.

As he drove twenty over the speed limit through back country roads, swerving around traffic, blowing past stop signs.

As he raced up the driveway as fast as his legs would carry him and through the front door.

Just listening to your breathing through the crackling tone of the speaker, your muffled attempts to silence the tears before they choked you, the sniffles as you brushed your hand over your nose.

It tore Bucky apart.

***

T W O  H O U R S  E A R L I E R

You were only a few pages to the end of The Handmaid’s Tale when the doorbell rang. It was an unfamiliar sound, a high-pitched tone echoing up into the atrium and spilling into the hallways. And perhaps, for a moment, it didn’t seem so odd, because what would be so surprising about someone stopping by for a visit or a neighborhood kid selling cookies or a UPS driving dropping off a package or a canvasser for a local politician running for office?

But then you realized who you were. And who you lived with.

You didn’t get visitors. Your home was not one that people just came up to the front door. There were gates and security guards and there wasn’t a single neighbor for miles.

The doorbell didn’t just... ring.

Slowly, you set your book down, binding open and page saved by the surface of the coffee table, as you stood to your feet. You made your way out of the library and down the hall, cautious steps carrying you. It rang out again and your pace increased.  

By the time the bell rang for a third time, you were at the front door, staring at it like it was something out of the twilight zone. Brock’s men had never been the type to wait for permission before entering your home. They learned well from their leader, you supposed. They didn’t carry the kind of patience or human decency to seek your consent.

Then, a rushed knocking broke out on the other side of the door and it startled you enough to fall back a few paces in shock. You huffed a fallen hair from your eyes, pushing aside the anxiety churning in your stomach and reached for the knob.

The door only opened a sliver, a short beam of sunlight peering into the room before a figure shoved their way inside and left you stumbling away from the frame, knob still clenched tight in your hand.

“I thought you’d never answer!”

Peter pushed his way past you and your eyes shot wide at the sight of him; ruffled hair, rosy cheeks, the new jacket you’d bought him bunched up by his collar, in your home… the home of your husband, of Hydra.

Peter was grinning ear to ear, taking in the decorations and the extravagance of the mansion as he shrugged off his coat. The entirety of his apartment in Queens could have fit within the living room alone and Peter was looking around as if it was the Taj Mahal, picking up various expensive vases and memorabilia, inspecting it before setting it back down. A circle of dust sat under the slight disparity of where he placed them back on the surfaces. They hadn’t been moved in years.

“Peter,” you choked out, throat dry, “what are you doing here?”

“It’s been years since I’ve been to visit you, Y/n! It’s almost like you’re purposefully keeping me away from this place,” he teased, laughing and smiling because Peter never expected anything but the best of you. It never once crossed his mind that you would be lying to him about who Brock really was, what he’s done, and how your marriage had become a publicity stunt, a political move to obtain your inheritance.

He never considered the truth behind his lighthearted joke.

“Peter,” you urged again, tense, teeth gritted, “why are you here?”

“Brock invited me,” he replied casually over his shoulder and your whole body tensed up. Peter picked up a glass cigar tray Brock received as a gift from the Mayor last year, looking it over with pursed lips and a genuine fascination before he placed it back on the end table.

Meanwhile, your hand was still gripped to the doorknob and you were sure your fingers were locked in place, the metal warping under your hold. You might break the whole damn door from its hinges.

Peter turned to you with a raised eyebrow. “Did he not tell you?”

You tried to part your lips to tell him ‘no,’ that Brock invited him for a reason and springing it on you last minute like this couldn’t mean anything good. You wanted to warn him to leave before it was too late, before Brock dragged him into this world of darkness and monsters but there wasn’t a chance before you heard heavy footsteps echoing down the hall and into the living room.

“There you are, Parker!”

Hairs raised on your neck, on your arms, as you turned to find Brock walking into the room with a smile on his face you hadn’t seen in months, not since he’d been informed of the profit margins Cerberus was expected to generate. It was unsettling, foreign, and you felt bile rising in your stomach as he crossed the room and pulled Peter in for a hug.

“It’s been years,” Brock said, eyeing you as his smile turned to something colder, a dark expression in his eyes, before he slid the mask back on and faced Peter. “Feels like Y/n’s been hoarding you all to herself, doesn’t it?”

Peter laughed a bit, though you could tell it was forced. He didn’t understand the implication, but he was a smart kid. “Yeah, seems like it.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’ve finally made the trip out to our home. We certainly have enough space,” Brock said, gesturing to the living room.

With a hand on Peter’s back, he led him further inside the house, pushing him along and you couldn’t move. It felt like Brock was leading him to a pit in the backyard only to hand him a shovel. You wanted to scream.

“Been trying to get out here for a while,” Peter replied. “Always told Y/n I could come to her, too, but she insists on meeting me in Queens.”

Brock shook his head, a tsk on his tongue. “Every Sunday, too? She’s always been a selfless one, hasn’t she?”

Your heart was in your throat, stomach plummeting as Peter only nodded, smiling back at you. He narrowed his eyes though, smile fading as he noticed your hands clenched at your sides, nails puncturing into your palms as released your grip from the doorknob, teeth grinding, breath uneven. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.

Peter was perceptive, but you’d learned how to hide things from him over the years. It wasn’t as easy when the very man you’d been protecting him from for years had his hand on Peter’s shoulder and a look in his eye that left you feeling sick to your stomach. You couldn’t hold the same composure when your nightmare was playing out in front of you.

What scared you the most was you didn’t even know how Brock found out about your Sunday trips to see Peter or when he learned about them. It wouldn’t be outside of his reach to hire someone to follow you. Maybe someone overheard you talking to him on the phone the night before or maybe one of the dozens of drivers you rotated through let it slip.

It didn’t matter, because now he knew. Now, Peter was in your home and Brock had an arm over his shoulders, and he was planning something.

You didn’t dare let yourself wonder if he knew about the time you’d spent with James, too.

“Dinner should be ready in a few,” Brock said, gesturing to the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry for spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Always,” Peter chimed back, though he glanced over at you, still uncertain.

You only nodded at him, encouraging him forward because what else was there to do?

You followed them into the kitchen as you were met with a sudden influx of oregano and basil and homemade tomato sauce that looked to be on the stove for hours. Peter asked Brock if he’d made it himself and you scoffed. Brock shot you a glare before confirming that, yes, he found the time to cook on occasion, though you knew for a fact that he’d never once laid a hand on that stove. You could spot Clara’s apron sticking out of the drawer where she’d put it away hastily.

“Take a seat,” Brock said, pulling out a chair for Peter across the table from his usual spot.

You slid in next to Peter, despite your place setting sitting on the right of Brock. You grabbed the dish and utensils from across the table and dragged them to you, staring at Brock with a glare that could have burned holes into his head.

“Smells amazing,” Peter commented. He was always a polite kid. He turned to you again because your silence was uncharacteristic and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Your heart clenched when you realized he was checking on you; this protective habit the two of you had for each other.

You pushed out a smile, forced, and it didn’t come near your eyes but it was enough to put him at ease for a moment longer.

The dinner passed by in agonizing pace. After Brock served the table, something he’d never once done before, he and Peter ate nearly two full servings before you managed to take in a few bites. Even the bites you could stand to swallow were impossibly small and despite the intoxicating fragrance of Italian kitchens, you tasted bile on your tongue with every bite.

Brock and Peter were laughing about something you couldn’t quite hear. Brock swatted Peter’s arm from across the table like they were old friends, as if there hadn’t been three years of dead silence between them. It was only after the boys’ plates were clean and you snuck to the counter to dispose of the rest of your meal in Tupperware you didn’t expect to return to later, that Brock focused in on what he’d been planning for the entire evening.

“So, Pete,” Brock started, leaning back into his chair with a glass of red wine in his hand. He downed it in one gulp. “How have things been with you and May down in Queens? You managing alright?”

“Brock,” you warned but he waved you off. Peter tapped your forearm with a soft smile as you sat back into your seat.

“No, it’s alright,” he told you before turning to Brock. “It’s been okay. Tougher since we lost Uncle Ben because Aunt May’s been picking up extra shifts and I… I do what I can. Y/n helps out a lot. More than she should.”

Peter glances over at you nervously, like he was unsure if he should have mentioned that last part, about how you spend money to buy him his books and new coats and sneakers and pay for every Sunday outing together, but that’s not what you're worried about.

“She’s a generous one, isn’t she?” Brock said, smile on his face though his teeth were clenched behind it. He leaned forward, setting the empty glass on the table and your heart skipped a beat. You’ve seen him do that before – in business meetings when he went in for the kill.

You tried to say something, but Brock was too fast for that and you were paralyzed.

“How would you like to make five-hundred a week?”

Peter’s eyes bolted wide, jaw dropping, and you swore, you might have cracked the glass in your hand, the wine nearly spilling up over the top.

“Brock, stop.” Your voice was too quiet, too tense. You didn’t even know if he heard you.

“Wow, that’s—uh, wow,” Peter stumbled around his words. He raked his fingers through his hair nervously. “What would I be doing?”

Brock shrugged, as if he hadn’t meticulously planned this. “I have some packages I need delivered on your side of town and who better to navigate the area than a local? My only condition is that you’re discrete and you leave the packages as is. What’s inside is confidential.”

“Brock,” you tried again, but paid you no mind. You dug your nails into your thigh.

“And this is for the club?” Peter asked.

Brock nodded. “What do you say, kid? You want to step up around the house? I’m sure it would take a lot of pressure off your aunt’s shoulders. I know you want that, don’t you?”

In the shared look between your cousin, who was more like a brother than you ever knew, and the man who had become the source of every demon in your life, you found your voice again.

“Absolutely not.”

Peter turned to you, shocked. “What! Come on, Y/n. You know how much I’ve been wanting to help Aunt May with the bills and –”

“I’ll help her,” you offered tensely, ignoring Brock’s comment under his breath claiming it was his money you were handing over anyway. Peter started to object and you tried again, “I’ll ask the Marselli’s or Neftali down at Café Ramos if they need help. We’ll find you a job if you want one, Peter. Not this, okay? We’ll find something else.”

“Not for five-hundred a week on a high schooler’s schedule,” Peter argued. He was calm in his wording, gentle, because while he didn’t understand the reason behind your objections, he knew you were upset and he never wanted to hurt you.

At a loss, you turned to your husband. He was sprawled out over the chair next to him, arm laying across the back, legs crossed. He was chewing on the ice from his glass. The left side of his mouth curved knowingly and it made your stomach ache.

“Brock,” you reasoned, begged, “please. Can we just talk for a second?”

There was a short moment of silence and for a second, you though he might have an ounce of the compassion he’d shown in the two years you’d been together before he pulled the carpet out from under you. He’d been kind then. You’d loved him once. You always wondered if it was all an act or if maybe, somewhere, there was a piece of him that wasn’t as cruel as you imagined.

But instead, a smirk peered up on his lips as he settled back into his chair. “I think Peter is more than capable of making his own decisions, don’t you?”

You bit down hard on your cheek, enough to taste the cooper of blood pooling in your mouth. Swallowing it back, you pushed your chair out from the table. Tears were burning in your eyes and you didn’t dare let Peter see.

You excused yourself, quickly darting out of the room and you could vaguely hear Peter calling your name and Brock’s voice telling him, “don’t worry about her, champ. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”

There was no relief in the living room. The air was too hot, too stuffy and you were crawling in your skin. You knew where you needed to go, the heaviness of your phone in your pocket a reminder of exactly who you wanted to see, but you wouldn’t abandon Peter; not alone with Brock.

Brushing the tears from your eyes and exhaling a heavy breath, you started to make your way back to the kitchen when the door suddenly swung open. Peter bounded towards you and hugged you tightly.

“Please don’t be angry,” he mumbled into the shoulder of your sweater. “You know how much I want to help Aunt May. This is how I can do it. It’s just delivering some packages a few times a week. We’ll still have our Sundays.”

Is that why he thought you were upset?

Maybe that’s what Brock told him, though you wondered why he bothered keeping Peter in the dark at all about what he’ll be tasked with delivering. There was no convincing Peter out of this and you knew that before Brock had even offered him the job. He was young, incredibly selfless and so willing to do whatever it took to care for the ones he loved that he’d overlook dangerous warning signs without realizing it.

There was nothing you could do.

“Okay,” you conceded, patting his head as he pulled away. It drew a smile back to his face, and for that, at least, you were grateful. “Text me when you get home, alright?”

“You got it,” Peter nodded. He turned back to Brock. “Thanks again, man! I’ll see you next week?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Brock confirmed, leading Peter to the door and opening it for him. Peter turned around and gave a final wave before he jogged out into the darkness, coat bundled up and hands shoved in his pockets.

You didn’t waste a second the very moment the door closed.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” you cried out, slamming your hand against the cadenza and causing several priceless gifts from neighboring crime families to tremor for a moment before they stilled again. Your chest was panting, air hot in your lungs. “I asked one thing of you, Brock. One thing! Keep my family the hell away from your shit!”

Brock stood by the door, unfazed by your sudden outburst and the level at which you were yelling. It wasn’t often you’d confront him like this, preferring passive aggressive taunts and blatant avoidance, so this was something new. A challenge. Brock liked challenges.

“Things have changed since then, baby,” he replied with a shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you huffed, arms folding over your chest as you watched him pace further into the room and pour himself a glass of whiskey.

“You used to be quieter, you know that?” he said, swirling the amber liquid and holding it up to the light before bringing the glass to his lips. You raised an eyebrow, the lingering silence passing over while he savored the burn of the alcohol. He sighed, setting the glass back down. “Something’s different.”

“That doesn’t mean you can use my sixteen-year-old cousin as a bargaining chip!” you yelled, tears stinging in your eyes and you no longer cared if he saw you cry. “He’s a kid, Brock! You’re—you’re going to get him killed running product between the Hydra and Asgardian border!”

“Maybe,” he said and you sucked in a gasp that tore through you like shards of broken glass, “but you sure as hell aren’t going anywhere as long as he’s a part of this.”

“What?” you shook your head, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “You’ve already got me here under threat of blackmail. I didn’t think I’d have to remind you of that. Besides, why would you even care whether I’m here or not? You already have my father’s money. You have no use for me.”

“That’s not true, baby,” Brock cooed, swiftly crossing the room and reaching out to run a hand up your arm but you pulled away, flinching at his touch. He didn’t seem to like that because when he tried again, he wasn’t as gentle in his movement and he grabbed a firm hold of your wrist and yanked you tight to his chest, caging you and he pressed your back against him, wrapping his forearms around your waist.

“Let me go,” you warned, but he ignored you.

“A powerful man needs his queen; a beautiful woman on his arm and a body to warm his bed,” he said as he squeezed you tighter, enough to make it hard to breath. His grip on your wrist started to ache. “Not everyone is from the underworld like I am, baby. Sometimes a man in a suit needs to be reeled in with the promise of a legitimate lucrative business, a family man, and a pretty lady. The American dream. I can’t do that without you.”

You scoffed, trying to wiggle out of his hold but he kept you still, trapped in the arms of a snake. “I’m sure you could manage.”

“Don’t be so ungrateful, baby,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot and sticky against your neck. He released you then and you shoved your way out of him arms, stumbling forward a few paces. You turned back to him with a hardened glare over your features, baring teeth and he said, “don’t I provide you with a comfortable life? I give you the world, Y/n! What more could you possibly want?”

You could think of a few things.

Your job back at Columbia with the friends you lost. The freedom to walk down the street without someone noticing you, connecting you to him and running off in fear or blatantly gossiping about you as you walked past. A blue-eyed man with a kinder smile than you’d known in years.

You’d burn this house and your father’s money to the ground if you could have even an ounce of that life.

Brock straightened his back, grabbing his coat from the rack and shrugged it over his shoulders. “You worry too much. The kid will be fine. As long as he makes his deliveries on time and doesn’t look in the boxes, there’s no reason why anything should have to happen to him.”

Your breath caught in your throat, heart pounding as your husband paid you no attention. He’d threatened Peter without so much as a look in your direction, as casually as anyone would have mentioned there was something missing on the grocery list or reminding themselves to check in with their mother after work. So simple.

He’d done it a thousand times before but it was never against someone you knew, someone you loved.

The anger was quickly swept away by fear, by panic, and you stepped forward under shaking legs. “Brock, wait, please—”

There was no reasoning with him. It was already done, but it didn’t stop you from trying, from begging.

“I have a business meeting downtown. Don’t wait up for me,” Brock said sharply, ignoring your pleas. He closed the door behind him without another word and you filched at the impact. The house was incredibly quiet suddenly, so when your phone buzzed in your pocket, it startled you.

Just got home, it read. Aunt May’s got freshly baked cookies again so I’ll save you a few for next Sunday in case you’re still upset with me. You know I gotta do what I can to help around here. It’ll be fine, Y/n. I promise. Love you.

He’d sent an image along with the text; a selfie of him leaning over the table filled with chocolate chip cookies cooling from the oven with a massive smile on his face and a thumbs up. You could vaguely make out Aunt May’s hand in the background trying to swat him away and suddenly your vision was blurring. It was hard to see. Despite the smile on your face, there were tears in your eyes and your heart was racing and suddenly, your legs felt weak, your head too dizzy and you stumbled down the hall to one the place you felt safe.

You nearly collapsed halfway down the hall when your breath was coming in too fast and the painting on the wall were starting to duplicate and sway. You gripped onto the door knob and threw yourself into the library, holding on to any spare surface you could find until you made it to the couch.

Your breaths were coming in too fast, tears choking you, and with shaking hands, you dialed the number of the one person— the only person— that could take this all away.

Consequences be damned. Rules out of the window.

The phone rang a few times before he answered, your name sweet like honey on his voice, though he was surprised, and you could hardly speak. You muttered out his name and before you knew it, he was on his way to you. No hesitation.

You listened to his breathing on the other end of the phone, his gentle reminders that he was still there, asking for you to hold on a little longer, updates on where he was at. He was worried, that much you could tell from his voice and you could hear the engine of his car roaring as he raced down the street.

Everything was numb.

The front door swung open loud enough for it to echo down the halls. It didn’t faze you. Nothing did anymore.

***

Bucky sprinted down the hall. His heart was in his stomach as he skidded in front of the library. He paused for a second, trying to compose himself before he pushed open the door; try to take a deep breath or still the rushing pace of his frantically beating heart, but when he heard the soft sounds of you sniffling on the other side, he quickly turned the knob and shouldered his way inside.

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, stiff as a board, staring off into the aisles of books. You didn’t even look at him as he stepped closer, too caught up in your trance. Bucky swallowed nervously as he made his way to you.

Wincing with every creak of the floor boards under his steps, he knelt down in front of you, and even then, it was like you were staring right through him. Your eyes were red and puffy, lips parted slightly because it was impossible to breathe through your nose, a glaze over you, and your hands clenching and unclenching at the cushions beneath you.

“Y/n?” he called softly but there was no response.

Still, nothing. It was like you didn’t recognize him at all.

His eyes trailed lower and it was then he noticed the red mark on your wrist; slowly beginning to fade to its natural color, but visible enough that he could make out the shape of a handprint etched around your arm in its grip. Bucky clenched his jaw, exhaling a tense breath his nose and doing his best to hide the rush of adrenaline and anger boiling up into his chest.

He tore his eyes away from the mark and searched for your eyes again, though they remained unfocused.

“Y/n, I’m here,” he tried again, voice a little louder now as he inched closer on his knees. “You’re okay. It’s just me.”

Nothing. Your hands bunched against the seams of the couch cushions until your fingers started to shake.

Bucky sighed as he watched you wrestle in the trance. Slowly, he brought his hands up to sit upon yours, hoping to still the constant ebb and flow of tension there. The touch of it seemed to ignite something in you because the very second his hands laid upon yours, covering the entirety and curling his fingers underneath, you gasped; broken and shaky on the sharp inhale.

Blinking a few times, focusing, and then, when you met his eye, he swore the world might have stopped spinning.

“James?”

Your voice broke on his name, tears quickly returning and he only nodded. Before they could consume you whole again, he pushed himself up onto the couch beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you gently back to him so you weren’t so stiff on the edge of the couch. You fell into him easily.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he soothed, holding you as close as he could manage, your weight resting to his chest, warm to the touch. You sighed into him, sinking further in, curling into the crook of his side.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” Bucky asked hastily, trying to conceal the panic in his voice. He ran his hands along your arms like he was trying to warm you; swift motions along goose bumped skin. He didn’t know why he was doing that because it was warm enough in the room but it had been a long time since Bucky Barnes felt helpless, and you seemed to ease into it, so he didn’t stop.

“He knows,” you choked out and Bucky froze instantly, convinced for a moment that Rumlow knew he’d been spending every Sunday with you for months and sitting beside you in your library for hours on end, or that he might know his real name and what he was really doing here, who he really worked for. It didn’t slip his notice that the concern for his cover came second.

You cleared your throat, sniffling back tears as you turned to him, eyed red and glassy. “Peter was here, James. Brock—he invited him over and I—I don’t know how he found out that I’ve been seeing him every week but he did, and he convinced him to do some kind of job for him but-- but he’s only sixteen, James, he’s sixteen and Brock’s going to get him killed and he has no idea what he’s wrapped up in and—”

“Whoa, hold on,” Bucky cooed, shushing you before your heart started to kick up too fast because your breathing was already heaving in your chest, your words tumbling out faster than you could carry them. You pressed your lips together, taking in a deep breath as Bucky instructed you, guiding it along with a gentle hand on your back.

“Start from the beginning.”

And so you did.

You told him about how you’d found Peter on your doorstep and how you’d been blindsided by your husband inviting him over for dinner. You told him about how Rumlow had put on a charming face and played house for a few hours before he brought up the real reason he’d asked your cousin over to begin with. You told him how you felt your chest tearing open at the table as Rumlow offered this job to Peter, transporting products around Queens on the border of The Asgardians’ territory and how Peter was none the wiser to the illegality of what he agreed to.

“I couldn’t tell him what he was signing on for,” you tried to say in defense, but Bucky understood. He knew the law well enough for that.

“The less he knows, the better,” he agreed. Plausible deniability. It wouldn’t go far but it would be enough to separate him from the other dealers in Hydra’s payroll.

There was a silence for a moment, lingering like thick, uneasy molasses in the air. You closed your eyes, turning away from Bucky.

“He did it to keep me compliant, to keep me trapped here,” you said softly, almost too quiet to hear if he hadn’t been paying such close attention to you.

Bucky had his suspicions, knew that your marriage to Rumlow was essentially a political move, that you’d become collateral in his rise to power, but it was something else entirely when it was coming from you. You didn’t seem surprised, but it didn’t take the hurt out of your words, the grief, the anger.

“I won’t let anything happen to Peter, you hear me?” Bucky said slowly, determined.

A wave of relief, awe, something like adoration filled your eyes and you started to cry again. Throwing yourself back into his arms, clenching at his shirt, Bucky wrapped his arms impossibly tight around your waist and you only seemed to pull yourself closer.

“I’m scared for him,” you cried, and Bucky ran his fingers over your back in soft soothing motions.

“I know,” he whispered. “Nothing is going happen to him, alright? I’ll make sure of it.” He paused, a slight breath before, “do you trust me?”

You stilled, pushing back away from his chest for a moment, just enough so you could meet his eye. Despite the redness, the glisten of tears on your cheeks, his heart still managed to thump a little louder as you reached out and brushed your hand along the side of his face. Fingers tracing over stubble and his wondered if you could hear how loud his heart was racing.

He’d never been this close to you before. Never held you in his arms and he wished desperately that it was under different circumstances but here he was, and here you were, and you fit against him perfectly.

“I’d trust you with my life,” you finally replied, the slightest semblance of a smile pushing at the edges of your lips though it didn’t make it very far. “I trust you with his, too.”

Bucky nodded and you fell back against him, curling up into his side. He tried not to think of all the ways he was lying to you, how little you really knew about him, and hoped that your trust was enough. For now, at least.

“Will you stay for a while?” you asked, voice small like a child’s, like you were nervous he might turn you down, like you didn’t know he thought you hung the moon and the stars and breathed life into his beating heart.

“Of course,” was all he said back because he didn’t trust himself to say much else.

He propped his leg up on the coffee table, grabbed a book off the surface and flipped it open to the page you were on and started reading quietly. You squeezed him tighter at that, nestling in against his chest as the soft vibrations of his voice soothed away the lingering anger and fear your husband had instilled in you.

Lying beside you. A hand tracing delicate patterns on his chest as your eyes fluttered closed. His alternating between flipping the next page and resting gently on the mid of your back, holding you to him just enough to feel the faint thump of your heartbeat in every breath.

He didn’t know if he’d ever move again.

[cherryrogers]

➸ eye candy

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | office au

warnings: swearing, mostly fluff.

word count: 3.7k

synopsis: Being Tony Stark’s receptionist was hard. Working alongside the most gorgeous salesman you’d ever seen was even harder. Actually talking to said salesman? Well, that was just insane.

a/n: so this is sorta based of the show ‘the office’,,, we love a good office romance :) please enjoy and feedback is always appreciated !!

“Good morning, (Y/N). All of these papers need photocopied, signed and posted to all of our clients by twelve o’clock, sharp.”

Tony Stark was going to be the death of you.

Hesitant eyes landed on the enormous pile of paperwork that your boss had just slapped on your desk. There was no way all of that was getting done in the next two hours.

“I’m a receptionist, Tony. Not a miracle worker.” You shrugged, looking up to meet his eyes. “I can’t get all of this finished by lunch on my own. Can’t you help me out?”

“You see,” The man sighed. “These papers are now on your desk. That means the responsibility of them has been passed on to you. Not my problem anymore. I’m sure you can find yourself another happy helper.”

He started to walk away, causing you to lean over your desk and try to grab back his attention. “But Tony-”

“Can’t hear you, already walking away.” Tony called behind him, quickly pacing towards his office. “And now I’m opening the door to my office, and now I’m entering...”

The man’s voice faded as he swiftly closed the door to his office, leaving the headache-inducing pile of paperwork to sit hauntingly on the edge of your desk. Sitting back in your leather chair, you let out a quiet huff.

This was going to be a long day.

Becoming a receptionist hadn’t always been the plan. The plan was to work your ass off after you graduated high school so that you had enough money to go travelling around the globe, gaining work experience in different countries and making memories along the way. Maybe even not returning back to America, but going on to live a quiet life in the South of France or maintaining the busy work life in Japan.

However, it’d been a while since graduation, and you still hadn’t stepped foot out of the state of New York.

Working for Stark Industries was only meant to last a few months, it was only meant to be a temporary job until you found something that paid a little better. For some reason, however, you were still handling everything at the reception desk a year later.

Stark Industries was a small tech company developed by the man himself, Tony Stark. He’d had high hopes for the company, insisting that as soon as clients started rolling in, the company would be worth six figures in no time. You weren’t exactly sure what his definition of ‘no time’ was, but it’d been kind of a long time since the company was up and running.

You had to hand it to the guy, though. Tony built every piece of tech he sold himself from scratch. While there were workers in the warehouse who eventually aided in the development of the products, it all started with Stark. There was a part of you that deeply hoped Stark Industries would take off, finally fulfilling Tony’s dream.

But when the guy decided to hand you a ton of paperwork to do in an impossible amount of time, that hope was soon retracted out of frustration.

The main door to the office clicking open caught your attention, and a grin immediately made its way onto your lips.

“Hey, Sam.” You greeted your co-worker as he walked past your desk.

Turning his head to you, he quirked a questioning brow. “You seem weirdly smiley for a Monday morning. D’you want somethin’?”

“Well, since you asked...” You let out a laugh, patting your hand on top of the pile of paperwork you had yet to move. “All of this needs copied and signed and-”

“Nope, no way.” Sam shook his head. “I’m already behind on sales. Stark will have my head if I don’t make some today, and you know how much I love avoiding that guy at all costs.”

The grin fell off your lips easily. “But I can’t do it all myself!”

“Ain’t my problem, girl.” The man shrugged, beginning to try and get away from your desk, and your pleading.

“You sound just like Tony.” You called after him, resulting in him turning around and giving you a glare.

“How dare you.”

After that encounter, Sam stayed glued to his computer all morning, trying to sell as many products to clients as he could. Meanwhile, you were still stuck with a bunch of work that you hadn’t started yet.

Your eyes scanned the office. It was rather small, the only rooms being Tony’s office, the kitchen, the break room, and the main office area.

Natasha and Clint sat in the far corner of the room, usually never doing what they were meant to. You weren’t quite sure how they still had their jobs, considering you never saw either of them pick up a phone or touch their computer mouse. The redhead was currently grasping a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in one hand, and throwing them over her monitor in an attempt to make one land in Clint’s mouth with the other.

Through the glass of the door leading to the kitchen, you could see a tall blond taking his sweet time making himself a coffee. Steve hated working here, anyone with eyes could tell he’d rather always be anywhere else. He wanted something more than just a nine-to-five office job. Steve wanted to make an impact on the world, and he wasn’t so sure he could do that from a run down office building just outside the city.

Maybe you could convince him to help you.

Within thirty seconds, you had pushed yourself out of your desk chair and hurried over to the kitchen, giving Steve an innocent smile as you entered the small room.

“Hey, blondie. You’re not busy, are you?”

“If you’re asking on behalf of Stark, then yes, I’m incredibly busy.”

“Certainly looks like it.” You motioned towards the coffee he’d been stirring for the past five minutes. “Must be one hell of a coffee if it took you ten whole minutes to make.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at you. “Making coffee is an art. I would expect you to understand.”

“I understand that you’re not being at all productive right now, and I could really use some help with all the paperwork that needs sent out to clients-”

“Oh my god.” The blond groaned. “Did you come in here just to ask me to do work? I’m just tryin’ to make coffee here-”

“Steeeeve.” His name came out in a whine. “I’m desperate here.”

“Can’t you ask Sam to help?”

“Already did.”

“Natasha?”

“Too busy pelting Clint with candy.”

“What about Bucky?” At the mention of his friend’s name, a blush rose in your cheeks. Oh, fuck. Steve instantly smirked. “Aw, you don’t wanna ask him, do you? Does he make you nervous?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Stop it; I- I haven’t seen him this morning. Haven’t had the chance to ask him.”

“Well, he’s at his desk now. Doesn’t look occupied.” Steve nudged your arm with his elbow. “I’m sure Buck will help you out.”

“You think?”

“Oh, he will.” He let out a laugh, causing you to raise your brow at him curiously. How could he be so sure?

Steve noticed you eyeing him. “What?”

“How do you know that he’ll help me?”

“Just do.”

“If you and Sam won’t help, what makes you think Bucky will?”

“Nothing. Go ask him.”

“But you seemed so sure-”

“He knows that you have a crush on him.”

“He- he what?” You gaped, confused as to why Steve was acting so casual about it. Bucky knew? Oh no, oh god. Your life was officially over.

Since you started at the company, you’d always had an eye for the salesman that was directly in your line of sight from your seat behind the reception desk. Originally, Bucky was just good eye candy for when you got bored in the middle of any work you were supposed to be finishing. That was going great. You didn’t mind that you’d never had a conversation with the guy before, because if he turned out to be perfect inside and out, you knew there’d be an issue.

So when he first made conversation with you one morning when the both of you were early to work, you came to the conclusion that you were fucked. He complimented your hair that morning, offered to make you coffee, shot you a cheeky wink before strolling over to his desk. After that came the issue. The issue that you’d developed this stupid crush on him which he probably didn’t reciprocate.

Steve obviously noticed - how could he not notice the receptionist practically drooling over his best friend every time he looked up from his desk? When he actually sat down and did his work, of course.

“Did you tell him?” You pouted up at the blond, who found amusement in your panic. “I swear, Steven Grant, if you told him-”

“Calm down, woman.” He raised his hands in defense. “I didn’t tell him anything... except that you’re single and that you have a thing for man-buns.”

“Oh my- I’m gonna have to quit. This is your fault, Steve. I’ve quitting my job and changing my name.”

“C’mon, (Y/N) - you’re being dramatic.”

“That’s not my name anymore.” You shook your head, putting your hands on your hips. “I’m now going by... Anastasia.”

“Why Anastasia?”

“This sort of thing would never happen to a girl called Anastasia.”

Steve scoffed, leaning his back against the counter and finally sipping his coffee. “I don’t get what you’re freaking out about. You want him to know you’re available, right?”

“Available, yes. Not specifically desperate for men that can tie their hair up in a bun, of which there’s only one of in this building, and that’s him, Steve. That one man is Bucky, and now he’s gonna think I’m weird.”

“(Y/N)-”

“We discussed this, Steve. It’s Anastasia now. Oh yeah, I’ve gotta go and tell Tony I’m resigning and that (Y/N) not longer exists-”

“He likes you too, okay?” Steve suddenly raised his voice, before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “God, you two are the worst.”

There’s a short silence between you and the blond. Bucky... liked you back? Uh, what? This was seriously news to you. Holy- what if you were his eye candy too? Never mind, scrap the quitting idea. If Bucky liked you back, this was your time to shine. The ball was in your court now. Hell yeah.

“Bucky likes me?” You asked quietly.

“Mhm.” Steve replied reluctantly, his lips against the edge of his coffee cup.

“So... I should go and ask him to help me with the paperwork?”

“Yup.”

“And he won’t mind because he likes me?”

“No, he won’t.”

A satisfied smile crept onto your lips, and you resisted the urge to just grab Steve and pull him into a victory hug. Instead, you opted for a friendly pat on the chest.

“Blondie, you should’ve just led with that.”

“For the love of- just... go get your man, Anastasia.”

You caught the corner of his lips upturning before you spun around, heading for the door that lead back into the main area.

“Screw that Anastasia girl. This is (Y/N)’s time to thrive.”

Steve only rolled his eyes as you exited the kitchen, a new, confident glow radiating off you as your eyes landed on your favorite bun-wearing tech salesman. Not that you knew many tech salesmen that wore buns in their hair, but you know.

He was slowly tapping away at his keyboard, tired eyes glancing around his computer screen and you couldn’t help but swoon. God, he was the epitome of perfection. How could such a man be working alongside you for a super small tech company? Shouldn’t he be a model or something? A swimwear model, fuck; that would be a sight-

“(Y/N)?”

It was at the sound of your name being called that you realized you were standing completely still in the middle of the room, staring Bucky down like an utter weirdo. The man smiled softly at you as you let out a nervous laugh, trying to hide your blatant embarrassment.

That glowing confidence? Definitely gone. You were not thriving anymore... and that would sure never have happened to Anastasia. Never. Maybe changing your name was still on the cards.

However, in that moment, you were you. And Bucky was sitting only a meter away from you, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with you.

“Uh, hi.” You finally mustered out, approaching his desk. Uh, hi? Uh, hi?! Oh, lord...

“Hey.” He chuckled. “You alright?”

“I’m great!” You answered, perching yourself on the side of his desk. “I, uh, I like your bun.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Thanks.” Bucky tilted his head to the side, leaning back in his seat. “Steve told me you liked man-buns.”

You were definitely going to have to talk to Steve about his wing-man skills after this was over. “Is that why you’re wearing one today?”

“Maybe.”

Oh, you weren’t expecting him to actually respond to that. Fuck, this was actually going kind of well.

Bucky had his bottom lip between his teeth, watching as you fumbled for any sort of words to leave your mouth. Any would do.

“It suits you. Not that I don’t like your hair down as well. I think it looks great either way, honestly. I’m sure even if you had short hair, you’d be able to pull that off too...”

Heavens above, please stop me from rambling and sounding like a complete idiot, you thought to yourself.

Bucky didn’t look phased, as his gorgeous smile only widened. “I guess that’s something we have in common then.”

“What?”

“Lookin’ good all of the time.”

Shit. Your cheeks were definitely tomato red after his comment. Why did he have to be so damn charming?

“So, did you come over here just to give me a confidence boost?” Bucky teased. “If being a receptionist doesn’t work out, you’d be a pretty good motivational speaker.”

You playfully glared at him. “Being a receptionist wasn’t my ultimate career goal, you know.”

“What was it then?”

“I mean, I don’t really know. Something to do with travelling, though - where I could see the world and everything it has to offer.” You let out a sigh. “I just don’t wanna be cooped up in an office forever, you know?”

You worried that you’d started rambling again, but by the interested expression on Bucky’s face, it seemed like he was listening intently. “Yeah, I get it. Salesman wasn’t always my goal either.”

The corner of your mouth upturned. “Can I guess what yours was?”

“You can try.”

As you furrowed your brows in thought, Bucky couldn’t help but skim his eyes over your features. Your eyes slightly squinted in focus, soft lips pursed, jaw locked. Despite his outgoing demeanor, he’d always been nervous to just start up a conversation with you in the office. He saw you five days a week, for eight hours a day, and he still got butterflies whenever you walked his way.

“A firefighter.” Your voice snapped him out of his daze.

“Nope.”

“A college professor?”

“No.”

“Hmm... a hair stylist?”

“No, funnily enough.”

“It’s a swimwear model, isn’t it?”

“(Y/N), that couldn’t be more far from the right answer.”

You sighed internally. It was worth a shot.

“Alright, what was it?” You chuckled.

“A chef.”

A chef, huh? You probably would’ve never guessed that. You didn’t know a lot about Bucky, so you didn’t realize that he even had an interest in cooking. It did explain why he always brought his own lunch, though, rather than slumming it with the rest of the office who just grabbed some chips from the vending machine and whatever fruit was left in the kitchen.

“You like to cook?”

“I love to cook.” He grinned, making your heart ache at how pretty his smile was. “Have done since I was a kid. I’ve been told I make a mean beef bourguignon.”

“Sounds fancy; I’d like to try it.”

“Maybe I can make it for you some time.”

Talking to Bucky became easier with every minute you were sat on his desk, trying not to get lost in his blue eyes as he spoke passionately about his ambitions. He told you about how he’d always wanted to open his own restaurant, but he’d never had the money to do so. His favorite dish to eat was admittedly a classic cheese and tomato pizza, but a homemade one that wasn’t doused in oil and salt, which was fair enough... even though you secretly lived for the Domino’s pizza you ordered every couple of weeks to treat yourself.

And after falling into a long, comfortable conversation with the man you used to barely be able to utter out a ‘hello’ to, the realization later hit you at eleven fifty-nine, that the work that was meant to be finished in one minute still hadn’t been completed.

After the whole conversation with Steve about asking Bucky for help, you didn’t even do the one thing that you were planning to do.

In a panic, you darted your eyes towards the area on your desk where Tony had slammed the stack of papers on your desk, confused as to why the large stack wasn’t actually still sitting there.

Before you could come up with a logical explanation, your boss flung open the door of his office, quickly making a beeline over to where you were still sat next to the monitor on Bucky’s desk.

“(Y/N), my number one receptionist.” He greeted you.

“I’m sure I’m the only receptionist you know, Tony, but I guess I’ll take the compliment.”

The man slapped his hands together enthusiastically. “So, did you get all the paperwork posted? I know it was a lot, but it’s important that our clients get those forms.”

You quickly glanced back to your desk, making sure that the paperwork really wasn’t there anymore and that you weren’t just seeing things. Where could it have disappeared to? Unless some form of higher power knew how pissed Tony would be if it wasn’t done and somehow did it all for you, you were pretty slumped for a rational explanation.

“Uhh...”

“Yep, (Y/N) got the paperwork all posted. Just like you asked.” You heard the voice of a certain blond next to you. “Sam and I gave her a hand.”

Sam and Steve gave you a hand? But how- wait.

“Fantastic.” Tony beamed, pointing a finger towards you. “I knew I could count on you, kid. Keep doing what you’re doing, and I might give you a raise.”

As the receptionist, you knew Stark Industries wasn’t yet making enough money for anyone to earn a raise. But you didn’t want to ruin the guy’s moment.

After sending him a thankful smile, you watched as Tony walked away, and once he was out of sight, you slowly turned your attention to Steve.

“You,” You gave him a warning look, before turning to Sam who had also decided to make an appearance. “And you, Sam. This was all planned, wasn’t it?”

The two men nodded proudly, as if they’d just pulled off the greatest scheme of the century. They were idiots. Smart, but still idiots. Did there really need to be a whole plan to bring you and Bucky together?

“Sam and I are dedicated wing-men, you know.” Steve shrugged. “We’re not complete assholes - we would’ve helped you with the paperwork when you asked, but we thought that this could be a good opportunity to get you two to actually converse.”

“Yeah, Bucky sure needed the push. Poor dude gets nervous from just looking at you.”

“Alright, Sam.” Bucky glared at his friend. “I think the joke’s on you guys, though - considering we got to have a nice conversation and you were left with all the paperwork.”

“Like I said,” Steve replied nonchalantly. “Dedicated wing-men.”

Before you could ask any more questions, a stern cough stopped your from doing so. “I’m sorry to interrupt your mothers’ meeting, but I’m trying to run a business here, guys. Wilson, you’re behind on sales, and don’t think I don’t notice you hiding out in the kitchen every morning, Rogers.”

Steve sighed. He really thought that was working for him.

“Barnes, you’re doing great.” Tony patted his shoulder reassuringly, making the salesman smile smugly up at his two frustrated friends. “(Y/N), I need some papers organised, and could you use those pastel highlighters to color-coordinate them? You know I love those highlighters - they really liven up the boring work, you know?”

“Sure thing, boss.” You nodded as Sam and Steve began to make their way back to their desks, leaving you and Bucky alone again after Tony returned to his office.

“I guess I’ve got some color-coordinating to do.” You pushed yourself off Bucky’s desk, standing up straight.

“Wait,” Bucky stopped you from straying any further from his desk. “Would you... wanna do somethin’ tonight? After work?”

A smirk played on your lips. Bucky fucking Barnes was asking you out. Once again, screw that Anastasia girl. Would Bucky Barnes ever ask her out? Nope, because he was asking you out. Okay, stop talking to yourself. The guy needs an answer.

“Sure, I’d like that. You gonna make some of your beef bargain john for me?”

“Bourguignon, sweetheart.” The man let out a hearty laugh. “If you can pronounce it right, I’ll make it for you.”

You scoffed. “That’s just mean... bourg- bourg-on... crap.”

“S’not really close enough, sorry.” Bucky shrugged, knowing that he’d end up making it for you anyway.

“Whatever.” You muttered, slowly walking back over to your desk only a few feet away from Bucky’s. You could see the guy biting back a smile as he pretended to return to his work. Fuck, you really did like him. And you were going on a date with him. That night. Perhaps that higher power really was on your side.

“Bourg-a-non!”

“Not quite.”

“Dammit.”

Maybe the office wasn’t so bad after all.

[stuckonjbbarnes]

Killer Queen {Chapter 1/?}

Pairings: Stucky x Reader

Warnings: Cursing?

Prompt: “I don't need a damn man by my side to do this.”

A/N: This is for Kelli’s 500 Fam Writing Challenge! I’m so glad we’re friends and I love you babes!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

“With all due respect Miss Potts, if Stark thinks he can bully me into a merger where he effectively controls my company and demotes me into a secretarial position, he’s got me fucked up.” Twirling the phone chord, you position the phone on your other ear and watch your assistant get up from his desk to approach your office.

“Now Ms. Karrigan–

“You can quote me on that.” You cut off the woman, setting the phone back on the receiver and take in the blonde man now filling the doorframe. A gentle giant in a nicely tailored suit.

"Miss Karrigan–

"Savannah." You smile up at Steve before taking a sip of the coffee he had brought you this morning.

"S–Savannah, your sisters are on line 2." His face flushes as your eyes trail up and down his torso.

"Thanks, Stan." When he doesn't move you add,"Was there something else?"

"It's Steve." He amends before walking back out to his desk.

"That's what I said." You call after him, watching his ass in the tight fitted slacks.

When he's back at his desk, you get up from your desk and shut the door tightly, taking a few deep breaths in order to brace yourself for the conversation. You love your sisters, really you do, but they're a bit chaotic and bless their hearts don't know how to not meddle. Doing a quick stretch, you go back behind your desk and stare at the blinking red light. Here goes nothing.

"SASSY!" The pair scream.

"Please..." You whine a little, "I'm at work...could you, for the love of god, not scream my childhood nickname for the entire building to hear?! It really belittles the whole "I'm about to be your new CEO, fear me" vibe that I've worked so hard on."

"Oh god forbid, we make you look as soft and gooey as you actually are." Brittany giggles.

"You may be the youngest and mom's favorite...but I'll still kill you."

"Stop trying to kill baby! Savannah we miss you. I wish you weren't stuck in Seattle. Not now. Not with my wedding happening in less than a week! You are coming right?! You RSVPED but I can never tell with you." Gracie, the middle child extraordinaire, calls over Britt.

"You better have a plus one! I can get Sam to invite Bucky if you want. How long has it been since you've seen him last?" 

"Yes, I'll be at your wedding Gracie. Can't wait to see the look on Loki's face when you walk down the aisle. No Britt, I don't need a date, I didn't make a plus one on purpose. Val is already trying to hook me up with someone. I haven't seen Bucky in a few months..." A lie, as he had just come up to Washington to go over business contracts last week, "I don't need a damn man by my side to do this. I don't need a date to have fun at my sister's wedding!"

"As the bride. I'm insisting you bring someone. What about Steve?" Gracie suggests.

"Steve?"

"Your assistant...we all know he's a total babe." Brittany agrees.

"Should I warn Sam that you're eyeing other men?" You joke, accidentally making eye contact with your assistant and noting a weird expression on his face. What? you mouth but he just shakes his head.

"Sassy...come on. As your little sister, who looks up to you and loves you...bring a date." You can hear the pleading in Gracie’s tone.

"Maybe."

"Great! Britt, call the planner! Tell her the extra chair at the family table is a-go!"

"I have to go...I have a meeting in 10."

"Ugh fine. Have fun becoming a photocopy of dad." Britt jokes.

"Ugh fine." You mimic. "Have fun being a sugar baby!"

"HE'S NOT EVEN THAT MUCH OLDER THAN ME!" You hear as you set the phone back down.Holding down the intercom button, you call Steve to your office, running a hand through your hair to smooth the flyaways. 

Less than a minute later, he's seated in front of you, looking pensively and holding a planner, your planner. You watch him for a moment as he flips it open and goes to rattle off your various meetings for the day.

"Steve."

"At 5:30 you– Huh?" He cuts himself off looking up.

"What are you doing this week?"

"What do you mean? I'm working. You've got all of your meetings today and tomorrow you've got a car picking you up for your sister's wedding. You're still going to that, aren't you?"

"Why does everyone keep acting like I'm gonna bail out?" You roll your eyes, relaxing your posture.

"You've got a track record of skipping family events, Ms. Karr– Savannah." He smiles in a friendly, conspiratorial way. "In the last 3 months of working for you, I've sent out more gift baskets and flowers than I can count on my hands."

"Fine! I'm a flake...I get it." 

"I'm proud of you for sticking to this."

"Well I'm not doing it alone."

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, pen stopped mid-writing.

"I mean. You're going too."

"I can't go to a wedding."

"If I can go, you can go too." You clarify.

"I'm sure your father won't–

"Do you work for me or my father?"

"...you?" He frowns, "Listen Savannah.."

"Steve, what do you have planned while I'm gone?"

"Just some paper work...I was going to re-organize my desk."

"Boring. You're coming with me."

"Savannah I don't think–

"Good, don't think...just do."

"What happened to I don't need a damn man by my side to do this?"

"Were you listening in on my phone call?!" A chill runs through your body when he doesn't respond."How dare you?!"

"It..your father. He told me to monitor your calls."

"Of course he did," You groan, knowing full well just how nosey your father is. "Listen...I already told them, well you heard. You don't have to go. But I want you to."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't you rather drink and have fun than re-organize your desk?" You ask, willing him to look you in the eyes so you can sucker him in.

"Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"At least you're not threatening to fire me."

"As if Mr. Karrigan would allow me to fire his precious spy."

"I'm not–

"We're leaving at 8 am. If you're late I'm going to be very disappointed." You dismiss him, adding "I want steak for lunch."

"As you wish." He mock-bows, throwing your door open.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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[alleiradayne]

Long Jacket A Destiel-ish Series

Over the last few years, I’ve seen some of the craziest shit hunting with the Winchesters and their angel, Castiel. But this story right here? This isn’t about monsters. This isn’t about the battle between good and evil, heaven and hell. I understand all that.

It’s people I don’t get. People are crazy. And we do crazy things when we’re in love.

PART III - BOOTS

Summary: More awkwardness follows us to the station where we meet Dean’s contact, Detective Andrea Williams. Warnings/Tags: Awkward flirting, mentions of people going missing Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Female!Reader, minor OFC (Detective Andrea Williams) Word Count: 1,095

Uncomfortable silence accompanied us on the ride to the precinct. When Dean had asked Sam to sit in front again, Sam protested. He had taken to riding in the backseat with me over the last year. Why, for a five-minute ride, would it make such a difference who rode shotgun? 

I knew why. But I kept my mouth shut.

After a glare that threatened death, Sam sheepishly slipped into the front seat, and Castiel slid in beside me in the back. Despite the quick drive, Dean frequently cast casual glances in his rearview mirror. I didn’t bother asking after that, either. I’d only get some fib. Just checking his surroundings. Safe driver. Double-checking his outs. The usual.

No, the reason I did not ask him a damn thing was that I knew, without a doubt, he intended to sneak glances at Castiel. And I couldn’t blame him. Castiel admittedly looked dapper in his trim, gray suit.

A block shy of the station, Dean wrenched the mirror down to the floor. He squinted in the mirror as the Impala slowed. And then he looked over the back of the bench seat to scrutinize Castiel’s feet.

“Are… those my boots?” he asked as he turned his attention back to the road and parked the car along the curb.

Castiel exited the car first, then turned to Dean. “They have been sitting in the garage for months. I asked you about them, remember?”

“Yeah, and what did I say?” Dean replied as he rounded the front of the Impala.

Eager to hear the story unfold, I scrambled from the car and raced to catch up. Behind me, Sam slowed from his gallop, a crooked grin on his face as he, too, listened closely.

“That they were yours, but they were uncomfortable, so you were probably going to take them back,” Castiel explained. “I was going to give you—”

Dean held up a hand to silence him. “It’s fine, Cas. Keep ‘em.”

“But you spent—”

“I said you can keep them,” Dean hissed as we neared the building, for our contact stood outside and greeted us at the door. With his typical charm, Dean introduced her to us as one Detective Andrea Williams. Her bubbly greeting, bright smile, and perfectly blonde coiffure belied her towering and imposingly buff frame. And as Dean introduced us to her, the two appeared quite familiar with one another. Once he passed the pleasantries, he wasted no further time and got straight to business.

“So, four missing men, then?”

Detective Williams motioned them into the station with a nod of her head and then pointed to the hall on the lobby’s far side. “We’ll talk in my office.”

Empty interview rooms with open doors drifted past as Detective Williams rounded the corner for her office. As soon as the door shut, Castiel asked, “Is it always this quiet?”

Dean tossed a glare over his shoulder, only to blush again the second his eyes landed on him. It was almost as if he had forgotten; Dean eyed him from head to toe before averting his stare.

Detective Williams cleared her throat as she said, “It is, Agent Deacon.”

“No suspects?” Sam asked.

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. And there are actually five men missing now. Another report was filed last night.”

“Same profile?” I asked.

“Six-two, slender build, dark hair, Caucasian. Yes,” Detective Williams described. “In fact, they’re all the same age, too. Twenty-seven, with birthdays only weeks apart.” She flipped through a thin stack of papers on her desk. “But as far as we can tell, they don’t know each other. Different employers, families, friends. It’s… strange.”

Sam pointed to the stack of papers and asked, “Can I make copies? We’ll need to start interviewing folks right away.”

“Absolutely,” she said as she handed the stack over. “Copier’s right around the corner.”

When Sam turned on his heel to leave, Dean continued to question the detective. It was then that I saw an opportunity that I might not find again that weekend. I rounded on the door and slipped through before it closed, quick to follow Sam to the copier.

He spotted me over his shoulder, a subtle double-take that furrowed his brow. “What’s up?”

“Did you…” I paused as we arrived at the copier, and Sam opened it. “What’s going on with Cas?”

From furrowed to arched, Sam’s brow raised near to his hairline. “I have no idea. You’re talking about the suit, right?”

“And the sweatpants yesterday,” I added.

Sam chuckled as he started the copier with a forceful stab of his index finger. “Christ, I forgot about that already.”

“The suit was pretty distracting,” I admitted. “But why? And why does it have Dean all flustered?”

When the first page finished, Sam flipped to the next. “I… that’s a brilliant question.”

I took the copies from the machine as they jumped into the tray. “I’m going to keep an eye on them.”

“Me, too,” Sam said. “Speaking of keeping an eye on things, do you have any thoughts on these missing guys?”

The pages of their profiles flipped under my thumb as I continued to add sheets Sam copied to it. “No. Nothing suggests any sort of thread between them. You know…”

When I trailed off, my thoughts buried in the papers I held, Sam hunched a little closer. “Y/N? You okay?”

I shook my head. “Yeah. I don’t think there’s a case here. I think Dean just wanted to get laid.”

Sam’s grimace paired with his typical eye roll. “I kinda thought that, too. But, just to be safe, we should still interview some folks.”

He handed me the last photocopy as I spoke. “Agreed.”

Before Sam could speak again, Detective Williams’ office opened, and Castiel stepped through first, followed by Dean and the detective. She held her card out to Castiel, and as we approached, handed duplicates to Sam and I.

“Call me the minute you find anything,” she said. “Whoever or whatever it is, we want to handle it.”

More red flags. Castiel ground his jaw as Dean smiled and said, “You got it.”

Detective Williams smiled in return and retreated into her office. With a soft snict, the door clicked shut, and Dean turned to head down the hall for the lobby. Castiel followed with slumped shoulders and his head hanging between them. Ahead of me, Sam strode, his face buried in the dossier. Then I took up the rear, lagging, slowed by my completely befuddled thoughts.

And it was only going to get worse.

Reblogs and feedback are awesome. If you want in on the tags, send me an ask or a DM!

LONG JACKET MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[winchest09]

Stress Relief

Title: Stress Relief

Pairing: Lawyer!Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3720

Summary: After a stressful morning at the firm, Y/N noticed that her boss was a little tense when she stepped into his office. Wanting to make his day better, she gives him a proposition that he his reluctant to turn down. 

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Smut. P in the V, Oral (fem receiving), fingering, little bit of role play, sex in a public place.  

A/N: So, this is a fic I wrote way over a year ago and it needed a bit more love, a bit more smutty magic and more Sam. So, it has been revamped and rewritten! I hope you enjoy the new(ish) story! 

A/N 2: A massive thank you to my two darling beta’s on this. @deanwanddamons & @cockslut-padalecki, girls, I’d be lost without you. Thank you for giving this a once over and for your smutty guidance. Love you both! 

__________________________

Main Masterlist

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Afternoon sun poured in through the large venetian windows of Winchester Law, illuminating the hallway with a golden and amber glow. The walls were adorned with certificates and photos of the small team that ran the office, the sounds of telephones ringing and the tapping of keyboards resonating through the space. This was the soundtrack of Sam’s life, from the moment he opens the front door and steps foot onto the mahogany hardwood floor, until he was the only one left to turn off all the lights. Today was no different.

The CEO wandered down the corridor that led to his office, one hand in his suit pocket and the other  rubbing at his slight stubbled chin as he thought over the latest business proposal another law firm had submitted to him. They wanted to join forces, become partners and it was something he needed to seriously think over. He had worked hard to build his business from the ground up, starting with just himself before he managed to expand and evolve it into what it was now. It was something that he was incredibly proud of, protective of, so any move he made for the future of his profession, was one he had to think about carefully.

Entering his office, Sam helped himself to a bottle of water from the mini fridge that was situated just to the right of the door before he settled down into his large, black leather chair. His sizeable hands made light work of the plastic cap, tossing it casually into the metal basket bin that was just a few feet away from him before taking a sip. It was then that a light rasping sounded at his door, and looking up, he knew instantly who it was from the shape of the body that was hidden behind the frosted glass. The CEO couldn’t help the smile that made its way to his lips, beckoning the awaiting visitor to come in.

“Mr Winchester,” a soft voice sounded as she entered, her arms ladened with folders.

“Y/N, everything okay?” Sam asked, immediately sitting straighter in his seat as she approached. He couldn’t help his roaming eyes as she got closer to him, admiring her figure.

Since the very first day she had worked for his company, the woman had captured his attention with her intelligence and her beauty. There was something about her that just piqued his curiosity, an enigma that he was desperate to figure out. He had lost count of the amount of times he had stared at her lips during a meeting, his thoughts immediately becoming not suitable for the work space when he imagined them wrapped around his hard length.

“I have the files on the Anderson case. I’ve looked them over and highlighted everything that I think we can use to win this. Just needs a second glance,” his coworker told him, cutting through his wayward thinking as she slid the files across the polished wood of his desk towards him.

“Oh, wonderful,” he replied, his voice straining as he tried his hardest to avoid looking at the modest cleavage that presented itself as she leaned forward. There had also been a few occasions where he had imagined how her breasts would have felt under the width of his large palms, if she would have squealed in delight at how he would have kneaded them, tweaking a perfectly budded nipple in between his fingers.  

“Are you alright?” Y/N asked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at her boss as she perched herself on the edge of the wooden workspace. “You look a little...tense.”

Sam could only smirk and huff a laugh as he leaned back into his seat, the leather squeaking slightly under the muscled weight. “That noticeable huh?”

“Only to me,” she countered, sending him a look that had his hand instinctively sliding into his pant pocket, discreetly trying to make his hardening situation a little more comfortable.

Y/N had an effect on him to which no other woman could compare. From the moment she had walked into his office, with her heels and her intelligence, he had been enchanted. She had won him case after case thanks to her knowledge, had stood by his side when new clients lined up at their door and had been his voice of reason for over six months. She had also been the reason he had sleepless nights. His thoughts were filled with images of her bent over his desk, tangled in his sheets or caged between his arms; buried deliciously deep within her as she pulsed around him.

After a few late nights in the office working on a particularly frustrating case, Sam had his chance to experience everything she had to offer. They had ditched the coffee and the water for something a tad more alcoholic. All it took was a little help from a strong liquor and the close, personal space they were sharing as they looked over files, for the sexual tension to combust. That night, Sam outlived his fantasy of having a woman over his desk, as well as starting a secret office romance that caused his heart to thump widely within his chest whenever he saw her.

“Anyone would think you knew me, Y/N,” he rasped, rubbing his finger and thumb together on his free hand as he stared back up at her, a teasing smile spreading across her red, painted lips.

“I’m a deception consultant, it’s my job to read people,” she teased, tucking some stray hair behind her ear as she took a breath. “You know what would really help you to destress?” she asked, sliding off the desk before she straightened her blouse, purposefully showing him a little more flesh. She caught his gaze and held it before she told him her answer. “Photocopying.”

“What?” Sam must admit that the confession threw him, secretly hoping that she was going to suggest that she would get on her knees and hide beneath the surface of his workspace.

Yet, as he focused once again on her look, he noticed how she raked in her bottom lip with her teeth before shrugging once, and slowly. She made a show of shaking the folder in her hand as she nodded her head towards the direction of the copier machine, something that was hidden behind closed doors before she turned on her heel. Sam couldn’t help but allow himself to lust after her as she walked away from him, swaying her hips.

It only took a moment for him to realise that what she said, followed by her actions, were an invitation for him to follow. So, not wanting to waste another second, and with curiosity nipping at his heel, Sam quickly followed his trusted employee towards the supply closet, looking over his shoulder to ensure that his receptionist, Rosaline, wasn’t looking their way. Noticing that she was busy with the phone call that had just come in, he allowed a small smirk to stretch over his lips as he followed Y/N into the store room space. The CEO watched her with interest as she made her way over to the photocopier, her fingers pressing the buttons to make the machine come to life before she placed her document onto the glass, pulling the lid down onto it.

Wait, did she actually mean photocopying? Sam thought, his face becoming void of emotion, realising that he might have wound himself up for nothing.

Then she turned around.

The look she wore was one of seduction as she started to undo a few of the buttons on her blouse, revealing the lacy, nude bra that was hidden underneath. Immediately, he swallowed, his pants getting tight as he rushed to shut the door behind him, catching the lock. She definitely did not mean photocopying.

“Mr Winchester, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in,” Y/N stated breathlessly, her hand coming to grace her chest. It only took Sam a hot second to realise the game she was playing, the sliver of confusion that had been etched on his brow vacating and being replaced with evident arousal. She wanted to roleplay.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked politely, an innocent charm to her voice that was the complete opposite of the expression she wore.

He allowed his warm tongue to trace his bottom lip as he looked her over; the tight black pencil skirt, the loose white blouse that complimented her curves and the black leather court shoes that were wrapped around her ankles. His girlfriend looked delectable.

“Yes,” He stated simply. His mouth twitched slightly, a smirk pulling at it as he stalked over to her slowly, his hands deep inside his pockets. They were itching to rip the shirt from her body, desperate to dominate the flesh that was hidden underneath.

Her heaving breasts caught his attention, his eyes roaming over them before they met her gaze. Sam studied her closely; she had a mischievous look about her and he knew that she was going to be the death of him, and he would welcome it. Never in his life had he felt such excitement, had so much adrenaline running through his veins, as he did when he was with her.

“Okay,” she responded, “well what is it th--”

“--do you have any idea how good your ass looks in that skirt?” Sam interrupted, his smile broadening when he saw how his girlfriend's eyes went wide with his bold statement. However, he knew that she was aware of what she did to him on a daily basis with her taking full advantage each and every time. “Or how amazing your breasts look in that shirt?”

“I..I,” she pretended to stumble over her words as she took a step back, bumping into the copier machine. However, Sam continued to stalk forward, his eyes dark with want as he caged her in with his large, muscular arms. He pressed his body against hers, his head bowing slightly as his lips ghosted along her jaw bone, stopping just shy of her ear.

“I need to fuck you, Miss Y/L/N,” he confessed, pulling back so his eyes could dip to her lips, “I have done nothing but think about how good you would feel wrapped around me since you walked into my office,” he growled, his breath hot on her face as he inched ever closer. “You tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Y/N whimpered under his touch, a gasp escaping her when his mouth hungrily started to kiss her neck, nibbling and kitten licking her pulse point. Pressing his body harder against hers, he felt how she was reacting to his touch, how she was desperately trying to rub her thighs together, hitching one leg up just a touch. Eager to satisfy his need, and hers, his thick fingers started to work the few buttons left of her shirt as his lips trained down to her collarbone, smirking against her skin when he heard her breath hitch in her throat.

“Oh, Sir,” she mewled, bringing her hands to wind into his chestnut hair, “don’t stop.”

With Y/N’s confirmation, Sam growled loudly and roughly collided his mouth with hers. His hands ripped at what was left of her top, allowing his slightly roughened fingertips to slide up her sides and around her back, pulling her close to him. She moaned as he rutted against her, his hard cock throbbing in its confines as she traced her hand down his chest and to the front of his pants, palming his erection through the material. Sucking in a breath at the feeling of the friction, Sam roughly pulled the cups of her bra down, allowing her breasts to spill free and react to the open cool air.

He broke free of her lips and began to tease his tongue down her chest, leaving open mouthed kisses against her skin until he found her nipples. He sucked at her hardened nub, enjoying the sound of Y/N gasping above him as she desperately tried to free him of his suit jacket, pushing it as far down his arms as she could reach. Taking the hint, Sam shook it off the rest of the way and let it fall to the floor before he roughly grabbed at her hips, spinning her where she stood. She braced herself against the copier, the power of the man behind her forcing her to bend slightly as he slowly pulled the zip of her skirt down, watching as it loosened around her hips before it fell to a pool on the floor.

The CEO let out a low hum of approval when he took in the nude lace thong that disappeared between her ass cheeks but it was still too much material for him. With a low growl, he wrapped the material around two of his thick digits and pulled, ripping it free from her body. A gasp left his girlfriend’s lips and he chuckled lowly; he wanted her to walk around the office for the rest of the day with nothing but the remains of him between her legs.

Splaying his palm between her shoulder blades, he encouraged her to bend further forward so her breasts were pressed against the copier and he had the perfect view of her slick covered centre. Like a man starved, Sam wasted no time and dropped to his knees. His large hands rested on either ass cheek as he parted them, licking a perfect line from her clit, all the way to her entrance. The groan that sounded from him was resonating in his chest; he would never get over the way she tasted, or the way she reacted to his tongue. The moan of delight from above him only encouraged his oral onslaught. He sucked and licked at her swollen bud of nerves, unrelenting, not being able to get enough of the woman that was unravelling above him.

Sliding one hand from her cheeks, he slowly slipped in two of his fingers, curling them in just a way that caused Y/N to gasp his name. She was twisting on her tiptoes, her hands trying desperately to grip onto something as she allowed herself to be at his mercy. All that could be heard in this incredibly small space was the obscene noises of Sam’s slick covered digits entering her at a quickened pace, while she mewled above him. He was in heaven.

“I’m...S-Sam, I’m going--” she stuttered, doing all she could to steady herself as she braced herself for her release but the CEO was quick to withdraw his fingers, smirking when she whined at the loss.

“Not yet, baby girl,” he husked as he stood, working quickly to undo his belt as his lips kissed the back of her shoulder. “I want to feel this pretty pussy clench around my cock as you cum,” he growled as he pushed his pants and underwear to the floor. “I want you to know just who is in charge in this office, and that I own you. Do you understand?”

His heart was beating hard against his chest as he awaited her response, wondering if he had pushed the roleplay too far. But, as she wiggled her ass against his awaiting hard length, he had his answer.

“Yes, Sir.”

Y/N gasped as Sam quickly flipped her back around so she was facing him, and he watched as her eyes trailed down to his large dick that he had begun working in one hand. With his other palm, he was swift in holding the base of her neck, catching her mouth in another searing kiss. He felt how her fingers had begun pulling at his shirt and could only assume she was undoing his buttons and he was quick to encourage her. Stopping his actions briefly, he stripped himself of that final layer, noticing how Y/N had pulled her kiss swollen bottom lip between her teeth as she admired him.

Not wanting to waste another minute, and desperate to feel his girlfriend’s warmth, he swiftly moved back in and lifted her up onto the copier machine, the plastic squeaking slightly under the weight. He used his palms on the inside of her thighs to spread her legs out wide, letting a low, rumbling growl leave him as he did so. She was glistening in the dim light of the storage room; dripping and ready for him. She had the most perfect pussy, and he was intent on ruining it.

Working his hard length in his hands, he teased two fingers through her folds before sliding them knuckle deep inside of her. His eyes stayed trained on her as he watched her reaction; the way her lips parted silently with pleasure, the way she arched her back just slightly so her breasts were presented perfectly, the way her legs instinctively widened that extra inch as she subconsciously prepared herself for what was about to come.

Sam couldn’t wait any longer, the desperation to feel her on his dick was too much. Knowing that she was ready for him, he lined himself up with her entrance, before looking back at her with lust filled eyes. With a silent confirmation from Y/N, he slowly pushed his hips forward, fighting any urge he had to be unrelenting as he waited for her to adjust to his size. In a smooth, blissful moment, he had filled her and the growl that left him caused her to clench around his length. He swore his eyes rolled into the back of his head as felt her warmth envelop him, feeling like the luckiest bastard alive.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Sam cursed, breathlessly, “you’re so tight for me, baby.”

“Move,” she panted, attempting to squirm around him causing the CEO to smirk.

He moved to hook one leg over his muscular forearm and lifted slightly, giving him a new angle that allowed him to slide deeper. When she moaned loudly, and began to kiss and bite at his neck, he knew that he had found her sweet spot. His girlfriend had wrapped her arms around him, her nails clawing against his back desperately, trying to cling on as he drove his dick into her again and again. The copier machine beneath her squeaked as it shook with each unabated thrust Sam gave, the muscular lawyer building up a hard rhythm as he focused on making sure Y/N felt as good as he possibly could.

Through her moans and the sound of her taking everything he had to give, he could faintly hear the sound of someone trying the door handle to the room, but he didn’t care; in this moment, Y/N was like a drug, and she was just too good to give up.

“S-Sam,” she panted, her eyes trying to focus on the handle to the closet that was jiggling but the CEO paid it no mind, his large hand coming up to cover her mouth as he looked deeply into her eyes.

“Be quiet, baby,” he whispered his command. “Can you do that for me? Can you not make a sound as I make you cum all over my dick?”

With wide eyes, and a tight clench around his cock, Y/N agreed and he couldn’t help the proud smile that overtook his mouth as a deep, animalistic growl threatened to leave him. He threw his head back and he began to thrust into her even harder, their heavy breaths echoing off the walls as they both chased their delirium. Eager to get her there first, Sam’s hand left her mouth and his fingers began to rub at her clit, encouraging her to reach breaking point.

“O-oh S-Sam,” she stuttered, releasing her hold on the lawyer and throwing her head back as her orgasm overtook her, causing her to rhythmically squeeze Sam’s dick, milking him for all he was worth.

“F-fuck,” he breathed, beads of sweat pooling in the dip at the base of his throat as he chased his own end. With a few more thrusts, and a loud, gruff moan, he finished inside of her.

After he had caught his breath, Sam looked down at Y/N, taking in the doe eyed look on her face and he smirked. She had got him to come into this storage closet to help relieve some of his own tension and yet, here she was looking as relaxed as ever. Still, he would admit that he felt good, relaxed and a lot less pressured than he did half an hour ago.

Lowering her leg gently, he unhooked his arm and slowly slid them around her naked back, pulling his girlfriend ever closer to his bare torso as he allowed himself to gently kiss her, silently thanking her for the afternoons extra curricular activities. Y/N had been a welcomed whirlwind in his life, something he wasn’t expecting but something he was certainly grateful for. She taught him to let go every once in a while, to take risks that he never would have thought of doing.

“Feeling better, Mr Winchester?” she breathed, a teasing tone to her voice as her nose nudged the underline of his jaw.

“Much,” he answered, snaking his hand between their bodies as he slid his finger back into her soaked hole, letting out a low grumble of satisfaction as he felt just how wet she still was, knowing that his cum was still leaking out of her.

“However, here’s the thing,” he started as he lazily began to thrust his digits back into her, causing her hand to wrap around his wrist as she bit back another moan. “I feel like it would be beneficial to our jobs if we started our day, everyday, doing this little workplace exercise.”

“Uh-huh,” Y/N could only gasp, as Sam’s thumb came to rub at her already oversensitive clit.

“So tomorrow morning, I want you in my office first thing, on my desk with your legs spread wide. Is that understood?”

His girlfriend bit her lip, her eyes coming up to meet the gaze of his lust blown ones and she could only smile as she nodded.

“Yes, Sir.”

A/N: Thanks so much for reading my oneshot my darlings! I really hope you enjoyed it and it made you smile! Got to love a bit of Sammy...with his arms...and his arms...and you know...his arms.

Please let me know your thoughts by comment, reblog or just HERE! :) They mean the world!

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[movedvalkyriesryde]

Exhibition of Future Technologies - 2

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x enhanced!reader

Summary: Bucky meets the girl of his dreams the day before he ships out again and she holds a mystery about her that he can’t resist.

Warnings: fluff, like a buttload of fluff, lil bit of almost sexy and kissy kissy so that whole 18+ thing and all that

Word Count: 2.695

A/N: whoops my fingers slipped lmao I’m not sorry for it though. Wrote this in about two hours with little proof reading so I hope you enjoy the fluffy desperate mess that are these characters. I absolutely adore them

Masterlist

Previous - Next

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bucky had siked himself up for this moment for three days now. He’d tried a couple times already but he couldn’t even build up the confidence to step round the corner into the hall. He’d done his pep talk, Steve gave him his own pep talk and now he was stood in the hallway peering through the window trying to get a glimpse of Dr Banner’s new assistant. 

“I’m not the same man I used to be. What if she doesn’t like who I am now?” he had been pulling at his hair as he paced across his room and Steve and Sam sat on his bed. The two men looked at each other then back at Bucky with bored looks, the man was on repeat for three days and they were about to shove him into that lab themselves.

“I think we’re glossing over the fact this girl somehow figured out time travel, or possibly stole Tony’s device,” Steve rolled his eyes at Sam, extensive background checks had been done before she was hired. Bruce had been, subtly, questioned about her character and could only say positive things. For the moment, how she was in 1943 and present day was not the biggest worry as of this second. Bucky’s biggest worry was how she would react to him, it was whether or not she would even remember him, remember the day they had.

“Sam would you quit it! This is the love of his life, the girl who got away, she’s his Doll!” Steve stood from his seat and walked towards Bucky, holding his shoulders with a firm grasp. “You got this bud, go in there. Go and get your girl and for the love of god. Don’t. Let. Her. Get. Away again!” With each word Steve shook Bucky slightly before he finished with a nod of his head and shoved Bucky towards the door. 

Bucky was racking his hands through his hair and opening the door to the lab. He would not let his Doll get away from him again. He walked slowly through the main area of the lab towards the office at the back that was hidden away. That’s when he saw her, sitting on the stool with papers and books spread out around her laptop which she was currently scrolling through. She had Bucky breathless, he stood by the wall that separated the office from the main area of the lab with his arms loose at his sides and his mouth agape. It was 100% her.

“Doll?” he whispered out, frozen in his spot. Y/N spun her head around and sucked in a breath when she saw the man in the doorway. 

He didn’t look much different she thought, she expected him to have long hair, for his shoulders to be tense and his eyes tired and pained. But he wasn’t. His hair was short but slightly longer on the top like it had been in ‘43, he even had that little loose bit of fringe that refused to sit with the rest of his hair. His body was relaxed, his face clear and tanned. She wondered if he remembered her, or if maybe he called everyone Doll now, maybe she wasn’t so different. 

Y/N had to keep her composure, she couldn’t let him know her dirty little secret, she couldn’t risk it. So she smiled shyly, stood from her stool and took a step towards him, sticking her hand out to shake.

“You must be Bucky, I’m Y/N, Dr Banner’s new assistant,” he shook her hand gently and she sat back in her seat.

“How do you-?”

“Well, the metal hand is one give away, I’ve also seen pictures, there’s some in Steve’s office,” she ticked something off on a piece of paper and smiled at him again. Bucky nodded his head and rubbed his hand over his jaw, this wasn’t exactly the romantic reunion he was hoping for, maybe she didn’t remember him. “Are you looking for Dr Banner?”

“Uhh, yea,” Bucky took a step further into the room as she stood again and gathered some papers, walking towards the photocopier. “He told me to pop round so,”

“Oh, well he’s at lunch with Tony at the moment. He should be back in ten minutes or so though if you wanted to stick around, or I can tell him you stopped by,” she kept her attention on the task of photocopying the graphs and analysis notes she’d made. This was too formal for her liking, he didn’t remember her. 

“Is it okay if I wait?” Bucky said standing in the middle of the room, she glanced at him and nodded as she walked past and stood in front of her laptop. “What are you doing?”

“Some weather analysis actually,” she smiled to herself and kept her head down, “I’m testing to see how much Sam’s wings can take in extreme weather. The coldest of cold in winter, warmest of warms in summer sort of thing.” 

Bucky’s ears perked when she mentioned winter and summer, what if she did remember him? He had to test this. “That sounds pretty interesting, he’ll probably be pleased to know his suit can withstand any season.” Y/N heard the smile in his voice and the small step he took. What if he does remember her?

“Do you have a preferred season Bucky?” she asked peering at him quickly before turning back to her screen. Bucky tried to hold back the smile that spread across his face, biting the inside of his cheeks to prevent it from getting any wider.

“I do actually,” he looked towards the door and then back to her, taking another small step towards her.

“What is it?”

“Spring.”

“And why’s that?” she bit her bottom lip to suppress her own smile.

“I like what it represents,” he stood right behind her now, close enough to touch his hands hovered over her back, “coming out of the dark someone once told me,” he smiled, she turned to look at him over her shoulder with a small smile.

“The lines at ice cream parlors are always shorter as well,” she said, her smile widened, Bucky breathed out a laugh as he pressed his forehead against hers and held her face in his hands.

“I knew it was you Doll, I can’t believe you’re here.” She held his wrists and closed her eyes briefly. “How are you here?” He whispered quietly, she opened her eyes and tried to blink back the water in her eyes as she took a step back out of his grip.

“I shouldn’t - I stayed too long. I shouldn’t have - I’m so sorry Bucky, I’m so sorry.” This was wrong, this was so very very wrong. She fucked up, she fucked up so bad why did she have to experiment with her powers why couldn’t she just be happy with how she was. She took another step back as he took one forward. God but she loved that day she spent with him so much she knew she would do the exact same thing over and over again if given the choice. 

“Don’t, please don’t apologise for that day Doll,” he reached out and brushed his fingers over the back of her hand, “how is this possible though?” his voice was quiet and soft, not wanting to frighten her. Y/N took her hand away from his and curled it into a fist, she clapped her fists together and in a small blast of light she was gone from where she stood.

“They call me a jumper, well people with my powers.” Y/N said from behind him now, he spun around, his eyes were wide in shock. “It was an accident, I was running late and then all of a sudden I’d gone back five minutes and didn’t miss my train.” She fidgeted with her hands, looking down at her feet. “Then I started experimenting, seeing how much I could do, how far back I could go. I haven’t gone forward, I don’t want to see the future, but the past,” she looked up at the ceiling, a smile breaking out on her face, “it just fascinates me, and I had this dress from Halloween so I thought I’d see if I could go back further than my own timeline, and I did.”

Bucky shook his head in amazement. It made sense, it made perfect sense and here she was in front of him proving it to her. He felt like she was meant to go back and meet him, like it was fate that she ended up at that fair. Bucky moved toward her and took her hands in his own causing her to look at him. He smiled at her, that toothy smirk she had imprinted in her brain from their day out. 

“I shouldn’t have talked to you, I didn’t mean to I promise. I just - I saw the posters, I wanted to see the show. Then you were stood next to me and I recognised you and I just. I wanted to talk to you, wanted to know if the stories were true and,” she let out a laugh as he watched her, “you’re definitely not a womaniser and Steve is right to call you a giant nerd.” Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, “please don’t tell anyone Bucky, please they can’t know.” 

Bucky ran his fingers through her hair and pulled Y/N into his chest. She pleaded for him to keep her secret, ‘they can’t know’ she kept repeating. 

“I won’t,” his fingers were tangled in her hair and his vibranium arm tightened around her waist, “I promise I won’t, I’m just so fucking thankful you’re here Doll.” His breath shook as he spoke and she pulled away and looked up at him. Steve’s words ran through his brain at that moment, don’t you dare let her get away, he told himself. So he didn’t, he cupped her face and he kissed her like his life depended on it, to him, it did. 

And she kissed him back. She wrapped her hands around the collar of his shirt and she pulled him against her. His arms gripped her waist, they pulled at her shirt, moved up her back and back down and squeezed her hips. She pulled him down further by his neck as he licked at her lip, smiling as she opened her mouth slightly immediately at his request. Bucky choked back a whimper as his tongue explored her mouth, she tasted the same, he noted. Bitter with a touch of sweetness, he knew what it was now though, caramel latte, but he liked to believe that sweetness was still just her. 

They heard the door open and Tony’s voice immediately sounded throughout the lab. Y/N pushed Bucky away, she straightened her shirt and turned back to her laptop while he ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his hand down his face, trying to compose himself.

“We bought you some leftovers. Hello Barnes, what brings you to our neck of the woods? Here to meet Banners lovely new assistant?” Tony dropped the bag of leftovers next to her on the table and smiled brightly at Bucky who shoved his hands in his pocket.

“Bruce said I should pop by,” he muttered out, his eyes darting between Y/N, Tony and Bruce.

“I did, wanted to introduce you to Y/N, thought you two might hit it off,” Bruce smiled innocently between the two of them, “but I suppose you two have already met, damn.”

“Uh, yea. I should get going, training.” Bucky nodded before bidding a small farewell to the two men, giving a small smile to Y/N before darting out the door. 

“How’s the flying car coming along Tony?” Bucky heard Y/N say as he closed the door and walked back to his room laughing to himself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was nearing eight when Y/N walked out of the lab with her jacket on, ready to go to sleep as soon as she got home. 

It was nearing eight as Bucky leaned against the wall in the hallway waiting for her to round the corner towards the elevators.

She let out a yelp as soon as she felt arms wrap around her waist and pull her into their chest. 

“Shush, geez Doll it’s just me,” Bucky laughed into the back of her neck as he lowered her back to the ground and spun her round to face him. 

“What are you doing here?” she laughed at him, looking around to make sure they were alone. They’d just met, well, that’s what the team thought. If they saw Bucky and Y/N this close after only having just met they’d be some questions. 

“Thought I could take you out for a late snack, if you want,” he bit his lip and let go of her hips, taking a small step back. “I wanted to tell you something as well.” She hummed an acknowledgment, finding his hand when he didn’t respond straight away. “I’m not - I’m not the same man I was in ‘43 Y/N. I need you to know that before I take you out, before whatever happens happens. I’m damaged goods and I’m recovering but I’m never going to be that man again,” Bucky rushed his words out, watching his fingers play with hers nervously. 

“Bucky, I only knew that man for less than 24 hours,” she brushed her fingers over his jaw, squeezing his hand in reassurance, “how about that late night snack, we can properly get to know each other.”

Bucky leaned into her touch, he kissed her palm, held her wrist as she placed small pecks on her finger tips. “Still got me wrapped around your finger though,” he smirked, leaning in and kissing her softly. And again with more force, again with more passion, a little bit longer each time until she was pulled against his chest, her arms in his hair and his hands slipping up her back underneath her shirt. They both laughed and giggled as they continued to kiss and make their way towards the elevator. He pressed her against the door next to the buttons and brushed his lips across her jaw and pressed them behind her air. 

“I’ve got snacks in my room,” he breathed out as the doors opened and they stepped in, bodies still attached to each other. Y/N nodded against his cheek and Bucky’s hand moved frantically to find the button that would take them to his floor as she pulled him down for another kiss. 

“Geez Y/N,” Bucky breathed out pulling her out of the elevator and walking backwards down the hall, “Doll, I’m never letting you go,” he paused in front of his door, opening it and pulling her in after him. 

“Please don’t,” she whispered against him. Bucky ran his hands down her side, he rested his forehead on her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He waited a goddamn lifetime for this girl and he was done waiting. He used to think she was the one that got away but here she was, in his arms, kissing his shoulder. 

“Luckiest man in the world,” he breathed out holding her tightly. Bucky hoped she knew just how much she meant to him. He hoped she knew just how much that he loved her from the second he promised to let her drive her flying car. Maybe one day he’d tell her. Maybe one day he’d tell her that the way she talked about Spring is something that helped him step out of his own darkness. Maybe one day he’d tell her how happy he was when he saw her sitting in that lab, when he found her again. 

Today he was just happy he got his girl, got his Doll and she wanted him as well, and maybe he wasn’t going to tell her just yet but I can promise you that he was going to show her. He was not letting her go this time. 

His jumper, his Doll.

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[valkyriesryde]

Exhibition of Future Technologies - 2

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x enhanced!reader

Summary: Bucky meets the girl of his dreams the day before he ships out again and she holds a mystery about her that he can’t resist.

Warnings: fluff, like a buttload of fluff, lil bit of almost sexy and kissy kissy so that whole 18+ thing and all that

Word Count: 2.695

A/N: whoops my fingers slipped lmao I’m not sorry for it though. Wrote this in about two hours with little proof reading so I hope you enjoy the fluffy desperate mess that are these characters. I absolutely adore them

Masterlist

Series Masterlist - Previous - Next

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Bucky had siked himself up for this moment for three days now. He’d tried a couple times already but he couldn’t even build up the confidence to step round the corner into the hall. He’d done his pep talk, Steve gave him his own pep talk and now he was stood in the hallway peering through the window trying to get a glimpse of Dr Banner’s new assistant.

“I’m not the same man I used to be. What if she doesn’t like who I am now?” he had been pulling at his hair as he paced across his room and Steve and Sam sat on his bed. The two men looked at each other then back at Bucky with bored looks, the man was on repeat for three days and they were about to shove him into that lab themselves.

“I think we’re glossing over the fact this girl somehow figured out time travel, or possibly stole Tony’s device,” Steve rolled his eyes at Sam, extensive background checks had been done before she was hired. Bruce had been, subtly, questioned about her character and could only say positive things. For the moment, how she was in 1943 and present day was not the biggest worry as of this second. Bucky’s biggest worry was how she would react to him, it was whether or not she would even remember him, remember the day they had.

“Sam would you quit it! This is the love of his life, the girl who got away, she’s his Doll!” Steve stood from his seat and walked towards Bucky, holding his shoulders with a firm grasp. “You got this bud, go in there. Go and get your girl and for the love of god. Don’t. Let. Her. Get. Away again!” With each word Steve shook Bucky slightly before he finished with a nod of his head and shoved Bucky towards the door.

Bucky was racking his hands through his hair and opening the door to the lab. He would not let his Doll get away from him again. He walked slowly through the main area of the lab towards the office at the back that was hidden away. That’s when he saw her, sitting on the stool with papers and books spread out around her laptop which she was currently scrolling through. She had Bucky breathless, he stood by the wall that separated the office from the main area of the lab with his arms loose at his sides and his mouth agape. It was 100% her.

“Doll?” he whispered out, frozen in his spot. Y/N spun her head around and sucked in a breath when she saw the man in the doorway.

He didn’t look much different she thought, she expected him to have long hair, for his shoulders to be tense and his eyes tired and pained. But he wasn’t. His hair was short but slightly longer on the top like it had been in ‘43, he even had that little loose bit of fringe that refused to sit with the rest of his hair. His body was relaxed, his face clear and tanned. She wondered if he remembered her, or if maybe he called everyone Doll now, maybe she wasn’t so different.

Y/N had to keep her composure, she couldn’t let him know her dirty little secret, she couldn’t risk it. So she smiled shyly, stood from her stool and took a step towards him, sticking her hand out to shake.

“You must be Bucky, I’m Y/N, Dr Banner’s new assistant,” he shook her hand gently and she sat back in her seat.

“How do you-?”

“Well, the metal hand is one give away, I’ve also seen pictures, there’s some in Steve’s office,” she ticked something off on a piece of paper and smiled at him again. Bucky nodded his head and rubbed his hand over his jaw, this wasn’t exactly the romantic reunion he was hoping for, maybe she didn’t remember him. “Are you looking for Dr Banner?”

“Uhh, yea,” Bucky took a step further into the room as she stood again and gathered some papers, walking towards the photocopier. “He told me to pop round so,”

“Oh, well he’s at lunch with Tony at the moment. He should be back in ten minutes or so though if you wanted to stick around, or I can tell him you stopped by,” she kept her attention on the task of photocopying the graphs and analysis notes she’d made. This was too formal for her liking, he didn’t remember her.

“Is it okay if I wait?” Bucky said standing in the middle of the room, she glanced at him and nodded as she walked past and stood in front of her laptop. “What are you doing?”

“Some weather analysis actually,” she smiled to herself and kept her head down, “I’m testing to see how much Sam’s wings can take in extreme weather. The coldest of cold in winter, warmest of warms in summer sort of thing.”

Bucky’s ears perked when she mentioned winter and summer, what if she did remember him? He had to test this. “That sounds pretty interesting, he’ll probably be pleased to know his suit can withstand any season.” Y/N heard the smile in his voice and the small step he took. What if he does remember her?

“Do you have a preferred season Bucky?” she asked peering at him quickly before turning back to her screen. Bucky tried to hold back the smile that spread across his face, biting the inside of his cheeks to prevent it from getting any wider.

“I do actually,” he looked towards the door and then back to her, taking another small step towards her.

“What is it?”

“Spring.”

“And why’s that?” she bit her bottom lip to suppress her own smile.

“I like what it represents,” he stood right behind her now, close enough to touch his hands hovered over her back, “coming out of the dark someone once told me,” he smiled, she turned to look at him over her shoulder with a small smile.

“The lines at ice cream parlors are always shorter as well,” she said, her smile widened, Bucky breathed out a laugh as he pressed his forehead against hers and held her face in his hands.

“I knew it was you Doll, I can’t believe you’re here.” She held his wrists and closed her eyes briefly. “How are you here?” He whispered quietly, she opened her eyes and tried to blink back the water in her eyes as she took a step back out of his grip.

“I shouldn’t - I stayed too long. I shouldn’t have - I’m so sorry Bucky, I’m so sorry.” This was wrong, this was so very very wrong. She fucked up, she fucked up so bad why did she have to experiment with her powers why couldn’t she just be happy with how she was. She took another step back as he took one forward. God but she loved that day she spent with him so much she knew she would do the exact same thing over and over again if given the choice.

“Don’t, please don’t apologise for that day Doll,” he reached out and brushed his fingers over the back of her hand, “how is this possible though?” his voice was quiet and soft, not wanting to frighten her. Y/N took her hand away from his and curled it into a fist, she clapped her fists together and in a small blast of light she was gone from where she stood.

“They call me a jumper, well people with my powers.” Y/N said from behind him now, he spun around, his eyes were wide in shock. “It was an accident, I was running late and then all of a sudden I’d gone back five minutes and didn’t miss my train.” She fidgeted with her hands, looking down at her feet. “Then I started experimenting, seeing how much I could do, how far back I could go. I haven’t gone forward, I don’t want to see the future, but the past,” she looked up at the ceiling, a smile breaking out on her face, “it just fascinates me, and I had this dress from Halloween so I thought I’d see if I could go back further than my own timeline, and I did.”

Bucky shook his head in amazement. It made sense, it made perfect sense and here she was in front of him proving it to her. He felt like she was meant to go back and meet him, like it was fate that she ended up at that fair. Bucky moved toward her and took her hands in his own causing her to look at him. He smiled at her, that toothy smirk she had imprinted in her brain from their day out.

“I shouldn’t have talked to you, I didn’t mean to I promise. I just - I saw the posters, I wanted to see the show. Then you were stood next to me and I recognised you and I just. I wanted to talk to you, wanted to know if the stories were true and,” she let out a laugh as he watched her, “you’re definitely not a womaniser and Steve is right to call you a giant nerd.” Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, “please don’t tell anyone Bucky, please they can’t know.”

Bucky ran his fingers through her hair and pulled Y/N into his chest. She pleaded for him to keep her secret, ‘they can’t know’ she kept repeating.

“I won’t,” his fingers were tangled in her hair and his vibranium arm tightened around her waist, “I promise I won’t, I’m just so fucking thankful you’re here Doll.” His breath shook as he spoke and she pulled away and looked up at him. Steve’s words ran through his brain at that moment, don’t you dare let her get away, he told himself. So he didn’t, he cupped her face and he kissed her like his life depended on it, to him, it did.

And she kissed him back. She wrapped her hands around the collar of his shirt and she pulled him against her. His arms gripped her waist, they pulled at her shirt, moved up her back and back down and squeezed her hips. She pulled him down further by his neck as he licked at her lip, smiling as she opened her mouth slightly immediately at his request. Bucky choked back a whimper as his tongue explored her mouth, she tasted the same, he noted. Bitter with a touch of sweetness, he knew what it was now though, caramel latte, but he liked to believe that sweetness was still just her.

They heard the door open and Tony’s voice immediately sounded throughout the lab. Y/N pushed Bucky away, she straightened her shirt and turned back to her laptop while he ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his hand down his face, trying to compose himself.

“We bought you some leftovers. Hello Barnes, what brings you to our neck of the woods? Here to meet Banners lovely new assistant?” Tony dropped the bag of leftovers next to her on the table and smiled brightly at Bucky who shoved his hands in his pocket.

“Bruce said I should pop by,” he muttered out, his eyes darting between Y/N, Tony and Bruce.

“I did, wanted to introduce you to Y/N, thought you two might hit it off,” Bruce smiled innocently between the two of them, “but I suppose you two have already met, damn.”

“Uh, yea. I should get going, training.” Bucky nodded before bidding a small farewell to the two men, giving a small smile to Y/N before darting out the door.

“How’s the flying car coming along Tony?” Bucky heard Y/N say as he closed the door and walked back to his room laughing to himself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was nearing eight when Y/N walked out of the lab with her jacket on, ready to go to sleep as soon as she got home.

It was nearing eight as Bucky leaned against the wall in the hallway waiting for her to round the corner towards the elevators.

She let out a yelp as soon as she felt arms wrap around her waist and pull her into their chest.

“Shush, geez Doll it’s just me,” Bucky laughed into the back of her neck as he lowered her back to the ground and spun her round to face him.

“What are you doing here?” she laughed at him, looking around to make sure they were alone. They’d just met, well, that’s what the team thought. If they saw Bucky and Y/N this close after only having just met they’d be some questions.

“Thought I could take you out for a late snack, if you want,” he bit his lip and let go of her hips, taking a small step back. “I wanted to tell you something as well.” She hummed an acknowledgment, finding his hand when he didn’t respond straight away. “I’m not - I’m not the same man I was in ‘43 Y/N. I need you to know that before I take you out, before whatever happens happens. I’m damaged goods and I’m recovering but I’m never going to be that man again,” Bucky rushed his words out, watching his fingers play with hers nervously.

“Bucky, I only knew that man for less than 24 hours,” she brushed her fingers over his jaw, squeezing his hand in reassurance, “how about that late night snack, we can properly get to know each other.”

Bucky leaned into her touch, he kissed her palm, held her wrist as she placed small pecks on her finger tips. “Still got me wrapped around your finger though,” he smirked, leaning in and kissing her softly. And again with more force, again with more passion, a little bit longer each time until she was pulled against his chest, her arms in his hair and his hands slipping up her back underneath her shirt. They both laughed and giggled as they continued to kiss and make their way towards the elevator. He pressed her against the door next to the buttons and brushed his lips across her jaw and pressed them behind her air.

“I’ve got snacks in my room,” he breathed out as the doors opened and they stepped in, bodies still attached to each other. Y/N nodded against his cheek and Bucky’s hand moved frantically to find the button that would take them to his floor as she pulled him down for another kiss.

“Geez Y/N,” Bucky breathed out pulling her out of the elevator and walking backwards down the hall, “Doll, I’m never letting you go,” he paused in front of his door, opening it and pulling her in after him.

“Please don’t,” she whispered against him. Bucky ran his hands down her side, he rested his forehead on her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He waited a goddamn lifetime for this girl and he was done waiting. He used to think she was the one that got away but here she was, in his arms, kissing his shoulder.

“Luckiest man in the world,” he breathed out holding her tightly. Bucky hoped she knew just how much she meant to him. He hoped she knew just how much that he loved her from the second he promised to let her drive her flying car. Maybe one day he’d tell her. Maybe one day he’d tell her that the way she talked about Spring is something that helped him step out of his own darkness. Maybe one day he’d tell her how happy he was when he saw her sitting in that lab, when he found her again.

Today he was just happy he got his girl, got his Doll and she wanted him as well, and maybe he wasn’t going to tell her just yet but I can promise you that he was going to show her. He was not letting her go this time.

His jumper, his Doll.

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Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think and requests are open!