#steve rogers is too pure for this world

[vertigoartgore]

1980's Captain America Vol.1 #250 cover by John Byrne, Joe Rubinstein & Irv Watanabe.

[moniquesha]

tale as old as time

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Summary: You in your 100s reunite with your childhood love, Bucky Barnes, who has returned from the past unchanged.

Warnings: Pure angst.

a/n: sorry! love u guys.

“When I grow up, Bucky, I will marry you.”

Those words echo in your mind as you cradle your grandchild on your lap, the weight of a century settling into your bones. You've lived a good life, you’re now in your 100s, married a kind man who provided for you, raised three children who built families of their own, and watched the world transform from telephones to smartphones. Your grandchildren taught you how to press the right buttons to FaceTime them. Your hair is gray, your skin lined with time, your movements slower but still steady.

But beneath the surface, the girl you once were still lingers, lost in the memories of the 1940s. A time of war, of love, of loss.

It all began again the day the world rediscovered Steve Rogers. You had known him, not well, but well enough to remember the people around him. The shock of seeing him alive, unchanged, like a ghost who had stepped out of time, was impossible to fathom. Your children explained the science: frozen in ice for decades, preserved against all odds. It sounded unreal.

And then, you remember your late husband squeezing your hand, his voice quiet as he spoke of an old friend, a brother-in-arms.

James Buchanan Barnes.

But no. He wasn’t just Steve’s best friend. He was yours.

The military had sent you a letter, thanking him for his service, confirming what you already feared: he was gone. You grieved, but the world moved on, and so you forced yourself to as well. 

Your first grandchild from your first child is bound to get married this summer. You think of the generations ahead of you—the legacy you've built, the family that will continue long after you're gone. It fills you with a quiet kind of pride, a warmth that settles deep in your bones.

But a knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts.

“Nana! I'll get it!” your fourth grandchild exclaims, jumping off your lap and running toward the door. You smile, watching their small figure disappear down the hall. A moment later, they return, stepping aside to reveal your first grandchild.

“Anne,” you say, surprised. “What brings you here?”

Anne is breathless, her eyes wide with excitement. “Oh my God, Nana. You won't believe who I just met at work!”

“Who?”

“The guy in your wallet!”

Your brows furrow as you instinctively reach for the small, worn photograph tucked away in your wallet, the one you've carried with you for decades. Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull it out, eyes tracing over the familiar face. Your Bucky.

You look up at Anne, who’s still breathless in the doorway, waiting for you to react. “What do you mean?” Your voice is steady, but your heart pounds.

“At work! He—he came in with some guy from the government. I swear, Nana, he looks just like the picture! Same eyes, same everything. And he—” Anne hesitates, glancing at you. “He’s asking for you.”

The room feels smaller, the weight of time pressing down on you. You hear the echoes of a promise made in childhood, the laughter of a girl who never stopped waiting. Your heart pounds as you look up at Anne, the past suddenly colliding with the present in a way you never thought possible.

You swallow, gripping the picture tightly. “Anne… what are you saying?”

Anne steps closer, her voice almost a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “Nana, I swear—it was him. He looks exactly like this picture. He came into the office today. And when I was introducing myself, he just.. froze. Like he recognized my last name. Then he asked me—‘Do you know her?’”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“He said your name, Nana. Full name. Like he already knew who you were.”

The room tilts for a second. Your heart, slow and steady for years, suddenly races like it hasn’t in decades. It isn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible.

But then again… neither was Steve Rogers.

Anne exhales, finally catching her breath. “But since I am marrying a governor, and that governor, Brian, my love, is close with Bucky, because he's in politics now? A big jump if you ask me, but he’s invited to my wedding! And you know that tomorrow’s the rehearsal dinner, so I’m here to say that he might be there.” Anne takes another breath. “That’s all.”

Your grip tightens on the photo, heart pounding against your ribs. Your mind races to keep up with Anne’s words. Your chest feels tight, like the past and present are colliding too fast for you to catch up. You stare at Anne, her words still sinking in.

“You’re saying… he’ll be at the rehearsal dinner?” Your voice is quieter now, almost unsure.

Anne nods. “Might be. Brian’s bringing a bunch of people, and Bucky’s on the list. Figured you should know. Didn’t want you walking in and, you know, passing out or something.” She laughs lightly, but when she sees your expression remain unchanged, she sobers. “Nana?”

You let out a slow, measured breath, trying to steady yourself. Your mind flashes back to the last time you saw him young, beautiful, full of life. A lifetime ago. And now, tomorrow, you might see him again. You carefully tuck the photo back into your wallet, pressing your palm over it as if that could steady your heartbeat. Then, finally, you find your voice.

“Well,” you say, managing a small smile, “I suppose I should find something nice to wear.”

Brooklyn, 1943.

The summer air was thick with warmth and the sound of life, radios playing swing music from open windows, the chatter of neighbors, the laughter of children playing stickball in the street. You sat on the steps of your brownstone, the hem of your dress bunched in your hands as you kicked your feet idly, watching a group of boys across the street.

Bucky Barnes was at the center of it all, as he always was.

He stood with that effortless confidence, tossing a baseball back and forth with Steve Rogers, who despite his smaller frame held his own. You watched them with a soft smile, but your eyes lingered on Bucky. They always did.

He must have felt your gaze because, in an instant, he turned and grinned, all cocky charm and bright blue eyes. “You keep starin’, beautifull, and I’m gonna think you’ve got a crush on me.”

Your face heated instantly. “You wish, Barnes.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed the ball back to Bucky. “She’s got you figured out.”

Bucky caught it effortlessly, but his smirk didn’t waver. He took a few steps toward you, leaning down so close you could see the playful glint in his eyes. “C’mon, sweetheart. I’m not that bad, am I?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible, that’s what you are.”

Bucky chuckled, straightening. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He spun the baseball in his hands. “When I come back from this war, I’ll take you to the Stork Club, and you can finally admit you’ve been in love with me this whole time.”

Your heart clenched, the mention of the war pulling you back to reality. The draft had already taken so many boys, and soon, it would take Bucky too. You hated thinking about it. Hated knowing that the world was changing, that these days of teasing and laughter would soon be replaced by goodbyes and prayers.

So, instead of showing your fear, you smirked and crossed your arms. “You’re awfully confident, Barnes.”

He grinned. “Always.”

Then, before you could say anything else, he tossed the baseball up one last time and walked off, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune.

You watched him go, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name. You looked down at the ground, watching the dust swirl in the breeze, then whispered to yourself, barely audible above the noise of the street.

"When I grow up, Bucky, I will marry you."

You never told him those words aloud, never had the chance but they hung in the air between you, a quiet promise you made to yourself. You would wait. No matter how long it took, no matter the war, you would wait.

Winter, 1944 - Christmas Eve.

The war had stolen so much already. Brothers, fathers, lovers. It had stolen laughter from the streets, replaced bright futures with uncertainty. But tonight, just for a little while, you let yourself forget. You stood outside in the cold, bundled in your coat, staring up at the night sky. Snowflakes danced down from the heavens, coating Brooklyn in a hush of white. The world felt quiet. Peaceful.

Then, you heard it.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Your heart leapt before you even turned.

Bucky stood a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his army-issued jacket, his hair dusted with snow. His grin was softer this time, not as cocky but just as warm. As if he was just as relieved to see you as you were to see him.

“Bucky,” you breathed, rushing forward. You hesitated only for a moment before throwing your arms around him. He was solid, real, warm despite the winter chill.

He chuckled, hugging you back. “Miss me?”

You pulled away just enough to look up at him, your hands still gripping his coat. “You have no idea.”

He swallowed, something flickering in his eyes. Then, just like that, the playful Bucky was back. “I only got a few days, but I figured I’d spend Christmas with my best girl.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I thought Steve was your best girl?”

Bucky laughed. “Okay, second best girl.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was too full to argue. He was here. For now, that was enough.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out something small. “Got you somethin’.”

You frowned as he placed a delicate silver bracelet in your palm. A tiny heart charm dangled from it, engraved with your initials.

“Bucky..” You looked up at him, speechless.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little shy. “Figured you might like something to remember me by.”

Your throat tightened. “As if I could forget you, Barnes.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, snowflakes settling in his dark hair, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “When I come back, we’ll have a real Christmas together. Just you and me.”

The words felt like a promise. A fragile, beautiful promise.

You held onto it with everything you had.

Present.

The memory fades, replaced by the quiet hum of your house. You open your eyes, blinking away the sting of time.

The bracelet he gave you all those years ago still rests in your jewelry box, untouched for decades. The war took him before he could keep his promise.

And yet… tomorrow, you might see him again.

Older. Changed.

But still Bucky.

Your fingers brush against your wallet once more, over the faded photograph.

The rehearsal dinner is bustling with activity. Your family, Brian's family, and Anne’s friends are all gathered on the lawn, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. You sit close to your third child, watching the younger generation move about with excitement. They’ve all grown so much. Your children, their spouses, your grandchildren, what a beautiful sight to behold.

The sun is high, too high, and the warmth of the summer evening begins to feel oppressive, the heat weighing on your bones in a way it never used to. You're used to the life you’ve built, the moments you’ve cherished, but your body no longer keeps up with the pace of the world around you.

You shift in your seat, feeling the pull of the heat in your chest, the ache in your joints. You try to smile, but the fatigue is overwhelming. A light breeze would have been nice, but the air only seems to make the heat stick to your skin.

You turn to Anne, who is chatting with some guests nearby, and gently tap her on the arm. She looks over with a soft smile, her eyes full of warmth and understanding.

“I’m going to stay inside for a bit, sweetheart,” you whisper, leaning in closer. “The sun’s a bit much for me right now, and I’m feeling a little tired.”

Anne’s smile falters for just a moment, but she nods. “Of course, Nana. You rest. I’ll come check on you later.”

You give her a reassuring nod and slowly rise from your seat. You can feel the weight of the years more than ever, but you push through. It’s not the heat, it’s not the fatigue that matters. It’s the moments you’ve lived, the family you've raised, and the legacy you’ve created. You’ll rest, yes, but you’ll never stop being part of it all.

As you walk toward the house, the sound of the rehearsal continues to fade behind you. The cool interior of the house welcomes you like an old friend, the air cooler and quieter, away from the bustle of the party. You move toward the room where you know there's air conditioning, seeking refuge from the oppressive heat of the rehearsal dinner, you stop in your tracks. 

In the corner of the room, a tall man stands with his back facing you, seemingly unaware of your presence. You don’t think much of it at first, just another guest, perhaps, but then something in the way he stands catches your eye.

It’s the shape of his back, the subtle curve of his shoulders, the way his suit fits him perfectly. Everything about him, even the stance, feels so familiar, so him. A sudden ache spreads across your chest as the realization hits you.

You blink, trying to steady yourself, your heart racing in disbelief. The years, the distance, all seem to vanish in an instant. It can’t be. It can’t be him. But there’s no mistaking it.

“Bucky...?”

The word escapes your lips in a soft, disbelieving whisper, almost like a prayer, as if saying it aloud would make it real. The room seems to hold its breath with you, the air thick with the weight of unspoken things.

For a moment, the man doesn’t move. His back remains turned, but there’s a change in the air. He tenses, almost imperceptibly, and you can sense the shift. A heartbeat. Then, slowly, he turns around.

And there he is.

You meet his eyes. The same deep blue you’ve dreamt of all your life. Time has passed, and the man before you is no longer the young soldier you once knew, but there’s still something about him, the way he holds himself, the way his presence fills the room that feels unmistakably Bucky.

Your chest tightens. The ache you’d carried for so long, the weight of lost years, is suddenly more intense than ever.

He’s here.

You take a step forward, your voice trembling as you whisper, “Bucky...”

Your eyes blur, the world around you fading into a haze as tears fill them, unbidden and overwhelming. You blink, trying to clear the blur, but it only deepens the ache in your chest. The years, the memories, the years of longing, all come rushing back in a flood.

You take a slow, shaky breath, the words barely making it past the tightness in your throat. “Is that... is that really you?”

Your voice cracks, soft but urgent, filled with all the emotion you've kept buried for so long. The tears that gather are a mix of disbelief, longing, and something deeper, something you haven’t allowed yourself to feel in decades.

The man before you stands still, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat, and then you see it. The flicker in his eyes, the same eyes that you once gazed into so many years ago. His lips part, and it’s like he’s trying to find the right words, or maybe he’s just as lost as you are in this moment.

“Yeah,” he finally says, his voice low, thick with emotion. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

Bucky takes a step closer, his eyes locked on yours. And you can see it now, the uncertainty, the wariness, and something else, something that makes your heart ache even more. He seems like he’s waiting for something. Maybe for you to tell him you’ve moved on, or maybe for you to tell him you’re not the same girl he left behind.

You don’t know what to say. You just stand there, the years of waiting, of dreaming, colliding with the present moment, and you can’t help the tears that escape.

You never thought you’d see him again.

And now that you have, all you can do is whisper, “I never stopped waiting, Bucky.”

His gaze softens, the hardened edges of time beginning to crack, and for a moment, he looks just as vulnerable as you feel. The words hang in the air between you, like the delicate thread that ties the past to the present, and in this moment, you know that whatever happens next, no matter how much time has passed, you’ll never stop holding onto the love that once was.

His voice is low, rough with emotion, as he takes another step closer. The words he speaks are gentle but full of something deeper, something he’s been holding onto for all this time.

“You aged so beautifully, Y/N,” Bucky says, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the silver strands in your hair, the softness that comes with the years. There’s awe in his voice, and you feel a warmth spread through you, despite the tears that still cling to your lashes.

You blink, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, unable to fully process what’s happening. His eyes, the same blue you once dreamt about, are filled with so much emotion, like he’s seeing you for the first time, but in the same breath, he’s seeing you again. The girl he left behind, and the woman you’ve become.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, the words barely escaping as you try to steady your breath. It’s hard to speak, harder to find the right words, because in this moment, everything feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, the past, the present, all mixing together in a single heartbeat.

He smiles softly, a familiar, crooked grin that you haven’t seen in so long, but now it feels different, like it’s carrying all the weight of the years that passed. “I didn’t know what to expect when I came here,” he admits, his voice quieter now, as if speaking the truth was something difficult. “But seeing you… it’s like I never left.”

You swallow hard, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. Everything inside you tells you that you should say something, but you don’t know what. The years have changed you, and they’ve changed him, but the connection between you both, still undeniable and strong, has never truly gone away.

“You didn’t leave,” you finally say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Not really. You were always with me.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, and for a moment, it feels like everything that was lost between you two can be mended in this one exchange. Bucky reaches out, tentative, his fingers brushing against your cheek, gently, like he's afraid to touch you too hard, as if the years between you are a fragile thing that could shatter at any moment.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers, his voice raw, full of regret, longing, and something tender. “My Y/N.”

You stand there, your breath shallow, your heart racing as you gaze at him, at Bucky.

He stands before you, a man still trapped in time, while you’ve lived the years he couldn’t. The difference between you two is stark, undeniable. You’ve aged, the natural course of life leaving its marks on your face, silver threading through your hair, a slower pace, the weight of time in your bones. But he, Bucky, still looks the same as he did all those years ago. The passage of time has not touched him the way it has you. He stands in front of you, untouched by the years, his face frozen in the past, that young man you fell in love with staring back at you, with a warmth that almost makes you forget everything else.

Your old hand trembles as you reach up, gently cupping his cheek. The touch is soft, hesitant at first, but then it lingers, and you feel the contrast, your aged skin against his young, smooth face. The warmth of him is both comforting and heartbreaking.

A tear slips down your cheek as you study him, the weight of the years between you two pressing against your chest. And then the words slip out, quiet but heavy with meaning.

“I'm sorry for what has happened to you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

His eyes soften, and he looks at you, that familiar flicker of pain crossing his expression. The words seem to hang in the air for a long moment, the weight of them sinking deep into both of you.

“I never wanted you to live through that,” you continue, your voice shaky. “I never wanted you to carry that burden. I didn't know… I didn’t know how much you suffered, how much it changed you.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, his hand coming up to rest over yours, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of your hand, as if grounding both of you to the present. When his eyes meet yours again, they are full of an emotion you can’t name. But in them, there’s also understanding.

“I never wanted you to suffer either,” he murmurs, voice low, filled with regret. “But you... you lived that life, you created something very beautiful. A beautiful family.” His gaze softens, and he swallows hard, the emotion evident in his voice. “I never wanted you to carry the weight of me leaving, Y/N.”

You can’t hold back the sob that escapes, the flood of feelings rising up in your chest. There’s a bittersweet sense of relief in the air, knowing that he’s here, that he hasn’t forgotten you. But there's also an overwhelming sense of loss, knowing that the years you both missed can never be regained.

You take a deep breath, still holding his cheek, your fingers brushing against his skin, trying to make sense of it all. “But you came back, Bucky,” you whisper. “And that's all that matters.”

Bucky’s expression falters, and then he gently leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m here now, Y/N. I’m here for whatever time we have left. And this time, I won’t leave you.”

Your grandchild gets married that summer, and you’re there, sitting in the front row, watching the new generation begin their journey. There’s a joy in your heart, despite everything, as you watch your family grow. 

Anne, with her wedding dress and sparkling smile, as happy as you had been so many years ago. Bucky stands beside you, his hand gently resting on yours, always there, always present, just like he promised.

The days after the wedding are simple but full. You and Bucky visit your late husband in the cemetery often, the visits filled with quiet reflection and shared memories. You’ve always talked to him there, a place where the past doesn’t feel so far away.

Bucky sits beside you, never saying much, but his presence alone is a comfort. He respects the moments of silence as you whisper things to your late husband, things you never got to say, and things you’ve always wanted to.

Whenever Bucky has the time, he visits you. He’ll come to your porch, sit with you, and talk about everything that matters, about the world that’s changed so much in his absence, about the life you’ve shared, and the life he’s only just returned to.

Time doesn’t feel so harsh when you have someone to share it with, when you have him beside you again. He’s the same Bucky you remember, and yet, you can feel that he’s changed too, shaped by the years, the pain, the history. He’s not the same young man who left you behind. But he’s still Bucky.

Every holiday, every season, you celebrate together. You can feel your life winding down, the days passing quicker than you want them to, but there’s something about having him by your side again that makes it easier to bear.

In that span of a year, you feel the comfort of knowing you haven’t missed out on everything. He’s there, by your side, through everything, just as he always should’ve been.

But you can feel your health deteriorating. Your movements become slower, your breath more labored, the ache in your chest growing heavier. Bucky notices it, but he’s not ready to face it. Not yet. Not after everything. He’s just gotten you back, and the thought of losing you again is something he can’t bring himself to entertain.

You know, though. You know your time is coming. Your body is telling you, the signs are all there, even if he’s not ready to acknowledge them. You’ve had a good life, a long life, and you know that your time is winding down.

So one night, as the weight of it all presses heavily on your chest, you grab your smartphone, the same one Anne had helped teach you to use all those months ago, and with trembling hands, you call Bucky.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then his familiar voice, filled with concern, comes through the line. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You smile, weakly, but warmly, at the sound of his voice. “Come visit me, Bucky. Please.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then you hear him, his voice so full of tenderness it makes your heart swell. “I’ll be right there.”

And just like that, Bucky keeps his promise again. He walks through your door once more, taking your hand in his, never letting go. He sits by your side, like he always has, and you finally feel at peace. The years, the regrets, the heartache, all of it fades into the background as he’s there, with you, one last time.

You rest your head against his shoulder, knowing that no matter how much time you had left, you were never truly alone. Not anymore.

As you sit there, the quiet night wrapping around you, the warmth of Bucky's hand in yours is the only comfort you need. He’s there with you, in the quiet moments, in the silence that speaks more than words ever could.

Your breath is slow, labored now, and you feel the weight of the years pressing down on you. But in this moment, with him beside you, everything feels right. You look up at him, a faint smile playing on your lips despite the exhaustion in your body.

You take a shallow breath, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye as the memory floods your mind, all those years ago when you were that girl, dreaming of a future you never thought you’d have.

“I said once that when I grow up, I would marry you,” you whisper, your voice weak but full of meaning. The words feel like a final promise fulfilled, a life of waiting and longing brought full circle.

Bucky doesn’t speak immediately, but he squeezes your hand tighter, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears, like he's been holding it all in for so long. His voice cracks when he finally responds, thick with emotion.

“You did marry me, Y/N. In every way that mattered. Even if we didn’t get the time we wanted... I’ve had you with me, always.”

The silence that follows is deep, peaceful, as the two of you sit together, the years, the pain, the love, everything, filling the space between you.

And in that moment, you know that even though time is running out, you have everything you’ve ever wanted. Bucky’s promise was real. And your heart, full of all the years you had together, finally feels at peace.

“Thank you,” you whisper, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “I always knew you’d come back to me.”

Bucky rests his forehead against yours, holding you gently as if afraid you might slip away, but also knowing, in some way, you’ve already found your way back to each other.

“Tale as old as time,” you whisper, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite everything. The words feel fitting, as if they were always meant to be said here, in this final chapter of your story together. You had always known, deep down, that love like yours, unbroken, unwavering, despite the passage of time, was something that transcended everything.

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, and you can hear the hint of a tear in his voice too. “Yeah... maybe it is,” he says, his breath shaky. “But it’s our story, Y/N. And it’s the one that matters.”

You nod slowly, your head resting against his shoulder, feeling the familiar comfort of him beside you. The ache in your chest is still there, but now, it feels like it’s shared between the two of you, something that can be carried together, in these final moments.

“Tale as old as time,” you repeat, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, letting the rhythm of his breath settle in your chest. It was a simple saying, but for you and Bucky, it carried everything.

As the moments stretch on, Bucky’s presence doesn’t waver. He remains there by your side, holding your hand, his fingers gently caressing the back of yours, trying to keep you grounded to this world just a little longer.

There’s a peacefulness in his gaze, in the way he’s watching you. It’s as if, even in this moment, he’s accepting the inevitable with grace, knowing that this chapter, however painful, is a part of the story you’ve shared.

You can feel the fading strength in your body, the way your breath comes in slower, shallower intervals. The familiar warmth of his touch is a comfort, one final comfort, as your time on this earth draws to a close.

Bucky leans down, his lips brushing your forehead gently. He doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he simply stays with you, his presence enveloping you in a quiet understanding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs softly, his voice calm, steady. He’s holding it together, his grief stilling beneath a layer of acceptance, the understanding that this is how it has to be. “I’ve loved you all these years. I don’t regret a single one of them. We made it, together. And now, you’ve earned your peace.”

You can feel his hand gently squeeze yours, and despite the growing distance between you and the world, the connection remains. His words aren’t full of desperation, but of love, a love that’s been woven through decades, through the heartache and the waiting, and now, through this moment of letting go.

“You’ve been the love of my life, Y/N,” Bucky continues, his voice steady, though his eyes glisten with tears. “You’ll always be with me. And I’ll carry you with me, in my heart, for the rest of my days.”

A faint, tired smile tugs at your lips, the corners of your mouth lifting just enough for him to see. You feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of comfort in knowing that he’s ready to let you go, but with no regrets, no bitterness. It’s as if he’s at peace with this moment, understanding that this isn’t an end, but a part of something bigger.

And with that, you let go, your last breath gentle, slow, and filled with a quiet kind of release. There’s no fear, no panic. Just acceptance, like you’ve been waiting for this moment all along, knowing that it’s okay to rest now, to finally find peace.

Bucky stays with you until the very end, his hand still holding yours, his eyes never leaving your face. And as you slip away, he whispers one final promise.

“I’ll see you again. I’ll always love you, Y/N. You’ll never be forgotten.”

As the room falls into silence, Bucky is left with the feeling of you still with him, your love echoing in every corner of his heart.

a/n: i cried while writing this. i hope u did too. there’s more where this came from in my drafts! cleaning them up rn.

if you can’t stop crying, here’s my peace offering: 🐱

divider from: omi-resources

[ramp-it-up]

Call Me Captain When I...

Summary: You were Steve's subordinate, but you'd met as friends. And Steve needs your help with something.

Pairing: Early CATWS era Captain Steve Rogers x SHEILD Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. Read at your own risk. S MUT! Early CATWS Steve, talk of politics, flashbacks, groping while asleep, Not-so Inexpereinced-ish Steve, Dom Steve, Friends to lovers, angst, mutual pining, fluff, Captain and Sir kink, pulling rank, uniform kink, talking in sleep, masturbation, sex toy, voyeurism, dirty talk, nipple play, fingering, oral s ex (m receiving), raw p in v, intimations of female receiving oral.

A/N: This was supposed to be the conclusion to Greatest, but this popped in my head. This is set very soon after he first meets Sam and is still getting adjusted to the world. Also, I am not in the military and know nothing really of proper uniform or officer/subordinate address or etiquette. This is pure fantasy. Hope you like it. HBD Steve! 😁

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

-----

You woke up with a start, mouth dry, burning hot and seriously needing to pee. 

You weren’t sick; the cause of your discomfort was the 240 pound super soldier next to you. You looked over to see Steve Rogers’ sleeping face six inches away from yours on the chaise lounge of your sofa, the blue glow from your smart tv’s home screen bathing his face in eerie light. 

You allowed yourself two minutes to admire the man you had come to have a huge problematic crush on in such a short time.

You smiled to think of the first time you saw him in person as he wandered into the Information Technology Division of S.H.I.E.L.D., which you were running. 

------

He wasn’t in uniform, but who he was and his rank was unmistakable. Everyone rose when he entered. You watched him investigate the division by wandering around and looking at soldier’s workstation screens, reading files on desks, which was fine. The venerated Captain Steve Rogers had just about as high a clearance as anyone in the room.

You recognized the look on his face, a mixture of awe and earnestness, and something happened with your heart.

You couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to wake up, 70 years out of your own time. You watched his face, noting the anxiety, but mirroring his slight smile when he saw the book stacks at the rear of the room. Something like relief overtook his features. He scanned the room, calculating that the stacks went quite a way back into the facility, then he sized up the size of the troops in the division. 

You commanded 24 soldiers who helped you to oversee a good amount of basic historical, and quite a lot of classified information for SHIELD. You were too busy watching Steve’s face when his eyes found yours, and were caught off guard when he addressed you although you should not have been.

“Looks like you have quite the mission, Lieutenant.”

You snapped to attention and responded. 

“Yes, Sir. Information is key for the success of SHIELD, and we take pride in our work.”

“At ease.” 

Captain Rogers stood before you as you adjusted to parade rest. 

“I hear you do great work, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

There was an awkward silence.

“I need some help.”

“Sir?”

Steve huffed, annoyed at your formality. He looked around to see your entire division staring.

“Can we go into your office?”

“Of course, Sir.”

Once the door was closed, Steve had to address this first point, even though his body thrilled when you called him ‘Sir.’”

“You don’t need to be so formal, you know. You and I are friends, aren’t we?”

At the dulcet tone in his voice, you looked him in the eye, although you remained at parade rest. You knew that your troops were looking through your window. Steve noticed that your blinds were open and went to close them, which irritated you. That would only arouse suspicion.

Steve quickly admired your body in your work greens, eyes scanning from your boots up your pants, which were tailored very well out of necessity, to your shirt as he marveled how your buttons stayed closed. He chuckled as he had the same problem himself.

Your eyes were on him as his made their way to your face.

“You said you needed something, Captain?”

He almost groaned at that address. He needed you, spread out on his bed, calling him Captain and begging him to fuck you. But he had to play it cool. 

“I have this problem. And only you can help me with it.”

Steve had no idea how much that sounded like a line, so he barrelled ahead. He needed you, and he knew it from the moment he saw you at Sam’s house party the night before. The fact that you introduced yourself as a librarian endeared you to him, and the kind way that you talked to him all night about historical events of the 20th and 21st century cemented your place in his heart. He even adopted Sam’s nickname for you, Libby the librarian.

“I need a tutor.”

He’d piqued your interest.

“Sir?”

This time his groan was audible. That cute little head tilt was driving him crazy. And your braids up in that neat braid bun. You were wound tight at work.He wanted to have them down, waving along your ass and hypnotizing like they were last night. He wanted to wrap them around his hand as he….

You were going to be the death of him. He cleared his throat.

“I need someone to bring me up to speed. Someone who can help me understand this brave new world we have here.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes just scanned his face. He continued talking to fill the void.

“I mean, I wake up, and everything is different, society, technology, women, hell, even the president…”

“You never dreamed we’d have a black president, did you?”

You were toe to toe with him now, an equal in the field of knowledge, superior to him in history and culture. Steve liked this feeling. He really needed you.

“Honestly. No. I’ve missed the history that would lead me there. That’s why I need you.”

You bristled slightly, straightening your posture again and looking at the wall. Steve caught the vibe.

“This is not a command. I’m coming to you as a new friend that I thought we both gained last night. I want help. I’m asking you. Not as my subordinate, but as a friend. Please, Libby.”

Steve’s earnest plea melted you on the inside. You gave up trying to keep him at arm's length. You knew it was not appropriate what you did last night in your bedroom as you thought of the conversation with him last night. His voice, his eyes, those lips. And you did not overlook that body beneath his button up shirt and khakis. 

But he’d made it clear that you were friends and you would rock with that. Besides, you wanted to help America’s number one soldier see all sides of what he was fighting for. 

He needed to see the truth.

“Alright. One evening a week. Thursdays good for you?”

You walked around your desk and grabbed a post it note and started writing.

Steve was elated and nodded until you looked up at him and he responded verbally.

“Yes.”

He kind of liked you in control. It might be that much more pleasureable to subdue you. He shook his head, surprised at his own thoughts.

“Great.” 

You tore off a note and handed it to him.

“Order these books. Have one read, doesn’t matter which, by this Thursday and meet me at Pete’s Deli at 5:30.”

“Thank you.”

You smiled at him and Steve thought he was going to kneel at your feet.

“Don’t thank me yet until you’ve survived one of my very serious debates.”

“Sounds grueling.”

“You have no idea.”

—---

Over the last four months, you and Steve debated, argued, went through periods of needing space from each other, and late nights texting about tons of topics and cultural events during “the ice years,” as Steve called them. It was almost like a marriage.

You’d graduated from books, to Ted Talks, to movies, to videos on tons of topics and Steve was developing quite the knowledge base. 

You were proud of him, he digested information, reasoned it out, and didn’t become a carbon copy of you, but a well informed, better Steve Rogers. 

And fuck all, that made him even hotter.

Now, you were moving to the popular culture portion of your tutoring, and the night before you’d started the 1980’s/Spike Lee movie portion of your lessons. 

You’d binged She’s Gotta Have It, School Daze, and fell asleep halfway through Do The Right Thing. Now you were trapped between the arm of your couch and a 240 lb heat generator super strong super soldier.

You inched out from under Steve’s thick thigh, which was thrown over your legs, and was about to be able to escape when he turned over, his hand grabbing your boob and his fingers skillfully finding your thickened nub.

“Thank God for the right nipple. Thank God for the left nipple…”

You froze, but then remembered that was a line from the movie, and continued trying to escape without waking Steve up. He couldn’t be held responsible for his subconscious.

“Libby, wanna suck your nipples…please..”

You froze again. Well this was a development. Steve’s subconscious was trying to slide.

“Call me Captain when I suck your nipples. Sir when you suck me off…”

You managed to get up and you stood there, watching Steve, who was snoring now, and had no idea what he’d just said. You shook your head at the fact that he hadn’t learned the power of grey sweat pants.

In a daze, you walked to the bathroom and somehow ended up in the shower before you realized you had a guest. You were trying to process, and it was just a coincidence that your Leelo was in there. You’d be able to slake your hunger and clean up before he awoke.

Steve woke up, confused for a minute, and noticed that it was 4 am. 

He was on your couch with a Giant boner, and someone was in the shower. He stood up, stretched and went to your kitchen for a bottle of water when he heard you moan. 

Wanting to make sure that you were okay, Steve went to your slightly open bathroom door and got an earful.

“Ohhhh. Fuck, Captain, yessssss.”

Steve’s heart began to beat as he took a peek in at you through the clear glass of your shower, back against the wall as you held a sex toy to your pussy. The sight made him forget to breahe. The way you convulsed made his dick jump in his sweats. He rubbed himself to try and calm down, but your voice making those pretty sounds made him grab himself and chase friction against his clothes.

“Yes, Sir… would love to…suck… you…. offfff….fuck, Steve….!”

The sound of his name as you came made him feral and he hit his hand against the door frame. 

You stopped what you were doing as you looked toward the door. Steve used his best stealth tactics to go back to the couch, and that’s where he was when you came out of the bathroom in your robe.

“How much did you hear? Did you see anything?”

The way he was looking at you told you everything.

“I’m sorry, Steve. You were talking in your sleep, because of the movies. I got heated at what you said. Needed to relieve some tension. I understand if you want to stop meeting up. I’ve not been professional. Or a friend.”

“What did I say?”

“Hunh?”

Steve stood up and walked toward you. His voice was so deep. 

“What did I say when I was asleep?”

You gulped, but then you just said it.

“You said that you wanted to… suck my nipples and you said, ‘call me Captain when I suck your nipples. Sir when you suck me off…’”

Steve was closer now. 

“That wasn’t because of the movies.”

His hand was above you on the wall and you were staring up into his impossible blue eyes, which seemed to be shining in the dim light.

“It’s what I want to happen.”

“S-steve?”

Steve’s hand went to your hair, loosening the bun that you’d made for the shower.

“But I figured you only wanted to be friends, y’know?

“We are friends. That’s what you established when you came to my office…”

Steve fisted your braids in his hand and drew your head toward his. 

“I needed your help, true. But I was trying to get close to you without knowing how to make my move. Didn’t think you wanted me too, but what I just saw you doing in that bathroom. What I heard you saying, Libby…”

He stopped, his lips mere centimeters from yours.

“Christ, do you know how that ruined me?”

You whimpered in your throat and closed the distance between you.

If a supersoldier could slam someone against the wall gently, that is what Steve Rogers did to you as his lips and tongue explored yours. Your hands found his hair and tugged as he pulled yours, and your body pressed against his.

Steve pressed soft kisses all along your face. When he finally reached your lips, he teased you, barely touching them, causing you to whimper. He deepened the kiss, his tongue licking at yours, daring it to follow. Your mind was completely blown, and when you separated for air, Steve asked a question.

“So. Can you call me Captain when I suck your nipples? Sir when you suck me off?”

Your eyes met his and you made a silent agreement.

“Oh Yes, Sir.”

“Hmmmmmm.” 

Steve closed his eyes and groaned.

“Good girl. Correct answer.”

Steve kissed you again and this time his hands explored your body too. Your skin was moist and hot from the shower, and he ignited it even more. You writhed against him, brushing your nipples against his chest, causing them to swell and thicken. He groaned into your mouth, and it sent a pool of desire straight to your core. His hard cock pressed into your thigh insistently, and you reached into his sweats to wrap your hand around the rigid length of it.

“Jesus….” 

Steve’s ragged breath huffed into your face as his hand found your breasts and weighed them, rolling each of your nipples between his thumbs. You continued to stroke him, causing his hips to jerk up into your palm, beads of moisture helping to lubricate your hand as you stroked him as best you could, struggling to grip his girth. 

“Is this gonna fit in my mouth? In my pussy?”

Steve growled and kissed you again, his fingers parting your robe and dipping between your thighs. You shivered as first, one impossibly long thick finger slipped inside your slick heat, then two.

“We’ll make it work. You are so wet. So ready. And that mouth. If I can just experience you trying, I’d struggle not to blow my load, Libby. M’ struggling right now with just your hand.” 

“Let’s go to my bed.”

“Give me one now.”

“But-”

“What did I just say Lieutenant? Who is in command?”

Lust rocked your body at Steve pulling rank. You whimpered again.

“You are, Captain.”

“That’s right. Now stay here, and take this like the soldier you are.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Steve rewarded you with a kiss and then trailed more down your neck, moving south. He paused, his breath warming the skin over one of your swollen peaks. You were in agony.

“Captain, please.” 

“Please what?” 

“Please let me feel your lips.”

“As you wish.” 

You writhed as he kissed everywhere except where you wanted him. You tugged on his hair, which did nothing to dissuade him from his mission of driving you crazy. 

“I love that you are so desperate for me, Lib. So damn attractive.”

He hovered over your nipple as he teased it with the hot air from his mouth, looking up at you with those blue, blue eyes.

“You love this, don’t you?”

“Yes, Captain!”

Steve added his thumb to the mix of his fingers pumping in and out of you. He kept the pace consistent, no matter how much you tried to move against his fingers. Chuckling, he finally settled his lips around your nipple and hallowed his cheeks as he drew you into his mouth, causing your pussy to shudder to gush over his fingers as you came.

“C-captain!”

“Yes, Doll?” 

“N-need you to fuck me. Please.” 

“Who’s in command?” 

He grazed your nipple with his teeth. 

“You, Captain, I—” 

Steve withdrew his fingers from your cunt.

“Can you call me Sir first?”

You looked into his eyes and suddenly you wanted nothing more. You dropped to your knees in your living room, not caring how the hardwood felt on your knees. Relishing it, even.

Steve pushed your robe off your shoulders and it pooled around you as you watched him take off his t-shirt and pull down his sweats and boxers. You practically drooled at the sight of the thick tan staff in front of your face.

You watched Steve’s thick fingers grab the base of himself and squeeze and you looked up to see him clenching his jaw.

“You’ are trying to make me blow my load on your face with those eyes of yours, Lieutenant. Maybe I should ask you again. Who is in charge here?” 

“You Sir. Let me taste you, please?”

You were topping him with a request, but Steve let it slide as his cock slid past your lips and tongue.

“So fucking hot. Isn’t that what the kids say?”

Steve took your head in his hands as you put your hands behind your back and let him fuck your face. You hummed an acknowledgement as Steve groaned above you. Your pussy was sopping wet at this point.

Steve let go of your head and braced himself against the wall as he warned you through clenched teeth.

“Do you want this? Because… it….fuck… here it comes….”

You prepared yourself and swallowed quite a lot of Steve’s cum, which tasted surprisingly good. You moaned your approval as he gave you his spend.

He grasped himself again and pulled his still hard cock out of your mouth as you grinned up at him. 

“I could do that all day, Doll." He licked his lips as he looked down at you.

"Where is your bedroom again?”

You smiled and took his hand as he helped you to stand, and he followed you to your bedroom, nodding his head toward your California king.

“Get on the bed.”

Steve watched as you obeyed and stroked himself. Then, he kneeled beside you and ran his fingers along your body.

“You don’t know how much I’ve thought about this.”

You rolled under his touch, desire consuming you.

“Please…Steve”

Steve sighed, but secretly thrilled that his dream was coming true. You were begging him for it.

“I thought you knew what this was, who was in charge…”

He rolled your nipple and then pinched it when you said,

"You are, Sir!"

Steve rolled his big body over yours, supporting himself with his arms over your head. His cock nudged your wet slit, and he swore. 

“So damn good, Doll.” 

You moved your hips, trying for friction, or the goal, penetration, desperate now. 

“Please, Steve, don’t make me wait. I need you. I’m yours.”

Steve stilled, and looked into your eyes.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear that…that you’re mine?” 

His tongue licked at your bottom lip before he kissed you. 

“I’m not letting you go.” 

His hips started moving, sliding his rigid member through your folds before testing your entrance. His eyes stuttered closed at the resistance there and at the way you slowly yielded open for him. Your eyes rolled back as he stretched you out like never before, fully sliding into you.

You both gasped as he bottomed out, and you gazed at each other, getting lost in the moment. You knew you would never be the same as you met Steve’s thrusts and he didn’t break eye contact as he stroked you to the most mind-numbing orgasm you’d ever had, embarrassingly quickly. 

Steve stroked lazily for a few minutes before he pulled out, turned you over and admired your back, tenderly kissing your shoulder blades.

“You are so beautiful. Everywhere.”

He lined up to your sopping wet pussy and slowly breached you again.

“What is the proper response, Lieutenant?”

“To what, Sir?”

Steve’s head dropped so that his hair brushed your neck and his tongue traced your spine, causing you to arch your back as he slid all of the way home.

“To the statement of fact that you are beautiful. Everywhere.”

His voice was a desperate groan, and so sexy.

“Oh,” you exclaimed, and kept your mouth open, searching for air because you almost forgot how to breathe.

Steve smacked your ass.

“That’s not correct.”

He was going hard now, and his voice was strained. He was close.

“Y-yes, Sirrrrrrr!”

You came again, pussy clutching Captain America’s cock. Steve became the most profane you’d ever heard him.

“Feels so fucking good, Doll. Love this ass, and this tight, wet, pussy. Fuckkkkk!”

Steve roared as you felt his hot ropes of cum spurt inside you, triggering yet another orgasm.

“Oh my goddd!”

You collapsed and Steve moved so that you were still connected, but on your sides.

“We’ve got to finish the movie. Need to find out what happens with Mookie…”

"Yes, Sir."

But Steve was falling asleep, and you looked over your shoulder at the super soldier who looked more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. You kissed his arm, which was wound around you, and which was holding you tight.

—--

The next Thursday, you were in your office when you heard a commotion. You looked out of your window as you saw Captain Rogers striding toward your office, this time in uniform, his hat under his arm. You closed your blinds and went to stand outside the door of your space as he moved nearer to you.

Damn. You should never have told Steve how much him being in uniform affected you.

“Captain Rogers, this is a surprise.”

You kept your eyes straight ahead as you stood at attention and he moved around you.

“I need your help again, Lieutenant. In your office. Now.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“At ease.”

You relaxed as Steve put his hat on your desk, advanced upon you, putting his hands on your waist as he kissed you silly while easily lifting you and placing you on your desk. He backed up to take a look at you as you crossed your legs.

“I’m here to inspect your uniform today, Lieutenant. From this view, it looks splendid.”

“Thank you, Sir.” 

You straightened your torso and pulled on your jacket, but you knew that he was speaking about the fact that you’d worn a skirt today, as he requested.

“I’m interested to see if you followed all instructions.”

Steve’s hands were on your thighs and he pulled them apart and got on his knees before you. He smiled and licked his lips as he saw that you were in fact, not wearing any underwear. He also could smell your arousal and opened his mouth to breathe it in. He was transfixed. You snapped him out of it when you asked him a question.

“You said you needed help, Sir?”

He looked up at your cocky grin.

“Yes, lieutenant. Need you to help me with a new term I came across today in my reading. Cunnilingus?”

“Y-yes, Sir. Of course Sir.”

It was all you could say as Captain Steve Rogers inspected your uniform from underneath your skirt.

------

Read Mood.

Reblog if you liked it!

[sj-ficrecs]

fic rec 16!

SO! i haven’t been reading fic in a long time bc i’ve been reading books BUT, discovered this fic rec in my drafts from 2022 lol oops!

This is purely a fic rec blog, always reblogging fics I enjoy. usually Bucky x reader, sometimes Steve x reader, Chris Beck x reader, etc. So check out more I’ve reblogged on this page. :)

PREVIOUS FIC RECS HERE! // Q & A

Bucky x reader:

A Correspondence of Obligations by @pellucid-constellations prince!Bucky x princess!reader

“ Obedience, duty, pristine smiles—raised as the princess of an oppressive kingdom, you knew nothing else. Your father signed your life away at the ripe age of five, black ink bleeding into a contract between nations, fate cemented with the flick of a quill. So when the time came to fulfill the promises you were too young to make, you expected much of the same in the land of Brookshire. But Prince James had other plans, as did the enemies looming outside the castle walls.”

Sky Full of Song by @wkemeup pirate!Bucky x pirate/siren!reader

“Despite the bitter resentment of the crew, you found a home on Captain Barnes’ ship; on the ocean where you belonged, at the side of a captain you swore loyalty and heart to. But when course is plotted for a legendary island, the secret that has kept you alive for years is threatened to be revealed.”

Starting Gate by @navybrat817 motocross!Bucky x reader

“You attract the attention of your coworker's friend who just happens to be a handsome racer who plays for keeps.”

Oath by @softlybarnes (part of the Sugar series but can be reader alone) 40s Bucky x reader

“Bucky finally proposes to Y/N.”

Awake My Soul by @foreverindreamlandd​ Bucky x reader (Zombie apocalypse au)

“It’s been five years since zombies first started walking the Earth, destroying anything and everything in their wake. Now, in this apocalyptic world, fighting for survival comes as naturally as breathing. The one thing you’ve learned ever since they arrived, though, is that the living can be so much more dangerous than the undead. When you stumble across two young, scared boys lost in the woods and being chased by walkers, you go against your better judgment and help them to safety. Little did you know that helping them would lead you to Bucky - an angry, grumpy, distrusting member of the camp Shield. Bucky has zero interest in having you enter his life. He’s been hurt before and lost too many people to risk experiencing that kind of pain again, and he knows that there are secrets you aren’t telling the group. Yet, when push comes to shove, and you’re put at risk, he’ll stop at nothing to keep you safe.”

No Such Thing by @sanguineterrain college athlete!Bucky x reader

“You’ve been assigned to write a column for your school paper on the team’s spectacular running back. You don’t care very much for your university’s football team; you just can’t understand the hype, okay? Turns out your distaste for football bigheads was exactly on point: James Barnes is insufferable.”

Appointments by @buckycuddlebuddy Bucky x reader

“bucky barnes, finally being able to live freely in 21st century, accidentally gets a fuck buddy and starts to rediscover himself. the only weird thing about this situation is that you have to make an appointment to get railed by him.”

Recipe for Disaster by @seventven dad’s best friend!Bucky x reader

“your dad’s best friend bucky knows you have a crush on him. your parents invite him to join your family for the annual winter vacation”

In the Embers by @foreverindreamlandd Firefighter!Bucky x Fem!Plus Size!Adopted Rogers!Reader

“Bucky Barnes. The boy next door. Your brother’s best friend. The guy you’ve been in love with for as long as you can remember. Unrequited, that is, seeing that he only thinks of you as a sister (at least, that’s what you always thought). It’s been about a decade since you’ve returned home and reunited with the boy - now man - with stunning blue eyes and a smile that still puts a million butterflies in your stomach. You never expected to come back, thinking that you’d spend the rest of your life as a famous artist in Los Angeles with your boyfriend/manager. But things change, life gets messy, and now you’re back in your childhood bedroom living with your mom and working at the townie bar to make ends meet while you try to figure out what the hell to do next. The one thing that hasn’t changed? Bucky Barnes is still the boy next door, and there’s no running from him this time.”

Love in Four Acts by @chouettedubois neighbor MCU Bucky x nurse!reader

“You’re a nurse living in Brooklyn. You’ve got a crush on your next door neighbour who doesn’t seem to know you exist. One day his cat finds its way into your apartment, forcing you both to finally meet. That’s when you learn that he’s James Buchanan Barnes, ex-Winter Soldier. Well, there goes your chances. Or maybe getting close to a superhero isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds.”

Plaything part one + two by @captain-buckyyy virgin!Bucky x reader

“bucky’s innocence is just too much for you to resist”

calamitous love series by @classylo princess!reader x commoner!bucky

“Reader is a modern princess under immense pressure to marry before she takes the crown, she choose her Prince Charming four years ago… but he didn’t choose her back. He left her with a broken heart and her kingdom to rule alone. Four years later, reader is in an arranged engagement with a man who she can see herself loving… one day… everything seems to be falling into place until her original prince shows up at her engagement party determined to win her back before her wedding day.”

Not Even a Little by @intrepidacious roommate!Bucky x reader, modern au

“The problem of living with Bucky is that he makes it impossible not to fall in love with him. Even though you could list several hundred reasons why it’s a bad idea. And you have.”

Followed You by @cwbucky Bucky x reader

“You meet this guy named Bucky through Instagram. Even though neither of you knows what the other person looks like, you two immediately connect. Things get complicated when you start your new job at Stark Industries and you catch a glimpse of the handsome Sergeant Barnes.”

Matched by @nony-bear Alpha!Bucky x omega!reader

“Bucky Barnes always dreamed of settling down with a mate but after decades of trauma leaving him a grumpy old man with a robotic arm he’s convinced no one could love an alpha like him. Begrudgingly he follows his therapist advice and enrolls in the Swan Program a mate matching program offered but the new aged bio-tech company Mate-Tech”

Body Talk by @boxofbonesfic trainer!Bucky x plus size!reader

“You’re determined to come out of this breakup a better you, but Bucky likes the you you are.”

King in Your Story by @sinner-as-saint viking!Bucky x princess!reader

“Everyone in your father’s Kingdom knows that the Vikings often raid the castle’s warehouses. They take anything they want. Food, gold, weapons. Although they never seem to hurt your subjects. But you had had enough. Given your training, and your need to defend your Kingdom, your father agrees to let you trap the Vikings and bring them in for negotiation because this habit of theirs needs to be stopped. You hated the Vikings, and you thought you always would. Until the moment you met a pair of blue eyes which made your world stand still. Bucky was the Chief of his people; muscular, rough and tumble, and arrogant. Not to mention a shameless flirt, and he got on your nerves the most. But you knew it from the very day you laid eyes on his very handsome face that no matter how hard you tried, some part of you couldn’t fully hate him, nor resist him - even if he was the rival.”

Oh Baby, Oh Baby by @tooearlyforthis Bucky x reader

“As a new recruit, y/n isn’t allowed to go on all the missions yet. To make matters worse, they left behind another, someone that she had despised ever since she first stepped foot in the compound - James Buchanan Barnes.”

Before You by @m4tthewmurd0ck prince!Bucky x baker!reader

reader is a baker who happens to work at a shop the royals enjoy getting baked goods from :)

Steve Rogers x reader:

Rising Tide by @pellucid-constellations surfer!Steve x reader

“A relationship built up from the ocean floor, you and Steve had lifetime worth of memories—most best friends did. But things were beginning to change, unspoken feelings creating a rift that cast a shadow over the bond you called home. Unfortunately for you, rip currents are often hardest to spot in the dark”

[amethystarachnid]

Hey rose! I hope you're doing alright! I absolutely adore your Tony stark fics!! I hope you'd write one for Steve Rogers or loki. Can you write something with any one of them where their partner (reader) is very emotional, like cries at tv shows and books, can never NOT tear up when any of them say anything romantic or meaningful. And as much as they don't want their partner to cry, they feel really appreciated. Just loads of fluff! Thank you!<3🩵

P.s. ofc feel free to change or add anything you fell like. Appreciate it!

HAPPY TEARS

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Summary: You have always been the sensitive type, crying over movies and every sweet thing Steve did for you, and that's one of the reasons he loves you so much but, at the same it, it gets him worried for your possible reaction to the question that has been in his mind for sometime now.

ᯓ★ Word count: 8K

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing just pure fluff and just like a few words about a passionate night

ᯓ★ As always, since reader's gender isn't specified in the ask I'll write it as fem!reader because I'm a girl and it's what I'm more used to write, but if you want it to be with another gender are sure to specify it in your ask and I'll write it! <3

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, warm and inviting. It greets you before you even open your eyes, a little luxury of the life you’ve built together. Your sleepy mind pieces together the familiar sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen—the soft clink of the coffee pot returning to its base, the gentle scrape of a plate across the counter.

He’s making breakfast.

The thought alone tugs at your heart. After seven years together, Steve Rogers still finds a way to make every morning feel special, no matter how ordinary. You pull the blanket tighter around you and close your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of his hums blend with the noise of the city beyond the window. It’s moments like these, the quiet ones, that remind you just how deeply you’re loved.

By the time you shuffle into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he’s plating up pancakes. He’s not wearing a shirt, just his gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, and his blond hair is damp and tousled like he’s already gone for a run. It’s infuriating how good he looks, even at this hour.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you that boyish smile, the one that makes your stomach flip even now.

You give him a sleepy grin in return, padding toward him on bare feet. His hand automatically finds the small of your back as you lean into him, your cheek pressing against his chest. For a moment, there’s no one else in the world but the two of you.

“You didn’t have to get up so early,” you mumble against his skin, your voice still thick with sleep.

“You were out like a light,” he says, his hand running gently up and down your spine. “Figured I’d let you sleep in a little.” His voice is low, affectionate, and entirely too effective at making your heart melt.

When you pull back, he tips your chin up with one finger, his blue eyes scanning your face like it’s the first time he’s seen you. “Coffee?” he asks, already stepping away to grab your favorite mug from the counter.

You watch him pour the coffee, a soft smile playing on your lips. He’s careful, deliberate, like he’s handling something precious. And you suppose, in his eyes, he is.

As he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours, sending a spark of warmth through you. The gesture is small but thoughtful, the way so many of his gestures are. Seven years, and he still makes you feel like you’re worth all the time and effort in the world.

The first sip of coffee is heavenly, and you sigh contentedly as you sink into one of the kitchen chairs. Steve sits across from you, his long legs stretching out under the table, and slides a plate of pancakes in your direction. “Banana chocolate chip,” he says. “Thought you might want something sweet today.”

Your eyes go wide. “You made these just for me?”

His laugh is soft and teasing. “Who else would I make them for?”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, and before you can stop it, tears start to blur your vision.

Steve freezes mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air. “Hey,” he says gently, already moving his chair closer to yours. “What’s wrong?” His hand lands lightly on your knee, his thumb stroking small circles there.

You shake your head, letting out a watery laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You glance down at the pancakes, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. “You made me pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, clearly not understanding why that’s enough to turn you into a mess. “And?”

“And you made them the way I like them,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes. “With the chocolate chips on top, not mixed in, because you know I like the crunch.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you look up at him, feeling ridiculous for crying over pancakes. “You’re too good to me.”

His expression softens instantly, a mix of affection and bemusement. He moves his chair even closer, until his knees bump yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs catching the stray tears. “It’s just pancakes.”

“No, it’s not,” you insist, your voice a little shaky. “It’s… it’s that you always think of these little things. You always go out of your way to make me happy.” You gesture toward the plate, then to him. “Even after all this time, you still do stuff like this.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, leaning in to press his lips softly against your forehead. “I hope you know I don’t do any of this because I feel like I have to,” he murmurs. “I do it because I want to. Because seeing you happy is worth it. Every single time.”

His words are a balm, soothing the tight ache in your chest, and you let out a shaky laugh. “Well, congratulations,” you say, trying for levity. “You made me cry before breakfast again.”

“Again?” he echoes, chuckling softly. “I’m starting to think it’s my superpower.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, even as you swipe at your damp cheeks. “You’d give Tony a run for his money.”

“I’ll let him know,” Steve says with a wink, sliding the plate closer to you. “Now eat your pancakes before they get cold.”

You roll your eyes, but the teasing warmth in his tone makes you reach for your fork. The first bite is everything you expected—soft, sweet, and rich with the perfect balance of flavors. You moan appreciatively, and Steve grins at the sound, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Good?” he asks, resting his chin on one hand as he watches you.

“Good,” you say around a mouthful of pancake, the tension in your chest easing with every bite.

For a while, the two of you eat in companionable silence, the kind that only comes from years of knowing and loving each other. Steve tells you about his run—how Sam gave him grief for being late to their meeting spot, how the park was unusually crowded this morning—and you listen with a soft smile, chiming in occasionally with little jokes or questions.

But even as the conversation flows, you can see the way Steve keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, like he’s still trying to puzzle you out. He’s always been like this, endlessly patient, endlessly curious about the way your mind works.

Finally, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, studying you. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how sensitive you are.”

You pause mid-bite, your fork hovering just shy of your lips. “Is that a bad thing?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Not at all,” he says quickly, his expression earnest. “I mean it in the best way. You feel everything so deeply, and… I don’t know. It amazes me, I guess. How you can look at something as simple as pancakes and see all the love behind it.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, and you glance down at your plate. “I don’t mean to make a big deal out of things,” you mumble. “I just… I can’t help it. When you do something sweet, it gets to me.”

He reaches across the table, his hand covering yours. “I don’t want you to help it,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I love that about you. I love that you cry over movies and surprise gifts and little things like pancakes. It reminds me to slow down and appreciate those things too.”

You blink at him, your throat tightening all over again. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” he says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “So, if you feel like crying over pancakes or anything else, go ahead. I’ll be here to catch the tears.”

It’s too much—his words, his presence, the unshakable love in his eyes. Before you can stop yourself, you’re crying again, this time out of sheer gratitude. Steve just laughs softly and moves to your side, pulling you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you,” you whisper against his chest, your voice trembling.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your head. “More than anything.”

Friday nights at the Tower are sacred—a time to unwind, laugh, and for Tony Stark to force his eclectic taste in movies on the rest of the Avengers. Tonight, the team has assembled in the massive home theater, complete with a state-of-the-art sound system, plush recliners, and enough snacks to sustain a small army.

You’re curled up next to Steve on one of the oversized couches, your legs tucked beneath you and your head leaning on his shoulder. His arm is draped casually around you, and he’s absently playing with the ends of your hair as Tony prowls the front of the room, remote in hand, his enthusiasm palpable.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tony announces, dramatically pointing the remote like it’s a scepter, “tonight’s feature presentation is the cinematic masterpiece, Titanic.”

Groans ripple through the group.

“Tony, again?” Natasha asks, leaning back in her seat with a smirk. “You have a billion-dollar movie collection, and you keep picking this one.”

“It’s called having taste, Romanoff,” Tony retorts, tossing her a packet of Red Vines. “Some of us recognize greatness when we see it. This movie has it all: romance, drama, social commentary, and the single greatest piece of floating debris in cinematic history.”

“It’s a door,” Clint says flatly.

“It’s art,” Tony snaps back, dramatically clutching his chest like he’s been wounded.

Steve chuckles under his breath, squeezing your shoulder gently. “You okay with this one?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “We can always sneak out and watch something else.”

You shake your head, giving him a small, teary smile. “No, it’s fine. I just… I’m probably going to cry.”

“I know,” he says softly, brushing a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay.”

The others are still bickering as the lights dim and the iconic opening notes of James Horner’s score fill the room. You take a deep breath, already bracing yourself. You’ve seen Titanic before—enough times to know that you’re in for an emotional ride—but somehow, the anticipation makes it worse.

It doesn’t take long. By the time Rose boards the ship and gazes out at the ocean, your eyes are already brimming with tears. The sheer scale of the doomed ship, the haunting foreshadowing—it all hits you at once.

“Uh, are you okay?” Bruce whispers from the seat next to you, looking genuinely concerned.

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice thick. “I just… I know what’s going to happen.”

Steve, unfazed, reaches into the bowl of popcorn and pops a kernel into his mouth. “This is normal,” he explains casually to Bruce, his tone as calm as if he were describing the weather. “She gets emotional during movies. It’s just how she is.”

Bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing like he’s trying to understand. “But… it’s barely started.”

“She’s a big feeler,” Steve says with a shrug, pulling you a little closer as your sniffles grow louder.

“Is someone crying already?” Tony hisses from the front row, twisting around to squint into the dim light. When his eyes land on you, he raises an eyebrow. “We haven’t even hit the iceberg. You know that, right?”

“She knows,” Steve replies evenly, not even looking up from the screen. He grabs a tissue from the box he always keeps nearby during movie nights—specifically for you—and hands it to you without missing a beat.

Tony’s jaw drops. “You brought tissues specifically for this?”

“Of course,” Steve says, as though it’s obvious. “It happens every time.”

The group exchanges looks, equal parts bewildered and amused, but Steve just leans down to kiss the top of your head. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “Just let it out.”

“Wow,” Clint says, his tone dripping with mock admiration. “You’re a braver man than I am, Rogers.”

The movie marches on, each scene tugging at your heartstrings with surgical precision. Jack and Rose meet. They fall in love. They dance in third class and spit off the back of the ship. By the time they’re standing on the prow, their arms spread wide as the wind rushes around them, you’re openly sobbing into Steve’s chest.

“Am I supposed to do something?” Bruce whispers, looking helplessly at Steve.

“Nope,” Steve replies, rubbing slow circles on your back. “Just let her cry. She’ll feel better afterward.”

“I’m not sure that’s how crying works,” Bruce mutters, but he stays quiet, occasionally passing you another tissue.

Tony, meanwhile, is watching you with thinly veiled amusement. “I’ve gotta ask,” he says during a quieter moment, “do you cry at every movie, or is this one just special?”

“Not every movie,” Steve says, his lips twitching into a small smile. “But most of them. Especially the ones with tragic endings.”

“That’s an understatement,” Natasha says dryly. “Remember Finding Nemo?”

Clint snorts. “Oh, that was legendary. We weren’t even five minutes in, and she was already bawling over the mom dying.”

Tony looks scandalized. “Finding Nemo? That’s a kids’ movie!”

“And yet…” Clint gestures toward you, now hiccupping softly as Jack and Rose sneak into the cargo hold for their iconic steamy scene.

“She just feels things deeply,” Steve says, his voice laced with affection. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”

Tony groans dramatically, throwing a handful of popcorn in Steve’s direction. “You’re making the rest of us look bad, Rogers. Stop being so disgustingly wholesome.”

“Not my fault you guys don’t bring tissues for your girlfriends,” Steve shoots back, his smirk widening.

By the time the ship hits the iceberg, the mood in the room has shifted. Even Tony has gone quiet, though he’s clearly trying to maintain his composure. You, on the other hand, are a wreck. The sight of the passengers scrambling for lifeboats, the haunting wails of the violinists playing “Nearer My God to Thee”—it’s too much.

Your sobs reach a crescendo as Jack and Rose cling to each other in the freezing water, their breaths ragged and visible in the frigid air. Steve adjusts his hold on you, tucking your head under his chin and murmuring soft reassurances.

“I’ll never let go, Jack!” Rose cries, her voice breaking.

You lose it completely, clutching at Steve’s shirt as though your own heart is breaking. Steve strokes your hair, his voice calm and steady. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Tony, meanwhile, is blinking rapidly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “What?” he says defensively when Clint raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s allergies. Big-screen projectors always make my eyes water.”

Natasha snickers. “Sure they do.”

As the credits roll, you’re still hiccupping softly, your face buried in Steve’s chest. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hand moving in a soothing rhythm along your back.

“Okay, that was… intense,” Bruce says, looking around the room like he’s not sure what just happened.

“I’m pretty sure I lost three pounds in tears,” Clint adds, tossing an empty box of tissues onto the table. “Do we have a hydration station somewhere?”

Tony sniffs loudly and stands, stretching his arms overhead. “Well, folks, that’s how you do cinema. Epic. Heartbreaking. Unforgettable.”

“Admit it, you cried,” Natasha says, smirking at him.

“I did no such thing,” Tony replies, looking deeply offended. “Unlike some people…” He gestures dramatically toward you, still snuggled against Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says with a shrug, his tone as casual as ever. “She’s passionate. It’s one of the reasons I love her.”

“You’re an actual saint,” Clint mutters, shaking his head.

You finally lift your head, your cheeks streaked with tears but your eyes shining with gratitude. “Thanks for letting me cry all over you,” you say softly to Steve, your voice still wobbly.

“Anytime,” he replies, his smile warm and unwavering. “You know I’ve got you.”

Tony groans loudly, throwing his hands in the air. “And this,” he says, gesturing wildly at the two of you, “is why I’m never inviting you to movie night again. You two are too cute, and it’s ruining the vibe.”

“Tony, you’re just mad because you cried,” Natasha quips.

“I did not cry!” Tony protests, his voice rising an octave.

Bruce chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Whatever you say, Tony.”

As the group dissolves into laughter, Steve leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “You okay now?” he asks, his voice just for you.

You nod, your heart swelling with love for the man who always makes space for your emotions, no matter how messy they are. “I am,” you whisper. “Thanks to you.”

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling you close. “Because we’re definitely sneaking out before Tony picks another three-hour tearjerker.”

You laugh through the last of your sniffles, feeling safe and loved in his arms. As far as you’re concerned, there’s no better way to end a movie night.

After the emotional rollercoaster of Titanic, the Avengers agree on one thing: no more movies that could make you cry. Steve, ever the supportive boyfriend, gently suggests a comedy for the next round, earning nods from everyone in the room. Even Tony, slightly miffed from being accused (rightfully) of shedding a tear during Rose’s tearful farewell to Jack, throws in his agreement.

“Alright, team,” Tony announces, striding to the movie library with a flourish. “Since apparently, I’ve been overly ambitious in my cinematic choices, I’ll keep it light. Comedy. Laughs. Penguins falling over or something. Nobody cries at penguins, right?”

“Right,” you say with an encouraging smile, though your earlier sob session has left your voice hoarse.

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulder, his lips brushing your temple. “You sure you’re up for another movie?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I’m good. Something funny sounds perfect.”

The new movie is a slapstick comedy involving ridiculous pratfalls, a few over-the-top explosions (Tony’s insistence), and a hilarious subplot about a cat that keeps stealing its owner’s Wi-Fi password. It’s everything you need to decompress from the earlier emotional onslaught, and soon the room is filled with the sound of laughter.

Even Steve, who isn’t always in sync with modern humor, is chuckling at the absurd antics on screen. You’re curled up next to him, giggling into his shoulder as a character accidentally sets his kitchen on fire trying to make toast. Across the room, Tony and Clint are reenacting a particularly ridiculous dance scene, complete with exaggerated hip thrusts.

“See?” Tony says triumphantly, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “This is how you do a movie night. Fun! Light! No tears.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics. “Give it time, Stark. We’re not done yet.”

Hours later, after the comedy has ended and a few rounds of drinks have been poured, Tony somehow stumbles upon a nature documentary titled The Journey of Life. The cover features an adorable penguin waddling across a snowy landscape, and Tony declares it “perfect background noise.”

“This,” he slurs slightly, pointing at the screen, “is what we need. Penguins. Cute, waddling, ice-sliding penguins. No emotions. Just vibes.”

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Bruce asks cautiously, but Tony is already pressing play, plopping down on the couch with a fresh drink in hand.

Steve looks at you, his eyebrow raised in question. “You okay with this?”

“It’s just penguins,” you reply with a shrug, snuggling into his side. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

At first, it’s exactly what Tony promised. The documentary opens with breathtaking shots of snowy mountains and vast, icy plains. The narrator’s soothing British accent describes the challenges of survival in the harsh Antarctic environment as a colony of emperor penguins waddles across the frozen landscape.

“Oh my god, look at them!” you exclaim, your eyes lighting up. “They’re so cute!”

“They’re ridiculous,” Tony says with a chuckle. “Like tiny, overdressed toddlers. I love them.”

Everyone relaxes, lulled by the majestic scenery and the gentle cadence of the narrator’s voice. Even Steve seems to be enjoying himself, his hand absentmindedly stroking your back as you watch the penguins slide on their bellies and huddle together for warmth.

It starts with a single penguin chick—fluffy, wide-eyed, and impossibly adorable. It stumbles away from the group, its tiny feet slipping on the ice as it struggles to keep up with its parents. The narrator explains, in heartbreakingly calm tones, that not every chick survives the journey to the feeding grounds.

“No,” you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth as the camera zooms in on the chick’s desperate waddling. “No, no, no. Someone help him!”

“It’s nature,” Clint says uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. “It happens.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to watch it!” Tony snaps, his earlier bravado evaporating. His face is red, and he’s gripping his whiskey glass a little too tightly.

Steve sighs, pulling you closer as your sniffles begin. “It’s just a documentary, sweetheart. It’s the circle of life.”

“Circle of life my ass,” Tony grumbles, his voice thick. “That chick deserves better.”

As the chick stumbles farther away, your tears begin in earnest. “He’s lost! He’s so little! Steve, he’s not going to make it, is he?”

Steve pats your back, his voice soft but resigned. “Probably not, sweetheart.”

“Why are we watching this?” Tony demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Bruce. “You should’ve stopped me! You’re the smart one!”

“I didn’t know it was going to get sad!” Bruce protests, throwing up his hands. “It’s a documentary about penguins!”

By the time the chick’s fate is sealed (you can’t even bring yourself to look as the narrator solemnly declares that it’s “a tragic but essential part of the ecosystem”), you and Tony are both a mess. You’re clutching Steve’s shirt, sobbing into his chest, while Tony sniffles loudly into his empty glass.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, your voice muffled. “He was just a baby!”

“I know,” Tony says, his voice cracking. “He didn’t even get a chance! He deserved a chance!” He gestures wildly at the screen. “Why didn’t they save him? Someone could’ve—”

“It’s a documentary,” Natasha interrupts dryly, though even she looks mildly uncomfortable. “No one’s interfering.”

“That’s barbaric,” Tony declares, wiping at his eyes. “I’m calling PETA.”

Steve kisses the top of your head, his hand running soothingly along your back. “You want to stop watching?” he offers quietly.

“No,” you hiccup, though you’re clearly still devastated. “I need to see if the others are okay.”

The documentary continues, alternating between moments of lighthearted penguin antics and devastating tragedies. Each time something sad happens, you and Tony are reduced to tears, much to the bemusement of the rest of the team.

By the end of the film, when the surviving penguins finally reach their feeding grounds and triumphantly slide into the water, you and Tony are clinging to each other like war survivors.

“That was horrific,” Tony declares, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin. “Whoever made that documentary is a monster. I need a drink.”

“You’ve had several drinks,” Natasha points out, rolling her eyes.

“Not enough to erase that from my memory,” Tony replies dramatically. He glances at you, his expression softening slightly. “You okay, cry queen?”

You manage a shaky smile. “I think so. That was just… a lot.”

Steve, ever your rock, kisses your temple and pulls you close. “I don’t think we’ll be watching documentaries again anytime soon,” he murmurs.

“Seconded,” Tony says, raising his glass. “To no more emotional devastation disguised as education. Who’s with me?”

“Agreed,” Clint says, shaking his head. “No more penguins. Ever.”

As the team dissolves into laughter and lighthearted teasing, you snuggle deeper into Steve’s arms, feeling safe despite the emotional rollercoaster. No matter how many tears you shed — or how often Tony joins you — you know you’ll always have the world’s most patient boyfriend by your side.

The tower is unusually quiet after the emotional whirlwind of the movie night. The penguins have long since waddled off the screen, the room cleaned up from the chaos of snack wrappers and spilled drinks. You’re asleep now, curled up on the couch with your head resting in Steve’s lap, the faint remnants of tears drying on your cheeks.

The others linger, nursing drinks or settling into the comfortable post-movie quiet. Steve’s hand moves gently over your hair, his touch instinctive and protective as he listens to the idle conversation around him.

“Poor thing,” Natasha says softly, nodding toward you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cry so much over a documentary.”

“Speak for yourself,” Clint retorts, jerking a thumb at Tony. “He went through an entire roll of tissues.”

Tony, leaning back in his chair with his drink in hand, glares. “It’s called empathy, Barton. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Empathy,” Natasha repeats dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Or maybe whiskey?”

“A little of column A, a little of column B,” Tony mutters, waving her off. His gaze flicks toward you, then back to Steve. “You’ve got the patience of a saint, Rogers. How do you do it?”

Steve chuckles softly, looking down at you with a fondness so deep it’s almost tangible. “I love her,” he says simply, his voice quiet but steady. “She feels everything so deeply, and yeah, that means a lot of tears, but it’s also what makes her so special. She’s got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Aww,” Clint says, his tone mocking but not unkind. “Cap’s going all gooey on us.”

Steve shakes his head with a smile, but there’s something thoughtful in his expression, something weighing on him. He glances at the team, then back at you, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, after a moment’s hesitation, he clears his throat.

“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to you all about,” he begins, his voice low. “I want to ask her to marry me.”

The room goes still. Natasha blinks, her eyebrows lifting slightly. Bruce, who’s been quietly sipping his tea, looks up with a small, surprised smile. Tony leans forward, suddenly all ears.

“Well, that’s not shocking,” Clint says, breaking the silence. “You’ve been together, what, seven years? We were wondering when you were going to pop the question.”

Steve nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s been a while. I’ve known for a long time that she’s the one. But…” He hesitates, his eyes dropping to your sleeping form. His hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Bruce asks gently.

Steve lets out a soft sigh, his brow furrowing. “Her reaction. She’s so sensitive, and she gets overwhelmed easily. What if I ask and she has a panic attack? Or starts crying so much she can’t even answer me? I just… I don’t want to put her through that.”

Tony snorts. “You’re worried she’s going to cry? Newsflash, Rogers: she cries when you bring her coffee in bed. This is a proposal, man. Of course she’s going to cry.”

“Tony,” Natasha says, shooting him a warning look. “He’s being serious.”

“I am serious,” Tony retorts. “Look, she’s emotional, yeah, but she’s not fragile. She loves you, Rogers. That’s the whole point. She’s not going to freak out because you ask her to marry her—well, not in a bad way, at least.”

Steve looks unconvinced. “I know she loves me,” he says quietly. “But I also know how overwhelming things can be for her. I don’t want to put her in a position where she feels pressured or out of control.”

Natasha tilts her head, studying him with that sharp, analytical gaze of hers. “So don’t make it overwhelming,” she says simply. “You don’t have to plan some elaborate proposal. Just talk to her. Make it quiet, intimate. Something that feels safe.”

“Yeah,” Bruce adds, his tone thoughtful. “She’s not the kind of person who needs a big show, is she? She’d probably appreciate something small, just the two of you.”

Steve nods slowly, his mind working through their words. “You’re right. She doesn’t like big gestures. She always says the little things matter more to her.”

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “So make it one of those little things. Something simple but meaningful.”

Tony, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the past minute, suddenly speaks up. “And if she does cry,” he says, his voice unusually soft, “it’s not because she’s scared or upset. It’s because she loves you so much she doesn’t know how else to show it.”

The room falls silent at that, the weight of Tony’s words settling over them. Steve looks around at his teammates—his family—and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime,” Natasha replies, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

The apartment is quiet, the kind of warm, serene quiet that feels like a cocoon against the bustling world outside. It’s just the two of you tonight, the city’s hum dimmed by the thick curtains and the steady rhythm of the life you’ve built together. Dinner was simple but perfect—Steve made your favorite meal, and you couldn’t stop laughing when he got flour on his nose halfway through baking the dessert. Now, the dishes are done, the candles still flicker softly on the dining table, and the scent of warm vanilla lingers in the air.

Steve’s been acting a little off all evening. Not in a bad way, but in that telltale way that you’ve come to recognize over the years. He’s quieter than usual, thoughtful, his blue eyes darting to you and away as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle in his head. You’ve asked him twice if everything’s okay, and both times he’s smiled at you and said, “Of course,” before steering the conversation somewhere else.

You’re curled up on the couch now, a blanket draped over your lap as you sip the last of your wine. Steve sits beside you, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. His gaze lingers on you, soft and reverent, like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Steve,” you say, turning to him with a playful smile. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” he replies, though he doesn’t look away. His lips curve into that small, lopsided grin you adore, and your heart does its familiar flip-flop in your chest.

“Yes, you are,” you tease, nudging his leg with your foot. “What’s on your mind?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His hand moves to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle and deliberate, as though he’s memorizing the shape of you. Then he leans back slightly, his hand slipping into his pocket.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” he says, his voice calm but carrying a weight that makes your stomach flutter.

Your brows knit together as you sit up straighter. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” he says softly, and there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes now, a vulnerability that catches you off guard. He shifts, moving from the couch to kneel in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees.

Your heart skips. “Steve—”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. The sight of it steals the breath from your lungs, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as tears instantly pool in your eyes.

“I know how you’re feeling right now,” Steve says gently, his voice steady despite the faint blush creeping up his neck. “And I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?”

You try—really, you do—but the tears are already spilling over, and a choked laugh escapes you as you press your fingers to your lips. Steve smiles, his thumb brushing over your knee.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of affection. He opens the box, revealing a stunningly simple yet beautiful ring—a delicate gold band with a single, glittering diamond. It’s understated and timeless, just like him, and it’s so perfect you can barely breathe.

“Y/N,” he begins, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve loved you for seven years. From the first moment we met, I knew there was something about you, something I couldn’t let go of. You’ve taught me what it means to live in the present, to love with my whole heart, and to find joy in the little things.”

Your tears are flowing freely now, and you’re shaking your head as though you can’t believe what’s happening. Steve chuckles softly, his own eyes glistening.

“You’ve stood by me through everything,” he continues. “Through battles, through doubts, through all the times I’ve struggled to figure out where I fit in this world. You’ve always been my home, my safe place. And I can’t imagine spending another day without you by my side.”

He pauses, his voice catching slightly, and for a moment, you see a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I know how deeply you feel things, and I know this might be overwhelming for you. But I promise, sweetheart, you don’t have to say anything right away. I just need you to know how much I love you.”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. “So, Y/N,” he says, his voice trembling just the tiniest bit. “Will you marry me?”

The question lands like a thunderclap in your chest. You’re crying so hard now that you can barely see him through the blur of your tears. You try to speak, to form words, but they come out in a jumble of half-sobs and gasps.

“Steve—oh my god—I—” You press your hands to your cheeks, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions coursing through you. “I—I don’t—”

Steve waits patiently, his hands still steady on your knees, his expression soft and understanding. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he says quietly.

“I love you,” you finally manage to choke out, your voice trembling. “So much. You don’t even know—I just—”

Steve smiles, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I think I have an idea,” he says softly.

You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as you try to pull yourself together. “Yes,” you finally gasp, your voice breaking on the word. “Yes, Steve. Of course, yes.”

His breath leaves him in a rush, and his smile widens into something radiant as he slips the ring from the box and gently slides it onto your finger. It fits perfectly, and you stare at it through your tears, your heart bursting with so much love you think you might actually explode.

“I love you,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls you into his arms. You cling to him, your face buried in his shoulder as you sob into his shirt. He holds you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist.

“I love you too,” you whisper against his neck, your voice muffled and shaky. “So much. I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Always.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your tears still streaming but your smile brighter than the stars. “You’re too good to me,” you say, your voice trembling. “I don’t deserve you.”

Steve shakes his head, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “You deserve the world, Y/N,” he says simply. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to give it to you.”

You laugh again, a soft, breathless sound, and Steve leans in to kiss you, his lips gentle but full of promise. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the world fall away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the kind of love that feels eternal.

When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, your hands cupping his face as you whisper, “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Steve’s smile is soft, his eyes shining with unspoken emotion. “Me neither,” he says quietly. “Me neither.”

The morning sun streams through the windows, bathing the room in a golden light that feels impossibly warm and perfect. You stir under the rumpled sheets, the fabric soft against your bare skin, and the memories of the night before come rushing back. It had started tender, Steve’s hands moving over you with a reverence that left you breathless. But the sweetness had given way to something deeper, more passionate—an expression of love so consuming that it had left you both utterly undone.

Beside you, Steve shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Good morning, my beautiful bride-to-be,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and full of affection.

Your heart clenches immediately, and before you can stop yourself, tears well up in your eyes. You press your hands to your face, a choked laugh escaping as you try—and fail—to keep it together.

“Oh no,” Steve says with a chuckle, propping himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t even say anything that emotional this time.”

“You called me your bride-to-be,” you manage to say through your tears, your voice trembling with joy. “How am I supposed to handle that, Steve?”

He laughs softly, his hand brushing over your hair as he pulls you closer. “Sweetheart, if this is how you’re going to react every time I call you that, I’m in trouble. Because I plan on saying it a lot.”

You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his chest. His skin is warm and familiar, and his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek feels like home. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I don’t mean to cry so much. I’m just… so happy.”

“I know,” he says gently, his fingers trailing soothingly down your back. “And I love you for it.”

After a while, your tears subside, and you lift your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are soft and full of love, and the way he’s looking at you makes your breath catch. “Good morning,” you say softly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “My handsome fiancé.”

His grin widens at your words, and he leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet. “I like the sound of that,” he says against your lips. “Fiancé. And soon, husband.”

You feel your cheeks heat, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I can’t believe this is real,” you say quietly, tracing a finger along his jaw. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be a dream.”

“It’s real,” Steve assures you, his tone steady and full of certainty. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

The moment stretches between you, filled with a quiet, glowing warmth that feels too perfect to be real. But it is real, and as you lie there in his arms, you can’t imagine anything more perfect.

Eventually, Steve glances at the clock and sighs. “We should probably get up,” he says reluctantly. “The others are going to want to know.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Do we have to tell them today? Can’t we just stay here a little longer?”

Steve laughs, pulling the blanket off of you just enough to expose your shoulder. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, they’re going to find out eventually. Might as well tell them now before Tony starts making bets.”

You sigh dramatically but can’t help smiling as you roll over to look at him. “Fine,” you say, your tone mock-annoyed. “But if I start crying again, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he promises, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

An hour later, you’re dressed and ready, though your face is still a little puffy from all the happy tears. Steve holds your hand as you step into the elevator, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your skin. You feel nervous for some reason, though you know the team will be thrilled. It’s just that sharing something so personal, so precious, feels a little daunting.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, squeezing your hand. “It’s going to be fine. They love you.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as the elevator doors slide open to reveal the common room. The Avengers are scattered around the space, Tony sprawled on the couch with a cup of coffee, Natasha and Clint engaged in what looks like a very serious game of chess, and Bruce flipping through a book at the kitchen counter. Thor is munching on a Pop-Tart, his expression as cheerful as ever, while Sam lounges in a nearby chair, scrolling through his phone.

Tony is the first to notice you. “Well, well,” he says, setting his coffee down and smirking. “If it isn’t our golden couple. What’s with the glowing faces? Did Rogers finally tell you about his collection of antique baseball cards?”

“Tony,” Natasha says without looking up from the chessboard, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Let them talk.”

Steve clears his throat, his hand still firmly holding yours. “Actually,” he begins, glancing at you with a small, encouraging smile. “We have some news.”

At that, everyone looks up, their interest piqued. Clint leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “This should be good.”

You feel your cheeks heat under their collective gaze, but Steve’s presence beside you keeps you grounded. “We’re engaged,” you blurt out, unable to keep the words in any longer. “Steve proposed last night.”

The room erupts. Natasha and Bruce smile warmly, their congratulations genuine and heartfelt. Thor lets out a booming laugh and claps Steve on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. Sam grins, shaking his head as he mutters, “About time.” Clint whistles, looking impressed, while Tony raises his coffee mug in a mock toast.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tony says, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. “Congrats, lovebirds. I guess this means I need to start planning the bachelor party.”

Steve groans, and you laugh despite yourself, leaning into his side as the team continues to shower you with affection and teasing remarks. It’s chaotic and overwhelming, but it’s also full of love, and as you look around the room, you realize just how lucky you are to have this family.

Later, when things have settled down, Steve pulls you aside, his hand resting lightly on your waist. “See?” he says softly, his blue eyes twinkling. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “No,” you admit. “It wasn’t bad at all.”

He leans down to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees weak. “I love you, future Mrs. Rogers,” he murmurs, and once again, you find yourself wiping away happy tears.

The day has arrived. Months of planning, fittings, tastings, and a thousand little decisions have all led to this moment, and yet, standing in the bridal suite of the church, you feel like you might burst into tears before you even set foot down the aisle.

You’re wearing the dress you spent weeks obsessing over. It fits like a dream, a shimmering vision of white and lace that flows around you like a fairytale. Natasha, your bridesmaid—and perhaps the most patient person you’ve ever met—stands beside you, hands on your shoulders, trying to keep you from falling apart.

“Y/N,” she says firmly, her green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “You’ve got to hold it together. You’re going to ruin your makeup if you start crying now.”

“I know, I know,” you say, fanning your face with trembling hands as you try to will away the tears. “It’s just… everything’s so perfect, and I’m so happy, and—oh my god, Nat, what if I trip?”

“You’re not going to trip,” she says, her voice calm but decisive. “You’ve practiced this. You’re wearing sensible heels. You’ve got Tony holding onto you like a lifeline. You’ll be fine.”

At the mention of Tony, you glance toward the door, where he’s pacing just outside. Your “man of honor” had insisted on walking you down the aisle, and though he’d tried to play it cool, you could see the emotion brimming behind his bravado. He’d barely been able to get through the rehearsal without tearing up, and now you’re both in danger of becoming sobbing messes before the ceremony even begins.

“I saw him wiping his eyes earlier,” you say with a sniffle, a hint of a laugh breaking through. “If he cries, I’m done for. I’ll start sobbing right there in the aisle.”

“Then don’t look at him,” Natasha advises, picking up a tissue and dabbing at the corners of your eyes. “Keep your eyes on Steve. That’s the goal, remember? Just make it to him without crying.”

At the mention of Steve, your chest tightens with a rush of love so overwhelming it’s almost too much to bear. You picture him standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you, his blue eyes soft and full of adoration. The thought is enough to make you inhale sharply, and Natasha quickly steps in, snapping her fingers in front of your face.

“Focus,” she says sternly. “Breathe. You’ve got this.”

You nod, taking a deep, shaky breath as you try to calm yourself. “Okay. Okay, I can do this.”

Natasha gives you a small, approving smile. “That’s my girl.”

The door opens slightly, and Tony pokes his head in, his face immediately softening when he sees you. “Wow,” he says, his voice unusually quiet. “You look… wow.”

“Thanks, Tony,” you say, your voice wavering. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Don’t you dare,” Natasha warns, pointing a finger at him. “I just got her under control.”

Tony steps into the room, straightening his tie as he tries to compose himself. “Okay, okay, no crying. But seriously, Y/N, you look… breathtaking. Steve’s going to lose it when he sees you.”

The lump in your throat grows, and you press a hand to your mouth, willing yourself not to cry. Tony steps closer, taking your hand in his and squeezing gently. “Hey,” he says softly. “You’re going to be amazing. And if you cry, who cares? It’s your wedding day. You get a free pass.”

You laugh through the tears threatening to spill, nodding as you squeeze his hand back. “Thanks, Tony.”

He grins, his usual bravado creeping back in. “Besides, if anyone’s going to cry, it’s me. I’m already a wreck. You’ll have to carry me down the aisle at this rate.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but her smile is fond. “You two are a mess,” she says, shaking her head. “Come on, it’s time.”

Tony offers his arm, and you take it, your fingers trembling slightly as you hold on. The doors to the bridal suite swing open, and you catch a glimpse of the decorated aisle, lined with flowers and softly glowing candles. The music starts, and your heart pounds in your chest as you take your first step forward.

The church is full of familiar faces, but you barely register them. Your eyes are fixed on the man standing at the end of the aisle, his gaze locked onto yours. Steve looks devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, his expression a mixture of awe and love that makes your knees weak.

As you and Tony make your way down the aisle, you hear him sniffle beside you. “Damn it,” he mutters, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I said I wasn’t going to cry.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, your own tears threatening to spill again. But Natasha’s words echo in your mind, and you keep your focus on Steve, drawing strength from the love shining in his eyes.

Finally, you reach the altar, and Tony steps back, giving your hand to Steve with a small, emotional smile. Steve’s hands are warm as they take yours, and his voice is steady as he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

And that’s it. The tears spill over, and you laugh through them, shaking your head as Steve gently brushes them away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

“I don’t mind,” he says softly, his voice full of affection. “I love that you feel so much. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

The ceremony begins, and though the tears continue to flow, they’re tears of joy, shared by more than just you and Tony. By the time you say “I do,” the entire room feels wrapped in the warmth of the love you and Steve share, a love that shines brighter than any tears.

we need more soft fics in this sea of smut! (I like smut fics too but like...sometimes I just want something fluffy)

[raikan624]

Relationship HCs<3

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Tony Stark x Reader

Summary: dating headcannons w/ them<3

Warnings / contains: Pure fluff, maybe ooc, written in 2nd PoV (you/your) (!!), Reader is called 'sweetheart' (Steve) and 'doll' (Bucky),Reader is implied to be shorter than Bucky in one little imagine, but it isn't explicitly stated- he js rests his chin on your head.

A/n: First time writing for my fav sillies! Also this isn't proofread and they may be ooc I also haven't seen TFATWS, so idk anything about Bucky's development in that movie!!!!! (CW!era Bucky mostly) Not as good as I hoped it would be, but I hope you still enjoy it!!

Steve Rogers

Def wakes you up after his morning run (if you sleep in a little) with a sweet kiss to your cheek or temple and your drink of choice in hand.

"Good morning, sweetheart," the familiar voice roused you from your slumber, a lingering, sweet kiss pressed to your temple. You crack your eyes open to see Steve at your side, your favorite cup in his hand. His other hand caressed your cheek, "You sleep good?"

Slow-dancing to old 40's songs on his gramophone(!!)

Reassuring touches like a hand on your waist or his fingers brushing againsg yours

Loves cooking with you! Especially if you cook with music playing cuz it just sets a vibe

Likes to reminisce about the 40's with you :)

If you like to create stuff (write, draw(any mediums of art), sew, etc. (Anything creative)) he would love to see what you made (he treasures just about everything you make)

When he's on missions, he'll text you when he can either before or after the mission/fight(s)

"Hey, sweetheart"

"Hope you have a good sleep. I'll be home to you soon"

smthn like that

Tony Stark

will buy you anything you want; doesn't matter the price nor if you feel bad. He will do it either way :)

makes stuff for you - anything.

Your computer keeps crashing when you try to play a game or wokr on something? He's making you a new one, no questions asked

He's the definition of the situation of you walking into the kitchen in the morning to see him shirtless and in sweatpants.

Rubbing your eyes sleepily, you dragged your feet downstairs and into the kitchen. There was a soft humming and some music playing as you saw Tony. He was shirtless and wore a pair of sweatpants, leaning against the counter and making a coffee. He turned his head at the sound of your footsteps after a moment, and gave a smile at the sight of you. "Good morning,"

King of drama (obviously)

Loves to present you to the world - sassy comments and loud displays of affection

loves to wrap his arms around your waist from behind when you're alone

definitely protective of you (sometimes a bit too much)

Bucky Barnes

He's scared he'll hurt you on accident

not as much as when you first started dating, but still has a little fear of it in the back of his mind

tends to be quieter with his affections

doesn't do anything grand in public

maybe a hand hold or his hand on the small of your back

definitely protective

he doesn't want to lose you

he'll catalogue everything; every exit, every suspicious looking person, every drunk person, every possible danger, etc.

he stays close to you in public

he whispers soft affirmations to you at night

sleeps on the side closest to the bedroom door so he can protect you if anything happened

he reverently runs his hands along his sides

(he's amazed that he can call you his<3)

Because of his nightmares and stuff, he'd wake up early and just look at you as you sleep

Not in a creepy way, though

he just wants to imprint every detail of yorh face into his memory

Loves to admire the glow of the sun on your face as the sun rises

"Good morning, doll," Bucky murmurs as you slowly wake up, shifting closer to him in your bed. His hand went to your waist and he simply held you, his chin resting on top of your head. You let out a lazy hum as you snuggle into his body heat, content to stay like this with him for a while longer.

[oikarma]

you're a jazz singer with this glamorous old-hollywood vibe. think red lips, bouncy curls, and a honeyed voice. you perform with big orchestras and your stage presence is pure magic. tony, being tony, is your biggest fan and constantly brags to everyone about knowing you personally.

"y/n l/n? oh, she was here just the other day! i fixed a few of her instruments to get them in shape. takes work but they just don't make them the same."

one night, there's a massive event in honor of captain america himself. you're the headliner, all dressed up. the dress was made for you, curving in and out at the right places like a blooming flower. steve walks in, all "tony, this is too much fuss. i don't need all this. just doing my job." but then—bam!—he sees you on stage and mr. modesty is star-struck.

you're like the stars he used to see but in this new world of his. take a picture, turn it to sepia tones, and you could be part of his memories.

he's completely mesmerized by your voice and a little glance you throw his way. after the show, tony drags him over to meet you (friend of a friend, duh) and steve's awkward charm. not captain america anymore, just pre-serum steve rogers, limbs everywhere. he's stumbling over his words like "hi, oh, your singing was...it was really something. thanks for coming."

meanwhile, tony's smirking because he knew this was going to happen. you'd mentioned in passing why you picked this genre: it was because you were charmed by the old ways, the nostalgia of a different time.

and who better to fit that description than the man out of time himself?

needless to say, steve's trying to subtly listen to your work. but tony's always snooping. "oh, y/n again? you need to broaden your horizons a bit, old man."

he finds a way to get you to stark tower, something about returning an instrument? the details were rushed, while steve is there. tony slips out of the room and returns to see the two of you standing very close. steve hasn't smiled like this in a while. it's like he's looking at his past. this time, it's not going to slip out of his grasp. because not only is it everything good about his old life, but you are very much his future.

when you leave, he places a kiss on the back of your hand.

oh, how old-fashioned. how romantic. how perfect. tony won't admit it, but he may have wiped a tear.

[cthulhu-calling]

New Perspective

dark!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: What happens when you wake up in a bed that isn’t yours, next to a man who was supposed to have gone back to the past?

Warnings: dark fic, dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, smut, rape/non-con, l-bombs, friends with benefits

Author's Note: This is a dark Steve Rogers x f!Reader story. Sit this one out if it isn't for you. Please consider the tags before proceeding, this is your final warning, I am not responsible for the content you consume.

Word Count: 2,216

ao3 link

Steve Rogers Masterlsit

“You’re not coming back, are you?” 

He looked down at his feet, not able to meet your gaze. Slowly nodding his head, still not looking up, he reaches out to hold you in his massive, trunk-like arms and you let him. 

You and Steve had always been close, even if he was quite cold and standoffish when you first met. What had started off as a simple and pure friendship had developed into something more dark and dirty.

 In the day, he was your close friend and Captain but at night, he was your refuge. Nights spent with hot, sweaty, limbs tangled in each other, rough fingers tugging at your hair as you drew pleasure from each other’s bodies. 

Your arrangement was unconventional, sure, but it’s how you both liked it. No strings attached, just sex. You both had far too much going on to even consider an actual relationship with someone, so you helped each other out during lonely nights. 

To say you would miss him was a massive understatement but you knew he deserved to be happy. Happy with the love of his life,  Peggy Carter. 

Pulling away, you gently cupped his cheek before brushing your lips lightly against his. “You deserve happiness Steve. I won’t hold this against you, but don’t you dare forget about me.” you whispered as you playfully narrowed your eyes at him, poking a finger at his chest. 

He huffed out a laugh at your poor attempt at jest before pulling you close to him, searching your eyes for something more. 

“Steve, I am happy for you. After all that you’ve done for the world, you deserve a chance at being truly happy,” you said, offering him a genuine and what you hope was a reassuring smile. 

Looking lost, he gently nodded his head before pulling you towards the bed. One last time , you thought to yourself as you gave in to him. 

One last time, or so you thought.

Steve hadn’t meant to fall in love. 

What started out as a simple arrangement  of friendly banter and arguments by day and animalistic fucking by night ended up becoming the most passionate affair of his lifetime, and that in itself was saying a lot.

You were the one for him. He knew it and he believed it was high time you realised it too. 

But you? You were as clueless as they came. It was getting a little infuriating at this point, if Steve was being completely honest with himself. 

It was cute at first. How you would act as if you didn’t realise that he loved you. He bought right into the whole faux innocence act and he would be lying if he said it didn’t make him achingly hard and desperate for you. To have you on top of him, your tight little dripping hole stretching to accommodate his thick length as you moan and mewl wantonly. 

But even after months, when you failed to acknowledge how in love with you he was, it started to anger him. How you would have a flirty back and forth with Sam, or brush a perfectly manicured finger against a random stranger’s arm at the pub, bending over slightly while pushing your elbows together to give them an eyeful of your cleavage. All of it made his blood boil.  

So he decided, he had to have you. No matter what. 

He wouldn’t find a more perfect opportunity than this. Under the guise of going to return the stones, he had you believe that he wasn’t coming back, that he was going back to Peggy. Surely, that would make you insecure and you’d beg him to come back, beg him to not leave you. It was foolproof, he was sure of it. 

But when he told you he was leaving, your reaction shocked him. You weren’t desperate for him to come back, begging him to stay back and vowing to do anything to please him. Instead, you were happy for him. 

At first, he couldn’t believe his ears. Surely, you can’t be serious. Did you really not love him? 

He was quick to dispose off that thought though. He was the love of your life and you were his. You belonged with him. To him. He figured that it was all an act, to hide how you truly felt. It was then that he decided to take matters into his own hands. 

That’s how you found yourself in this predicament; groggy and confused, still half asleep in a bed that isn’t yours. Once you realise the bed isn’t actually yours, the bedding a baby pink as averse to the bright yellow of your own with every square inch covered by one too many pillows, you’re alert immediately. Where are you? 

You push the covers off of yourself and just as you’re about to set your feet on the floor, the door at the left corner of the roughly rectangular room swings open, a smiling Steve stepping inside before shutting and locking the door behind him. 

“Morning sleepy head. You’ve been out for quite a while now, almost had me worried there.” he sighed the last part, the eerily hopeful smile still glued to his face. 

You looked around yourself, taking in your surroundings before looking back up at Steve. You were in a room with clean white walls, a huge bed in the centre of the room with two twin nightstands on either side of it. There were no windows, only the door through which he had entered and that too on closer inspection seemed to be made of thick metal, too heavy for anyone without superhuman strength to even try to budge. 

“Where am I Steve? How are you still here?” you asked, you throat scratchy. 

“C’mon honey, sit up straight,” he said as he moved closer to you, holding a tall glass of water to your lips. 

Gulping down the water, you cleared your throat before asking again, “Where are we? How are you still here? I saw you leaving Steve,” you thought out loud, pushing the thick covers off of your body, suddenly feeling their presence suffocating, only to look down and find yourself in a ratty and oversized t-shirt and  boxer shorts, both you were sure you’d seen on Steve at some point in time. 

Steve took in your form hungrily, loving how you looked in his clothes. 

“You need to relax honey. I’ll answer all your questions, but not right now,” he said as he gently pushed you back on the bed, tucking you in. 

“No, I need you to tell me right now. What the fuck’s going on here exactly?” you said, throwing back the covers to move out of the bed but before you can blink, you’re pinned down by Steve’s body. 

“I will not tolerate such language from you. You’re mine and you’re going to do exactly as I say, is that clear honey?” he said almost sweetly but you knew it was all an act to hide how angry he truly was. You saw right through his facade. 

“Yours? Steve, the fuc-“ you cut yourself off on seeing his glare, “I- I uh, don’t get it. What are you on about?” you breathed out.

“No point in pretending anymore my love, I’m only doing what you were too scared to do. I know you love me, I just had to get you to admit it. What better way then a romantic little getaway. No phones, no one but the two of us,” he said in a sort of dazed voice while you just sat there, slack jawed and wide eyed.

“You-you, uh, you’ve lost it! You’ve gone absolutely mental! I don’t love you, and I’m sorry if I made you believe that I did but you need to let me go,” you said while pushing him back and quickly getting out of the bed. 

He grabbed you by your hips, spinning you around and pulling you close so you were right against his chest. 

“Stop acting coy, I know you want me just as much as I want you. Can’t you see? We’re supposed to be together, together forever. And while I won’t tolerate how you spoke to me just now, I’ll let it pass just this once.

“I know you’re stressed love, but you’ve got to accept it. You’re the love of my life. You belong to me. ” He whispered the last part slowly as his hands travelled down to the small of your back, grabbing your ass and squeezing it, making you gasp. 

His lips attacked yours, swallowing all your protests as he slowly guided you back to the bed, pushing you down on it. 

“Give me a chance to prove it to you, make you see how right we feel, together,” he mumbled as he peppered kisses down you neck and chest, occasionally sucking a dark mark, laying his claim on you. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he kept mumbling as his hand reached to tug down your shorts, deft fingers prodding at your entrance. 

He rubbed his thumb in figure-8’s around your clit, drawing a strangled moan from you. Arms and legs giving up their struggle as you fisted the sheets, pleasure shooting up your spine. 

“Please, Steve,” you moaned breathily and you knew not if you begged for him to stop or for more. 

The cheeky bastard had the audacity to act innocent as he slowed his movements, “Please what, my love?” he asked and you could hear the smug smirk on his face.

“Let me go, please!” you yelled, struggling against his hold with renewed vigour. 

Smack!

“Wrong answer honey,” he growled as he landed another smack on your bare pussy, making you yelp. 

Easily pinning you down, he ran his fingers through your folds before collecting the wetness there, bringing his dripping fingers to your lips. 

“Suck.” he ordered. 

When you didn’t move to open your mouth, he pushed his fingers into the back of your throat, effectively choking you. 

“Bad girls don’t deserve to be prepared beforehand, do they?” he asked condescendingly before he plunged his thick cock into your unprepared channel. 

Immediately setting a punishing pace as his free hand grabbed hold of both your wrists, pinning them above your head. The sound of skin slapping against skin and the squelching of your drenched pussy only spurring him on. 

“Look at you, dripping for me. You’re enjoying this just as much as me, aren’t you? And yet, yet you deny me of something that can only be right. We belong together, can’t you see?” he said with a low growl. 

You moaned around his fingers, the shame of being close to your climax while he forced himself on you bringing tears to your eyes. 

Letting go of your wrists, he brushed away your tears, driving himself harshly into your dripping cunt, “Don’t cry my love, don’t cry for something you can’t change. We belong together, and I’ll make sure you see it.” 

Making true of his promise, he started pounding into you, deeper and harder, hitting the spot that made your mind go blank, not being able to focus on anything but the pleasure that only his cock could give, that only he could give . 

You let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob as you came undone, clenching down hard on his cock, milking him. 

Grunting as he emptied himself inside of you, he slowly removed his fingers from your mouth, bringing his lips to yours for a rather chaste kiss considering he’d been balls deep in you just seconds ago. 

“I deserve to be happy. You said it yourself, my love. After all that I’ve done for this world, it’s the least I deserve. And we’re going to be so happy,” he mumbled into your ear, more for himself than you as he wrapped his arms around your waist tightly, keeping you close to his body as your eyelids started to droop. 

Oh, whatever were you going to do now? 

[stellar-solar-flare]

For your event!!!

Steve + Mob AU + ”Would you really do that for me?” + nefarious

Thank you ☺️❤️

Thank you for sending in a prompt to my event, Siri! This took a bit of a turn in my head but I hope you still enjoy it. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Malogranatum | S. R.

soft dark!Avenger!Steve Rogers x mob boss!Reader | 2,417 words.

Explicit - 18+ only. Dark romance with themes of obsessive love. AU - canon divergence & mob themes.

Story Content Warnings: Explicit sexual fantasies, obsessive/unhealthy dynamics, cold-blooded violence, murder, organized crime, discussions of human trafficking / modern slavery, references to mythology including biblical mythology, soft dark Steve Rogers, soft dark Reader.

Read the tags and warnings and do not proceed if anything about them upsets you. Your media consumption is your responsibility.

Reader is female, no description of appearance beyond a mention of her wearing heels, dress, and makeup. No use of Y/N. I imagine she's somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties, about the same age as Steve - but it isn't mentioned in the text.

Notes: There is something about the dark side of canon Steve that continues to enchant me, and my take on the prompt I got was born out of that curiosity. I enjoyed playing with a darker Reader character and the themes of a more obsessive, unhealthier love that is still born out of shared views of the world. I hope you enjoy, and of course, I am always excited to hear from you so please leave a comment if you can spare the time and energy.

Malogranatum is one of the Latin forms of the word 'pomegranate'

I do not own anything Marvel related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

No one except you could look so perfectly nonchalant when stepping over a dead body while wearing five-inch designer heels.

A woman like you didn’t belong in a dump like this — it had hardly been a three-star hotel when it had been in business use, and what was left now had been deemed unsafe years ago. Now, the lobby was musty and covered in dust and grime, and now, thanks to Steve himself, blood.

As always, you were immaculate; no smudge on your blood-red lipstick, no stray hairs sticking out of your hairdo. A trench coat was draped over your shoulders, revealing a well-tailored dress underneath as you walked towards Steve. You could’ve as well been on your way to attend some upper-crust cocktail party.

“I should’ve known you’d come,” Steve said through gritted teeth.

Your security detail — a colossal blond man whom Steve had never heard utter a word, dressed in a sharp suit that seemed to only highlight his bruteness — stopped behind the body you’d just stepped over. The body was resting with his face down, and the man turned it over with his foot.

Steve looked away. His vision was still flashing in red, wine, maroon. Behind the shield that was fastened onto his button-down-covered arm, he clenched his fist tighter. He, too, was in civilian clothes — it hadn’t been intended to come down to an ambush at all, let alone with just him with no backup. It had been supposed to be a simple stakeout, a covert operation that’d determine if he would come back with reinforcements.

It hadn’t been intended to come down to a dead body and another at the brink of it.  

“I keep tabs on my enemies,” you said, glancing at the still-living man on the floor — now reduced to a whimpering mess curled up in a fetal position on the filthy rug.

“Me included?” Steve scoffed.

“Are we enemies, Captain Rogers?” you said as you stepped closer to him. “I see no reason why we should be.”

“I could have you dragged into the Tower just for the fact that you are here.”

A half-smile curved your lip up. The expensive, intoxicating note of your perfume drifted up Steve’s nose as you reached him. He inhaled it; it covered the thick iron stench of blood.

Blood that still dripped from the edge of the shield that he’d strapped back onto his arm.

“Again? If not even Romanoff can find anything to incriminate me… I’m starting to think you have a crush on me, to be so eager to lock me into an interrogation room and get up, close, and personal.”

It certainly wasn’t a crush, whatever it was that kept him up at night ever since he had started running into you.

“What about this situation is funny to you?”

“In my line of work, you develop quite the sense of humor,” you chuckled.

“Work, you call it?” Steve said, and you gave him a smile full of secrets.

“Pays the bills,” you said, shrugging as you craned your neck to examine the still-breathing man on the ground.

His whimpers had turned into gargled sobs, his shoulders shaking as if he was having some sort of seizure. Steve still didn’t know how hard he had hit him — he had caught the sight of him, standing here and laughing with his henchman, and everything had gone blind, scorching white, a supernova burning down everything from its path.

“What are you here for? I imagine a businesswoman such as you is much too busy to simply be here to chitchat. Did you come to gloat?”

“And why would I do that, when you have solved a pesky problem for me,” you said. “Have been trying to figure out a way to take him out of the game without a risk for collateral damage.”

“To you?” he replied, even as he knew what you were talking about by the tension of your jaw.

“To them,” you said, nudging your head up towards the ceiling.

He wasn’t sure if the people had heard the commotion downstairs — but even if they had, they wouldn’t have dared to ask questions. Steve wasn’t sure how many had been lured in in total, how many had already been sold to the highest bidder, and the thought summoned a newfound cloud of red mist into his head.

“Well aren’t you the beacon of morality, defender of the innocents,” Steve scoffed. “I know how red your hands are. I may not be able to prove it but I know.”

In reply, you rested your eyes on the bloodied shield and the bruises, already healing, on Steve’s knuckles, and he gritted his teeth hard enough to bite through iron.

“What are you doing here?” he continued, grasping for some edge into his voice.

He stepped closer to you, leaning into your personal space, and he heard your security detail shift before you held out a hand, signaling the bodyguard to stand down.

You looked at Steve, your eyes bright, your mouth slightly parted, and Steve remembered the Sunday school stories about the beauty of fallen angels, of the temptation of sin, of the redness of that cursed apple.

How sweet would the first bite of damnation taste on his tongue?

“I’m here to propose a deal,” you said, as if Steve’s presence or the violence that brimmed in his body, threatening to spill over, was having no effect on you at all.

“A deal?” Steve raised his brow. “Let me take a wild guess. You make this go away, and I become your little puppet.”

“I am simply offering to take out your trash,” you said, a smirk dancing on your lips. “No strings attached.”

“What do you get out of it?” he said, and you raised your brow in turn.

“You get to keep doing what you’re doing. He’s not the only one with similar ambitions; there is yet bigger fish in the sea. And I cannot… devote all my attention to this matter, as I do have my business to run.”

“And conveniently, less hands grasping whatever cake it is you’re splitting among yourselves in the shadows means a bigger slice for you. I’m supposed to believe you’re some sort of a Robin Hood, huh?”

The words had a bite to them, but he had poured over your case enough times to know that while you were no moral beacon, no Robin Hood, you did have a code of ethics. It certainly didn’t align with the moral of the law, but the compass that guided you was there. If the intel was right on you, you were good at avoiding what you had called collateral damage.

A sudden chill overtook your features.

“You know there are lines I do not cross,” you said.

Breathtaking. Beautiful, and treacherous, like the night itself. Steve swallowed past his dry throat. He shouldn’t be entertaining any of this, and whatever it was that had gotten him so tangled with you, he should nip it in the bud.

Too late for that.

“He should get a fair trial just like anyone else,” Steve said to bring his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Regardless of if he’s a rabid animal or not.”

You tilted your head, quirking your brow. Steve forced his eyes to stay away from the tendons of your neck, forced himself not to wonder if the column of your throat held places that’d make you moan if he feathered them with his lips.

“Oh no, Rogers. He is quite human. No other species on earth is capable of such calculated cruelty.”

You huffed as if the thought amused you, and Steve knew that you were right. Perhaps that was what today had been. His cup finally spilling over, and all the lava that had gathered over the decades taking down everything that laid on its path.

“And I will face whatever consequences that come for me, too,” Steve continued to avoid acknowledging your words.

He tried to push the sound of breaking bone out of his head, tried to pretend there hadn’t been a part of him that had cherished every punch, gloried in the righteous violence. The SHIELD had been on these bastards for months on end, and he remembered every disgusting detail of their deeds. And when he had finally been given a chance to strike, alone, he had found himself desiring not for justice but for revenge.

“They’ll toss you onto the Raft,” you said. “And what for? For dishing this scum a small portion of what he’s been serving to others.”

Steve jolted; victory flashed in your eyes as he did.

“How do you —”

“I told you, Rogers, I keep tabs on my enemies,” you replied.

“I thought you said we are not enemies.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” you said, and for a moment, your face grew entirely serious. “There is something fishy going on at SHIELD. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.”

Steve drew a breath at that. The warning… He didn’t want to admit it but something about it seemed to hum in tune with some instinctual thought in the back of his head.

“You have people on the inside.”

“You say that like you’re surprised,” you said, and the smile was back.

“I am not,” he said, the words delivered with the smallest hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

You took a step closer, almost close enough for your chest to brush against his. You tilted your head softly to the side, as you spoke quietly almost into his lips, and something just as all-consuming as the rage he had felt earlier shot through his veins. He could barely stop himself from leaning closer, reaching for your mouth with his, as your perfume wrapped around him.

“Our interests align, Rogers,” you breathed. “I would hate seeing my plans fall apart just because of something like him. An unfortunate incident; a little slip-up; an occupational hazard, almost. They might give him a fair trial but you will never get one. Is he really worth throwing away all the good deeds you could do, all the lives you are yet to save so you can rot on the Raft in martyrdom?”

An ice-cold current in Steve recognized the logic; agreed with it. The man that he struck down would never give someone else anything resembling fair — why should he himself get anything better?

“Would you really do that for me?” he asked.

“You look good with blood on your face,” you whispered as if it explained everything, and maybe it did.

Your hand rose slowly up, your warm fingertips gently brushing along the line of Steve’s jaw. A fresh whiff of your perfume reached his nose — musk, dark flowery notes, pomegranates — and it was the part of him that had walked through the battlefields of the Second World War and lived that made the decision.

He nodded, and your eyes sparkled with dark light.

The crisp taste of apple filled his mouth, and he wanted nothing more than he wanted it — to grab the wrist of the hand that was touching him and pull you into a crushing kiss. He yearned for all the ways he could make you sing his name, make you drip and beg and cry out for him — to make you burn in the raging turmoil of lust that had consumed him these past months. He wanted to keep you on the knife-sharp edge between desperation and bliss, he wanted you to ride him with a blade pressed against his throat, he wanted to be deemed worthy of your bed and worthy of sinking himself all the way to the hilt inside you.

Oh, how sweet it would be to fall from grace just to have a taste of you.

“Give me twenty minutes and call in the cavalry,” you said, and maybe you knew where his thoughts were, but nothing about your voice or your expression was betraying it.

“I got an anonymous tip,” he said, and he was still not moving away from you even as the thoughts were forming.

“I’ll have someone call your work number; untraceable, of course,” you continued. “And when you got here…”

“No trace of them; just signs of struggle and bloodstains.”

He didn’t want to feel the smile that was spreading onto his lips; he knew it didn’t reach his eyes, and he didn’t want it to. It was not a true smile — it was how a predator showed their teeth.

He should not have, and yet he didn’t find it in him to feel regret.

You took a step back and turned towards your security detail, who nodded, understanding some wordless message, and gave the whimpering man on the floor a sharp kick in the ribs. The impact was enough to turn him over — he had no strength for anything other than a pathetic gurgle — and Steve saw your brows rise just a millimeter when you looked at the bloody mess. Another one of those tiny smiles tugged your lips, and then it was gone as you reached inside your coat.

A picture of cold wrath; a goddess of destruction.

The gun you drew was a black pistol with a silencer screwed onto it; an elegant weapon, looking almost sophisticated, and yet deadly like a viper. You extended your arm with the ease of practiced routine, aiming straight between the man’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. Every movement had come with the indifference of inevitability.

You put the gun back where it had come from while your bodyguard threw the body over his shoulder and grabbed the other by the lapels of its coat — as if he was doing a task no different than dragging out two heavy bags of potatoes. He started making his way towards the door, and you turned to Steve.

There was a sleek white business card in your hand, and you slipped it into the chest pocket of Steve’s shirt. Even through the fabric, he could feel the warmth of your hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Captain Rogers,” you said, granting him one last smile of a seductress before you followed your security detail out of the door.

Steve stood there for a few minutes, staring at the new stain in the musty carpet. Then took the business card out of his pocket, bringing it up to his nose and inhaling deeply.

It smelled like you.

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[captainsimagines]

the albatross || B.B || One-Shot

Summary: "Locked me up in towers, but I'd visit in your dreams. And they tried to warn you about me..."

Pairing(s): Winter Soldier x Vampire Fem! Reader

Trope(s): Unlikely friendship; Forbidden vibes; Awkward tension

Based on the Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Total Word Count: 17,000+

Warnings: This one-shot contains explicit language, an identity crisis, graphic depictions of violence and blood loss, trust issues, cigarette smoking, and depressive thoughts/ideas. You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is purely fanfiction.

If you would rather read this fanfic on AO3, here is the link.

Author's Note: I really liked this idea and surprisingly, it just spilled out of me. The ending is pretty open-ended because I do imagine a part 2, but I won't write it unless there's demand for it. Either way, I love this one-shot. I hope you guys do, too. ---xxMoni

~

The Soldier enjoys watching the stars.

The Captain likes to tell him these stories about Bucky Barnes, about how he also liked watching the stars when they made camp in war-torn France. Bucky Barnes would pretend to know the math behind it all, and though the Captain said the math was a load of bullshit, he swore up and down that Barnes did know how to read palms, however.

The Soldier doesn’t know how to read palms, but he does know how to calculate the stars now.

Hearing about his past self always put him on edge. He has another man’s name, another man’s face, another man’s life story. The Soldier was expected to relearn this, to find that lost part of himself that is “deep down, Buck, I know it.” Sometimes he’d remember that he liked strawberry jam, but only if he tried it out of pure coincidence. Sometimes he’d remember the voice of a man called Gabe Jones, or of Dum-Dum—Dugan—and it reminded him that he was two people at once. Those memories were no longer his—they were—but not really. 

He was not—is not—Bucky Barnes anymore. In his head, at least. 

He knew two things with absolute certainty though, two things the old Bucky Barnes would be happy the Soldier is keeping alive: Steve Rogers is his friend and it is the Soldier’s job to protect him, and that a thousand conversations are said in comfortable silence if you simply listen. 

He passes the cigarette to the woman beside him, blowing the smoke out slowly into the frigid air. He hates the cold, but it’s better than a freezer. Freer up here on the roof of Avengers Tower. A chosen solitary. She takes the cigarette carefully, her grip extra tight since they’re hanging over the ledge. Legs swinging, hair rustling in the wind. Dropping the cigarette would cause no harm, only annoyance. They only bring four of them to their nightly meetings. 

She inhales deeply, her decaying lungs inflating just the bit, her mouth doing most of the work. She doesn’t need to breathe, he’s found. On the rare occasions he is in her presence during the day, she never does. Not even to comfort those around her who watch her warily. He likes that. Placating others was tiresome, and the Soldier had refused to do it for anyone besides the Captain until he asked. For some reason, the crease between his brow makes his stomach turn and he knows Bucky Barnes would hate him for not smoothing it over. 

The Soldier studies the woman at his right. He detects hints of dust—old cardboard, maybe—in the smoke she exhales. Her skin hadn’t paled in the way popular media suspected, nor did her hair turn white. Her skin looks ashy, her cheeks a little gaunt. The only proof she’s undead are the red eyes—he’s never seen her smile to verify the fangs. 

They never exchange words out here. No one knows they’re out here at all. He had come out for fresh air after a particularly nasty fight with Stark a year ago and found her leaning upside down on the ledge. If she had jumped, he doesn’t think he would have leapt after her. He didn’t know her and would not miss her. Let her fall and his world was unmoved. 

A year of nightly cigarettes and no more than a hundred words between them. They had built a sort of camaraderie—after a long day of pretending to be alive, they would sulk in peace together. 

He knows her name, and she his. They have never called each other those names, but he suspects she would call him James before anything else. She doesn’t seem to want to be called anything. She’s content to sit in mutual silence and bask in her invisibility. 

But the Soldier has seen her every night for a year, and everytime she is still solid. Everytime she is still dead. 

The team has forbidden anyone from being alone with her. The Captain has forbidden him from being alone with her. Stark and Banner have a fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is uncontrollable. The Soldier wonders why she was invited to the team in the first place if she was going to be locked away and hidden from the world. He wonders why the Captain even rescued him if he was going to be a red stain as well. She refuses to answer their questions, refuses to show them how she feeds, and refuses to put a single limb in the sun for experimental purposes. The team is not sadistic enough—Stark isn’t sadistic enough—to force her to burn so he can scribble the results in a notepad. So unless she’s willing to be a science experiment, she cannot be trusted. 

Unless the Soldier suddenly remembers the memories of a man lost to time, he cannot be trusted. 

So he watches as her painted lips delicately wrap around the cigarette, their last one, and allows the strange delight to roll over him at the sound of her soft sigh. 

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, her voice resembling the rustling of leaves in the dead of night. She has the same unsettling demeanor as he, perhaps more loose but still as real. The Soldier is meant to unnerve people. If they are terrified of him, they understand the depth of the mission. They will fall in line. As she rises, she grows in stature and dwarfs him. He finds he likes being the second most frightening creature in the room. He likes having a twin, finally, one that is not screaming inside his own head. 

“Goodnight,” he replies, his gaze on the twinkling city lights. Brooklyn winks at him, refusing to fade. 

The Soldier hears the roof door slam shut, and he is suddenly alone.

—————

The team is arguing. 

Stark and the Captain crowd the large room they use for briefings while everyone else sits patiently at the long table. The Soldier occupies the single seat at the far end, the closest person to him being the Widow. She is watching the scene unfold with a stoicism that could rival his own, but she is more susceptible to that twitch in her upper lip. When Stark takes a dig at the Captain’s two-timing morality, she speaks up. 

“You’re both idiots. I don’t see why we have to go empty-handed here, guys.”

Stark does his best to not roll his eyes, opting instead to squint at the Widow. “The mission is childsplay. I just think we’d have a lot more fun and a ton more juicy stories to tell if we bring all of us—”

“The answer is no, Tony. I will not bring—”

“Say it, Cap. I’m sure our cheeky little assassin here would love to hear your reasoning.”

The Captain sighs, his large hands resting atop his slender hips. The Soldier has a vague memory of a group of men around a campfire, all singing a tune in French and sour-tasting liquor spilling from their tongues, and the Captain watching with the same stance but with a grin instead. He realizes fast that this memory is attached to Bucky Barnes, and it is better off dead. 

“Buck, you know I don’t like sending you out when there is no need.”

The Soldier hates team missions. He has no issues with killing—he’s rather good at it. The issue at hand is the lack of privacy, the dependence on one another, and the trust oozing from the Captain. The Soldier isn’t the best friend he so desperately wants, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. Staying at the Tower is the best course of action in any situation. He frightens more people than he helps, and he would only get in the way. 

He doesn’t respond to the Captain. He remains quiet, his brow furrowed as he looks between the two angry men. 

“It’s a routine inspection, Cap. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring him and the vampire.”

His stomach clenches on itself, though he gives nothing away outwardly. He’s as still as ever, hands softly gripping the handles of the chair. He reminds himself to blink more than five times a minute, and that he needs to move more muscles than just his eyes. He’s too accustomed to being frozen for long periods of time. He is no stranger to perching for hours, to hiding in the shadows. The Captain had told him his lack of movement was uncanny. 

But the mere mention of the vampire—

She had not gone on any missions yet. Her recruitment was more of a trial-run, on the basis that her input about vampires proved to be worthwhile. But it had been a year and Stark and Banner were no closer to studying the intricacies of such creatures. All they knew, or all they assumed, was what they saw from her. And since she was not allowed out of the Tower or on missions yet, they had seen little. 

“What if she goes insane and feeds on a civilian?” the Colonel chimes in, shaking his head as the Captain scoffs at the accusation, “What? You don’t think she’d run given the first opportunity? I’ve told all of you that what you’re doing here is inhumane. Just because she hasn’t seen the sun in who knows how long doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see a damn bakery or a night-time play. And keeping her locked up will trigger her to hurt someone sooner rather than later.”

The Soldier had never wondered about that. She and him were so alike that he just assumed she was content with her situation. He’d much rather be here than under the tentacles of Hydra. He believed she would much rather be here than in the sewers. 

And it hit him—

How did she feed now?

“JARVIS doesn’t necessarily divulge details, but she’s clean with her victims. Ah, you see that on my scrumptious arms? Goosebumps. I’ve caught her eyeing these veins.”

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. The Widow marks it. 

“She’s well-fed, then,” the Captain says, though the Soldier hears that subtle shake in his voice, “How do we know she won’t escape—”

“You’re acting like she’s our hostage,” the Widow snaps. She immediately casts an apology across the table. “If she escapes, she escapes. The sun will slow her down, and she knows it. You’re all debating this as if she’s tried. She hasn’t. She has caused no trouble so far. You’re all just too scared to send her out into the wild because you haven’t gotten to know her.”

The room silences. The man at the other far end of the table, the one he usually sees with metal wings across his broad shoulders, nods in agreement. At every briefing the Soldier has sat through, Wilson was the only one to ever bring her up in conversation. Small mentions that asked where she was at that very moment, if she had shared her family history yet, if she had fed and if not, was there anything he could do. The Soldier suspects Wilson would offer his own neck if the others agreed to it. 

He doesn’t like talking about her at these meetings. Everyone acts like they have the perfect read on her. They don’t—even he doesn’t. But he does have first-hand knowledge on what the strain of her lungs sounds like, and the exact timbre of her voice. The Soldier knew more than them, and it spoiled him rotten. 

“This is a controlled mission, Cap,” Wilson adds, shrugging. “I think this can be good for her. For Barnes. For you.”

The Soldier loosens a shoulder—the tiresome act of placating—and studies Wilson in the few seconds he’s afforded since the Captain is debating inside his head. Wilson is around his age, give or take a year or two, and he has never spoken ill about him before. He’s heard the Widow and Barton murmuring their distrust about the Soldier in the beginning, but he believes the Captain shut it down. Stark’s jokes were endless, but he finds them humorous sometimes. He is the only person to ever pull a smirk from him. Wilson never spoke bad about anyone. He doesn’t know if he likes that or not. He’s grateful in an odd way, but confused mostly. There are countless things to hate him for. Tender hearts are so easily breakable, and the Soldier finds he does not want to bruise Wilson’s. 

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” the Captain concedes. “Buck, you up for it?”

A choice. He’s not used to having choices. 

“Okay.”

—————

Clouds block the majority of the stars tonight. 

On nights like these, he focuses on the multi-colored lives of the occupants in surrounding apartments. There are some setting up Autumn colors, others keeping their sleek, modern aesthetic. The Soldier thinks he enjoys a splash of color. He has a habit of draining it all, but he likes it while it lasts. 

The apartments are sporadically lit. Many have retired to bed. There’s a family of four returning and passing around boxes of takeout. A woman sits up in bed and reads a large fantasy novel, her cat resting lazily at the edge of her silk sheets. A teenager adjusts his computer monitor and readies a new level on the game he’s playing, an empty pizza box on his desk. So many lives happening at once—it overwhelms the Soldier. He does nothing all day besides lay in bed and eat and bathe when he has to. He has been wanting to take up knitting—something to do with his hands. Loading and taking apart guns isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

“They are going to take you on a mission,” he says, passing the cigarette. Her expression remains impassive. She inhales deeper than usual, his only indication that his statement affected her.

“Oh.”

She’s quick to brush him off. Good. She’s not so easily rattled. “I am going, too,” he adds.

A shrug. She passes the cigarette back. He inhales, an odd flutter in his chest as he wraps his lips around the lipstick-stained stick. 

There’s a bruise on her jawline. Tilting his head, he follows the length of it. It takes him a moment, but he finally recognizes the shape. Five purpling indents, one palm-sized. 

He didn’t even know she could bruise. 

A sudden wave of rage nearly has him marching back into the Tower, ready to interrogate every team member at gunpoint. Their distrust shouldn’t warrant violence. Then the Soldier inhales the toxic smoke again, realizing that his emotions are pointless. The Soldier does not feel, nor does he feel sympathy for others. 

The Soldier questions the validity of that statement.

Still, he ponders who could have possibly injured her. The only ones able to inflict such pressure and not kill are him, the Captain, Stark while suited-up, and the God. But they had no evidence of what strength she could or could not handle—it was entirely plausible that a regular man hurt her. And since she does not leave the Tower, the man could have been one of her meals. 

Her meal fought back.

“How do you eat?” he asks before he can swallow it. He used to be punished for asking questions. 

She turns her head slowly. It’s unsettling to the Soldier, so much so that he averts his eyes. “You know what I eat.”

“I asked how. Not who.”  She blinks at him. “You don’t leave the Tower.”

This is the most they’ve spoken in one sitting. He always assumed she’d be the one to speak first. It seems she assumed the same.

“They bring me my meals.” A quick jump of his brow indicates his surprise. “You didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. Does the Captain know? The Soldier had heard about interrogations happening at the Tower… Were these the same victims? 

“The bad ones they keep alive. Captives. I get my pick of the litter,” she explains, though her solemn expression betrays the joy in her tone.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. The Soldier doesn’t care—shouldn’t care—and yet, he asks.

“I don’t care.” It seems she’ll not care for the both of them.

He wonders how often she needs to feed. If blood is the only thing she needs to survive. His knowledge of vampire lore comes from a few, mediocre clicks around the internet. Most articles or opinions claim that blood is their life source, but the exact time-stamp vampires can go without it is still a mystery. If she were to go without, willingly or not, would she wither away? Would she simply cease to exist?—How peaceful that sounds, actually. Would it be painless or would she feel every second? The Soldier did not feel time pass when frozen, nor did he comprehend it when allowed to breathe on his own.

“Are you skilled with weapons?” he asks. Invasions of privacy, like the Captain said, were not always welcome naturally. The truth was so much easier to obtain with a gun in hand, harder to earn with a fake smile. What really mattered was having the mission go smoothly. Maybe then the rest of the team will leave him alone and stop trying to make him assimilate. Maybe if the mission went smoothly for her, she’d steal their attention. He would be free. Free to just be.

“I don’t need them, but I have them.”

Irritation is an emotion that encases him fully nowadays. Irritation, agitation, resignation. Her bluntness rivals his, and it's itching at his skin. He liked it before—what is different today? “I am going on this mission, too. I need to know what you are skilled at to ensure the mission is a success.”

She flicks the dead cigarette bud over the ledge, watching as it gradually shrinks from sight. It was their last one. He will bring an extra one tomorrow. 

“There are no stars tonight,” she laments. Her lips twist into a small pout, nearly invisible. She has pretty lips. “Goodnight.”

He waits until she’s gone to frown. The Soldier is confused. 

—————

The team likes to get together Friday nights and watch movies in the common room. Usually the film is chosen to satisfy the Captain’s ignorance. His too, he has found. Though no one but Wilson includes him in that conversation. 

The Captain, Stark, Banner, Wilson, and the Widow are the only ones present tonight. The younger agents are suspiciously absent, but he somewhat remembers Stark mentioning a Friday night outing. Figures, considering the ones in this room are easily recognizable. 

If he were to walk around Times Square, would he cause a panic? The Soldier has been photographed a few times since returning from the shadows and each time the news outlets treat him like an enemy of state. He is, in a sense. There are plenty of things he knows that can crumble governments, but there’s no point in sharing them now. He’s not at war. He’s not under control. But he wonders what it would be like to walk around and enjoy life. To go out with friends, to dance, to go feed some pigeons. He could try—the Captain will definitely go with him—but he doesn’t know how. After so many years of feeling the sour depths of his soul, how is he expected to break through the surface in one day? The urge to be normal gnaws at him, twisting and peeling flesh and muscle, but it is so much easier to just lie in bed. If enough time passes, maybe it will just happen. 

Time was going on, speeding past his memories and lungs. Too fast, so fast he couldn’t grab time’s dangling string to slow it down. He wanted to yank it back, scream at it that he’s trying to remember, and that his new memories are preventing him from finding the ones from before. There’s so much new information that he wanted to, needed to, slow time down. How was he ever able to be Bucky Barnes again if time prevented him?

He likes when the younger ones are around. They’re less judgmental. They actually try to speak with him. Granted, it’s stupid things like: “What was the Great Depression like?” or “Straight up, who was the harder kill? Kennedy or Stalin?” The Captain usually shuts them down, but he can’t help but chuckle from the absurdity of it once he’s alone. 

“Feels weird watching this outside of a seventh grade classroom, but I promise you Steve, it’s a classic,” Wilson says, clapping the Captain on a shoulder. “The Outsiders is a rite of passage, and you my friend have not truly assimilated until you watch it.”

Sitting on a stool rather than the giant couch, the Soldier takes immediate interest in what Wilson claims. If he wants to be normal again, shouldn’t he try with the basics? Watching a movie didn’t seem all that bad. 

He’s distracted by the repetitive popping in the microwave to feel the presence at the doorway. Everyone quiets, and the Soldier straightens. He marks the distance between him and the Widow, and though he’s positive she can protect herself, he debates how he would shield her with his body. 

But there is no weapon pointed at them or enemy breaching the premises—it’s her. 

She burrows deeper into her oversized sweater, the hood covering most of her forehead. She ducks cautiously, eyes squinted as she peeks at the overhead beams. She looks ashier in the artificial light, but no less beautiful. He’s seen her during the day before, but always when she was protected by shadows. 

“Fangs!” Stark cheers, the half-drunk beer bottle in his hand sloshing violently, “We’ve already chosen the movie so don’t bitch about it like Banner always does. Popcorn’s almost finished, and we’ve got wine in the fridge. You like reds or are you like Cap here? Can’t tear a moscato from his cold, dead paws even if you were the strongest person in the world.”

The Soldier gives Stark an incredulous glare, as does the Captain. Offering her food, mentioning cold, dead hands. It gladdens him, however, that though he is the most unpredictable person in the room, he isn’t the stupidest. 

“I personally like reds,” Wilson interjects, casually strolling forward to hit the light switch. She visibly relaxes. “Want me to pour you a glass? We can talk shit about Stark together as he learns how to play the movie.”

Stark mumbles something about how the cheapest technology is often the hardest to understand. Wilson leads her into the kitchen, innocently rambling about wine tours and tasting. The Soldier meets her eyes as she passes. There is simple acknowledgement, but no words. It’s as if they don’t know each other at all. 

He has no claim to that anyway. He shares as much as she does. 

She takes a glass of moscato, curiously. He would have assumed—and that’s just it, isn’t it? He assumed.

The others settle into their spots. She looks around, a peculiar look on her delicate face. Vampires were supposedly ageless, but he sees the age in her eyes, in how she holds up her head. He’s been told that while he wears the mask, his eyes look tortured. Like they’ve seen too much.  

Her eyes held an ancient power, tainted with misery, and yet all he finds himself wondering is what color they were before she changed.

She sits on the lone recliner closest to Wilson, tucking her knees in and leaning her upper body on a pillow. She balances her wine as she adjusts, ignoring the interested stares from the others. 

“I watched this movie when it first came out,” she shares, her voice an elegant whisper. The Captain watches her warily, as does Banner. 

“So did I. You’re not special,” Stark responds, clicking the play button. The Soldier stands, but he doesn’t know what for. To defend her? To add to the harassment? To walk out of the room? 

Her small chuckle surprises him. Surprises all of them. He takes one step forward, then another, until he too is a part of the group. He chooses to sit on the cushion just beside her recliner. If he had a cigarette, it wouldn’t be so different from all the other nights. 

The Captain attempts to ignore him, but ultimately fails. The Soldier senses his relief, his hope.

They watch the movie in comfortable silence, interrupted only by Stark’s or Wilson’s personal additions. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes the movie enough to quell that poisonous irritation. It’s toward the end when he looks at her, when his curiosity gets the best of him. 

There is a sunset on the screen. 

Silver glistens across her waterline. 

Then it’s gone, because nothing gold can stay. 

The Soldier resonates most with a simpler quote. He longs for normalcy, no matter how much he prefers solitude. The voice screaming in his head won’t let him forget it. He repeats the quote several times before the end credits: "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."

He used to tell himself that pain was temporary and that being put under would limit it—he always believed that one.

He’s angry that Johnny dies and that Dally kills himself. He’s angry because the Soldier cares about the Captain more than anything and would do the same. He’s angry that he, with his contaminated past and bloodied hands, can still watch the sunset. He’s angry because since she’s dead, she cannot.

—————

“I’m guessing there’s an angle here, Cap. Why else would she make nice now?”

Sometimes Stark made him question the team’s so-called heart. He assumes the Captain had to plead his case, and has continued to do so when the Soldier showed no signs of improvement. She hadn’t put up a fight when they informed her of the mission, nor did she ask any questions. The barest of nods and she was given her orders. He would have liked to be in the room when they discussed this, but he received the automatic manila folder outside his room door. 

Target: Male, 56, Hydra scientist maintaining one of eight remaining Hydra bases in North America. Assumed to be armed and dangerous. No history of super strength, night vision, or combat training. 

And in each folder the Soldier is given his team and his task. Sometimes he’d argue with the logistics considering he knew more than he let on, but this seemed simple enough. He sneers at the use of their code names. 

Soldier Objective: Joined by “Widow” and “Fangs”, retrieve the data on the main computer. Data pertaining to Hydra, Project Insight, Project Paperclip, and NASA is to be handled with care. The Soldier and Widow are cleared for hand-to-hand combat. 

He should have received everyone’s objective. To function as a team, as the Captain so desperately wants, he needs to know each detail. Knowing in advance saves lives, and omitting this now is going to get someone killed. 

As long as that someone isn’t the Captain or Wilson, the Soldier did not care as much as he should. 

Now, while walking through the dimly lit hallway with two women watching his six, he understands why the team made this her first mission. The base was mostly abandoned, there was a limited paper trail that was easy to follow, and it wasn’t too far from New York. A night-time mission usually meant difficult entryways or an ambush. He finds he enjoys the quiet walk and flickering lights, and the small conversation the Widow and the Vampire make. He’s still vigilant and hyper-focused on finding the computer lab, but he allows his mind to knock over one wall. 

The sound of women gossiping and giggling sounded a lot better than the complaints and curses of men. 

“Come on, there’s got to be someone on the team you think is hot.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes at the Widow’s comment. He doesn’t bother looking back. It’s the same thing every single time: the Widow asks the question, the Vampire answers. Neither of them include him, but he doesn’t mind. Though he sits with her every night, he doesn’t actually know much about her. And the short replies the Widow also offers make him feel… appreciative. He’s learning, he’s retaining, he’s—

He shakes his head when he compares this lesson to a filing system, as if the women guarding his back are mere test subjects, or targets. As if the information he’s learning could be used against them. 

It’s hard to rewire your brain, your thoughts. Once something has burrowed deep into each crevice, it’s hard to pull it out. Change is hard, rare, and celebrated once successful. The Soldier’s wiring needs to change if he is to ever learn anything new for the innocent purpose of being human. 

“I think the Captain is good looking,” she answers, huffing a laugh when the Widow hums in agreement. 

“He’s a tough one to crack.”

“But you’ve cracked him.”

The Widow waits for the Soldier to secure the corner before walking forward and punching in a code. He sees her narrow her eyes, a small smirk gracing her pale lips. 

“I am cracking him.”

The Soldier has seen the Captain blush around the Widow, has seen him shield her before others, and has always walked beside her in support. He didn’t think it meant anything—the Captain was kind to everyone. But there is a… tenderness shared between them. Perhaps cultivated over the long months they were searching for him. She and Wilson were the only ones who believed there was a chance they'd even find him.

“He likes you. His heart pumps quicker when you’re around.”

It should bother him that she’s exposing the Captain’s feelings. But the Captain deserves an intimate form of companionship, something to take his mind off the fact that the Soldier has no problem drowning in solitude.

“You can hear our blood?”

“Only when I concentrate.”

The Soldier lifts a hand to stop them. There’s a soft rustling behind the door they are meant to enter. Drawers being opened. If it is indeed their target, then Wilson and the Captain are running around for nothing. His unit wasn’t supposed to engage in any arrests—he has half a mind to just bring the Widow along. 

He splits them up. The Widow remains with him. He’ll confront the target as she works the computers. He turns to give the last order, but is softly interrupted. 

“There’s a back door just around the corner. I can pick it and blend into the shadows.”

The Soldier thinks about it, then nods. “Do not engage unless I order it.”

A misty rogue. Stark is insane—she could be useful on more daunting missions.

Armed with two shortswords, one gold and one ruby, she pulls on the hood of her cloak and gives them a small smile. A smile that said she’d follow his directions and remain hidden forever, if needed.

He and the Widow work in tandem, noiselessly picking the lock and creeping into the room. With her red hair pulled up, she shimmies along the wall quickly, heading for the largest of the six monitors. The only light comes from the handheld flashlight their target uses to read loose papers. His frantic eyes search for something along the black, redacted text. The Soldier simply struts forward, his mask doing most of the intimidation, his boots announcing his arrival. Their target clutches a file close to his chest as he retreats. Off to the side, the Soldier vaguely sees the back door open and close. 

“I’m unarmed,” their target squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

What ridiculous lies, he thinks. Hydra did not apologize, nor did they beg for ceasefires. They trained him to ignore such pleas, such excuses. And by the way the Soldier grips him by the neck to lift him, he was trained well. 

“When I let you go,” the Soldier says, his voice a deadly timbre, “give me the weapon you have at your back.”

The target struggles, his gurgling embarrassingly loud. A monitor brightens, and the Widow waves as she gets to work. The target, once recognizing her, loses most of his hope. He is dropped and the weapon clatters to the floor. The Soldier does not retrieve it—it is yanked into the shadows. 

“We thought you were dead,” he says, panicked eyes never leaving the mask. No one ever wanted to look him in the eyes. No one ever wanted to hear him speak. 

“I’m going to reach into your coat and grab that file. Make a move and I will break the first bone I come into contact with.”

“Mm,” the Widow hums, her downloads beeping one-by-one as they finish, “Steve frowns on that if they surrender willingly.”

“Complete the download,” he orders. He doesn’t like when the Widow rambles during these missions. The more he grows to enjoy her company, the more distracted he’s destined to get. The more he avoids interaction, the more efficient he’ll be. 

And lonely—

“It’s done,” she says, rolling her eyes. She stands at his side, arms crossed. “Just sedate him already so we can get out of this rusty hellhole—”

He turns to look at her. One quick glance at the red menace. That’s all it takes. 

The target draws a knife and whips it wildly, slashing the Widow across her neck. It’s unlike her to be so ill-prepared. The Soldier doesn’t know whether to press his palm across her neck or kill the target. This has never happened before. The team is going to question his capabilities, his true alliances, his reflexes, his empathy—

The target yelps in agony. The decision is made for the Soldier. 

He has no choice but to bend his neck to the hunter behind him, holding him close and ripping through his carotid. The Widow curses and holds her wound, her steady voice settling the awful worry in the pit of his stomach. 

Worry… For his team. He would smile if the situation wasn’t so chaotic.

The spray of blood is mostly contained. Her fangs dig so deep that blood seeping from the puncture is caught by her lips. Her lipstick stains his pale neck, paler now as she consumes him whole. Barely concealed by the shadows, she hungrily drinks without remorse. Payback. Her red eyes glow brighter than he’s ever seen them, black veins crawl and stretch from the corners, and he swears there’s smoke surrounding her strong body. Like a bad omen, a demon emerging from the depths of gloom itself.

He falls limp in her arms, his dead eyes blindly watching the Soldier as she drops him to the floor. His eyes were once blue. They’re white now.

“Are you okay?” she asks the Widow, standing somehow taller, solid. 

The Widow looks at her drenched hand and nods slowly. “I’m not opposed to one of you carrying me back.” The wound is superficial, but no less alarming. He picks her up and holds her close, signaling to his newly nourished partner. She gets the hint. Hauling the dead man over a shoulder, she waits for him to lead the way. 

Barton takes the Widow from his arms, his laughs overlapping her own. The Captain checks on her before marching over to him and the woman with dried blood on her neck, who then drops the target at the Captain’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Anger. It’s an emotion so rare for the Captain. At least, it’s rare to the Soldier. 

“Concealed knife. I didn’t check him thoroughly,” he answers, his explanation true enough. He should have known even Hydra scientists kept an extra weapon on their person at all times, especially small ones. He just didn’t think the Widow would get nicked so easily—that she didn’t see that coming at all. 

“But why is he dead?”

She raises her reddened chin at him to boldly say, “He attacked. The downloads were complete. We weren’t even supposed to run into him. That was your job.”

It’s obvious the Captain wasn’t expecting her response. Immediately his face loosens and his shoulders do that guilty-drop the Soldier sees often. “You’re right. Your team wasn’t supposed to encounter him at all. It’s a mistake on my end.”

“Not that we didn’t have muscle to defend ourselves,” she lightly jokes, then kicks the pale body on the floor. 

“We’re going to have to report this.”

“Do what you must.”

“And—” the Captain strains, looking to the Soldier for assistance. But he knows what he’s about to say, and gears up to fight it. “And because this is an on-duty death, you need to go to psych.”

“Don’t send her there,” the Soldier cuts in, his stomach dropping. “Say I killed him. Just don’t send her there.”

“That’s not how this works, Buck.”

“Psych is a glorified therapy session that fails to help even the lowest of street cops. It’s judgment, not help.”

“I can’t override it.”

The Soldier sighs, argument after argument swirling in the mess of his mind. The times he went to psych were all the same. Constructed in a way that made him feel like killing was always the wrong choice. Neglecting that now, he has the choice. Sometimes he’ll claim a stray bullet, but the majority of his kills are necessary. They are strategic. They are his own. 

“It’s fine,” she says, tilting her head at her kill. “Not the first time I’ve been evaluated.”

“Psych can be bypassed if the kill was a team-effort. I’ll see if I can get Fury to sign off on it.”

She shakes her head at the Captain. “You wanted to know more about my life, yes? I’m assuming these things aren’t confidential to you or Stark… But when you do go talking about me to the others, make sure to mention that I drained him dry.”

—————

"Do you hate me for it?"

The Soldier offers an unimpressed look. He hands her the cigarette and blows out the smoke burning his throat. “Funny.”

There’s a quirk at her lip. She takes a longer drag than usual, trying to mask it.

“They all hated me for it back then.”

“Who?”

“Family. Friends. Enemies. Lovers.”

“And you cared what they thought?”

She shrugs, stealing a second drag. “At the time.”

Her lipstick is a brownish-maroon today, and he finds himself studying the tint before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. He doesn’t share anything nowadays besides cigarettes and a living room. The Captain offers him food, money, advice—the Soldier takes but never gives. 

Her face contorts slightly, her jaw ticking. Such extravagant movements for the simple outcome of showing her four canines. The points extend maybe half a centimeter longer than the rest of her teeth. Because of her minimal overbite, the teeth slide perfectly against one another. She runs her tongue over the top two.

He wonders how his victims would have reacted if they got to see the lower half of his face. There would have been no smile accompanying the kills. He had growled from frustration, to incite fear. Teeth weren’t necessarily frightening. They’re a barrier to words, the shield for tongues, the blades against intruders. Her teeth were her life-force, the blades needed to let those intruders in. 

“How was your evaluation?”

A small snort. He looks at her—her ancient grace, the absence of grays at her roots, her glaring red eyes. 

“They kept asking if the smell of Natasha’s blood affected me.”

“Judging by your nonchalance, I’d say you went completely feral over it.”

Another quirk at her lip. He likes the movement. 

“You believe that I wouldn’t attack any one of you. Thanks.”

He does. She hasn’t attacked him up here, hasn’t attacked anyone on the team, and has never tried to escape to wreak havoc on the city. He doesn’t tell her he does, but she feels it somehow. Her shoulders loosen.

The tension slowly dissipates from his body as well—a revelation both amazing and concerning. The Soldier should never have his guard down. He should always be prepared for a fight.

“The ones they bring me are always so happy to be led to their deaths,” she says, a small frown quickly forming then disappearing. “Sometimes I wait until they’re asleep. Or when they’re facing the other way. Sometimes I drain them when they’re inside of me.”

He blinks. “You have sex with them?”

“I never leave the Tower. I can’t leave. I’ve been living alone for so long that I don’t even think I can go into the real world and bring someone home. Would you know how?”

He doesn’t need to think about such a ridiculous possibility. He can’t even find it within himself to give Wilson a matching pat-on-the-back. “No.”

She gives a small nod. Absent of pity, filled with strange empathy. “I tell them they’re going to die. I ask them how they would like to go. They choose that most of the time.” She chuckles, “I only offer it to the cute ones.”

“They’re bad people, though.”

“They’re dying anyway. Might as well die feeding me.”

He doesn’t remember it, but the Soldier considers sex—or pleasure, really—to be too much of a gift. The people they capture and keep to interrogate are scum of the Earth, his tormentors. She’s rewarding his villains. 

Anger floods his chest, violent and nasty. She snatches the cigarette from his rigid fingers. 

He could push her off the ledge. No one will miss her. He will. She’ll probably survive the tremendous fall. She’ll continue the cycle. She can’t leave the Tower. He can’t leave the Tower. 

“I don’t have to sleep with them,” she says, her voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear without his advancements. “But when I do, they taste a little sweeter. I haven’t had sweets in so long… Not since my birthday. Did you know I died on my birthday? My mom bought me chocolate instead of donating those five cents to the war effort. I wasn’t a child anymore but she never forgot my birthday… So, I can make it through ten minutes of boring sex. And when it’s done, for a blessed moment, I remember the taste of sugar and my mom’s smile when I broke the bar in two so we could share.”

For the first time in a long time, the Soldier is speechless. Because he sympathizes… A once frozen emotion thawed by the mention of chocolate and a mother. He tries and fails to remember his own mother’s face. After so many years of only being able to see his eyes, he prays they matched hers. After so many years of being force-fed genetically-modified trash, he has forgotten the taste of chocolate.

His anger is replaced by a solemn peculiarity that itches along his insides. He is aware of his loss, her loss, the logic in her kills. She feeds blindly in the hopes of feeling whole again. Has he done anything to feel whole again besides bury the screams lower and lower? 

“I was feral today because we were never supposed to come into contact with the target and he almost hurt you. He managed to hurt Natasha. I did what I had to do.”

And she was being punished for it. 

“He tasted disgusting, by the way.”

The Soldier, honest to God, laughs. Not expecting it, her shoulders tense and she jumps a little. He shoots his flesh hand out to hold her still, gripping her thigh as she pulls her gaze back up. Instinct—he does not want her to fall after all. 

“Sorry,” he says, surprising himself. Then, as he allows a tendril of Bucky Barnes to escape through the walls he had forged from steel, he jokes, “I’m still stuck on the fact that when you fuck, you think of your mother’s face.”

His ill-timed vulgarity is rewarded with a sudden cackle of her own, a vicious and underutilized sound that pulls her lips back and showcases all four sharp canines in their primal glory. Crinkles by her eyes, she sits with the aftershocks of it.

He gives her the first drag of their last cigarette.

—————

He had been exiting the Tower with Wilson when it started.

Three large booms above had them ducking for cover. Debris slammed into the concrete and damaged parked cars while burnt furniture landed in odd angles after barely missing pedestrians. Smoke clouded their aerial view—there was no way Wilson was going to be able to fly through the black cloud blind. It was up to Stark and the Colonel to fly directly from the roof. 

“Cap, what the hell was that?” Wilson yelled into his phone. He directed the floor staff away from the building and into the cafe next door. The Soldier analyzed each person, their expressions, the things in their hands. The smoke blocked his view of the lower rooftops. No one tried storming the bottom floor. There were no planes or helicopters around, and the glass had shattered outwards. 

The threat was internal. 

“It seems one of our captives managed to plant explosives before—” The Captain stops, his voice heavy with exertion. “JARVIS doesn’t think we’ve been compromised or that there are any intruders. Just good ol’ fashion bombs.”

“We’ll get everyone down here to safety. You guys handle the top,” Wilson says, wiping a nervous hand over his head. 

“Ask him which type of captive it was,” the Soldier tells him, failing to keep his rising panic leveled. Wilson’s bewilderment is marked in his brow, but he asks anyway. 

“He doesn’t understand the question—”

“Was it one of the captives we sent back to the police or was it one we sent to be fed on?”

Wilson waits for the Captain to clarify, still not understanding the danger of the situation. “Fed on.”

The Soldier sprints back into the Tower and clicks the elevator button, cursing when the lights flicker out. Stark and the Colonel were busy flying people out, the Widow and the Captain were securing the floor, Banner was putting out the fire with the young ones, and the God was probably doing all three things. Though all honorable, they were also clueless. Because if the explosion had happened on her floor, there was no floor left. No walls. No tinted glass. And though there was black smoke clogging everyone’s nostrils and burning everyone’s vision, the sun was still shining. 

“Come outside again and bend your knees,” someone orders from behind him. The Witch tilts her red head at him, a regal seriousness twinkling in her eyes. He does as she says. She contorts her glowing hands, and he is lifted through the thick cloud and past several dozen floors before landing on the seventy-seventh.  

Flames nip at his exposed arms, but the burn is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs. He limits his deep gulps and barrels through turned furniture and glass. Screams come from further down the collapsed hall, but he hears Banner amongst them.

“Rogers!” he yells, swiping at exposed wires hanging in his way. Electricity shoots up his metal arm, momentarily paralyzing it. He holds his breath and waits for the upgraded vibranium to reboot. 

“Bucky! Over here!”

“Did you find her?” he asks when he reaches the Captain, dodging Tower employees on their way to the Colonel a few feet away. The Colonel flies three down at once, his return time averaging ten seconds. At this rate, ten more trips and the entire floor should be evacuated. 

“I can’t see anything past this damn smoke!” the Captain explains, coughing loudly as he brushes stray ash off the Soldier’s singed shoulder. He allows the touch, feeling gratitude rather than his usual discomfort. “She’d be knocked out by now. This smoke is killing me.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have to breathe. The smoke isn’t the issue. If I was her, I would hop from shadow to shadow, but she can’t even see those. One wrong move and she could step directly into the sunlight.”

“She doesn’t have to breathe?” he asks. Fascination paints the Captain’s face before he switches again. “What do you suggest?”

“Don’t ask why I know, but I know you and I can hold our breaths for at least three minutes before we need air.”

Hydra loved their experiments. The Soldier is grateful he doesn’t have to do this underwater. 

“Then I’m right behind you, Barnes.”

They stalk through the heavy smoke carefully, using the collars of their t-shirts to wipe the burn at their eyes and to inhale deeply after the first three minutes. There is no sign of their resident vampire, only debris and some of Stark’s failed experiments. The floor above had also fallen, but the steel beams were still intact. No one lived above or below her, but that didn’t mean Stark hadn’t splurged on unnecessary furniture and decorations. Each step they took was a cautious one. Only the Soldier could push and pull burning wood and fabric out of their path without risk of burns, and the shield covered their heads as glass fell through the floor above. It would take Stark approximately a week to repair this, but for now the Soldier thanks whatever entity listening that the damage wasn’t catastrophic. 

He had just started to call this place a home. The only place where he was afforded solitude. Choice. 

Having it burned to the ground should have sent him on a spiral, a thought that irritated him more than scared him. He doesn’t like starting over from scratch. It was hard enough to do the first time without a base. But all the thoughts occupying his head right now are about her, how this is her home too, and that she needed his help.

“Buck! Over here!” 

The Captain tries lifting the large stone of concrete blocking the small sanctuary she’s hidden in, but it’s no use. The surrounding glass and heated metal are pinching and burning his palms. She does not scream for help, nor does she alert them of her location. She’s eerily quiet. 

He looks around, then down at his own body. He’s wearing black, and the Captain is wearing white. They have to be quick.

“Move!” he tells him. In sync, the Soldier slides his metal arm beneath the concrete and lifts—the Captain reads his mind verbatim, stripping himself of his shirt and preparing to wrap her upper half. She screams in agony, the sound scraping along the walls of his matted skull. The Captain barrels into the small crevice, shielding her with his body. 

“We’ve got you,” the Captain says gently, coughing off to the side. The Soldier can’t see her, but he trusts the Captain’s calm reaction. 

“Go!” he yells, the concrete slab pulling at his shoulder. Ten more seconds and he’s going down with it. 

The Captain picks her up and runs in the direction they came from, the Soldier following. He can’t see her face, but he can see her arms. What looks like silver rashes blister and boil as they hang in full view of the sunlight. 

He catches up to them, adds to their shield, and dares to hold her limp hand in his.

—————

She doesn’t go to the roof the next four nights. He does not smoke without her, but he brings a pack just in case.

The Soldier sits on the ledge, scarily desperate to be spoken to, alone with his own damning thoughts.

—————

He sneaks into the Captain’s snack cupboard in the middle of the night. There are chips of all sorts and flavors, packaged noodles, and packets of sauces from various restaurants. The chocolate is in a box of its own, three or four bars already missing. It’s one of those famous brands, popular during his time and still. With a final glance down the quiet hall, he steals a bar and closes the cupboard.

The silky wrapping is familiar to both his metal and flesh hand. He has eaten this candy before. A lifetime ago. Another person ago.

He peels the wrapping and breaks off a single rectangular piece. Crisp and clean. He slides his flesh fingertips together, smoothing the chocolate into his skin. The smell is overwhelmingly intriguing, so much so that his mouth waters. 

He bites the warmed chocolate, swishing it around his tongue. Vanilla, caramelized sugar—the creamy texture suits the sweetness, the aroma of cocoa soothing the tension at the base of his neck. He takes another small bite, and this time he has a vision of a woman’s face, older by maybe a year or two. The same eyes, hair color, and top lip as him.

Bucky Barnes had a sister. He had a sister. She liked chocolate. He bought her a bar with his first paycheck. He remembers something other than bloodshed and angry voices. He remembers his sister’s eyes and the fact he was a working man when it counted the most. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his metal hand, wincing from the scratch. 

“I had the same reaction when I tried chocolate again after I woke up.”

The Soldier doesn’t move a muscle. He watches the Captain approach the counter with a good-natured smirk. He holds his hand out, waiting. The Soldier hesitates—and it hits him then that he wouldn’t be able to share the chocolate with her anyways—but he breaks a piece for the Captain. Whether it’s because his whole opinion on the Captain has changed after he protected her with his own body, or because the Soldier wants to take one cautious step forward on the path to healing, so be it. He doesn’t make a fuss about the sharing, just brings the chocolate to his mouth and enjoys the piece just as the Soldier did. 

“Dernier used to rant about how French chocolate was elite,” the Captain chuckles. He lifts himself onto the counter. His sleep attire consists of gray sweatpants and those tight, white t-shirts the Widow buys him. As he rakes his eyes further, the Soldier nearly cackles from the sight of the Captain’s black and yellow socks depicting small, alien-like cartoons with goggles and overalls. 

Steve Rogers used to sleep in socks all the time. The Captain does the same. 

“Did we ever eat chocolate during our time on the front line?” he asks. The Soldier uses the roof of his mouth to somehow spread the flavors. 

“They sent us some packaged kits but it wasn’t the same. This chocolate is made from cooked milk, not powdered. We didn’t complain, though. It was nice to taste something from home, even if it didn’t exactly match Ma’s baking. But Falsworth found some real chocolate in a bombed bakery right outside of Poznań—”

“It was Morita.”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

“Falsworth pointed out the bakery, but Morita was the only one with big enough balls to actually go in there and bring us back the sweets. He grabbed some flour and sugar bags, too.”

The Captain chews his piece slowly, his gaze never leaving the Soldier’s. Fascination, sorrow, elation—all of it fighting to overtake one face. He doesn’t like that he can’t pinpoint the exact emotion attacking the Captain, or that they don’t match the four primary ones. 

“Yeah, Buck. You’re right. It was Morita.”

That screaming voice in his head quiets now, opting for a more subtle cheering. Pride, he realizes. 

The Soldier shares the rest of the chocolate bar with the Captain, and then another, all while they reminisce about the Howling Commandos. It’s equal parts warped memories and clear ones. But that doesn’t matter, because what he doesn’t remember the Captain clarifies, and vice versa.  

—————

A week after the attack, the Soldier is the first one to arrive on the roof, cigarette box in hand. He has gone every night, and every night he has sat alone. The absence of the undead shadow he’s come to expect is odd, almost as if his presence alone unsettled the unnatural balance of things. Death was natural, but she defied it.

This felt too normal. 

The roof door opens. He hasn’t opened the new pack yet. She takes small steps to the ledge, wincing slightly as she swings her right leg over. He watches her and says nothing—the team doesn’t speak about their injuries unless they’re serious, and she doesn’t speak to anyone at all. 

He’s never asked her about her relationship with the others. He only knows how she is with him. It feels unbalanced somehow. She knows more about his character now than anyone else, besides the Captain, because he doesn’t speak with anyone else. He doesn’t know what she does with the other twenty-one hours of her day. He feels he’s allowed to ask considering just how vulnerable he’s seen her. A small part of him feels like that’s taking advantage. 

“You could have started without me,” she says, the low timbre of her voice still strong enough to raise the hair on his arms. Not even the upcoming seasonal chill has succeeded in that. He doesn’t get cold often. Unless he’s dreaming. 

“They don’t taste the same if I do.”

It’s bold, what he says. She’ll think he means a cigarette is best shared with a friend and conversation. He won’t tell her the two reasons he smokes at all: It elicits a soothing, guttural response that sends him back to midnight campfires serenaded by distant stories of home, and because he’s come to enjoy the taste of red, of brown, of pink, inked at the white base. 

She hums lightly and finally swings her left leg over. Again the movement seems to hurt her. He notices her skin is ashier, cracking where her laugh lines would be, and her red eyes emit a soft glow. Her lips are nearly white and her hair refuses to hold in any natural moisture. She’s drying up, and yet she takes the cigarette he offers and inhales until decayed lungs inflate. 

“You look terrible.” The trapped voice within him curses at him relentlessly, probably begging to be sent to the front lines to take over this battle for him. Flirting was Bucky Barnes’ thing, not the Soldier's. Then again, the Soldier doesn’t think he’s trying to flirt. But he doesn’t want to dismiss her either. 

“Yeah, that happens when I go a few days without eating.”

“They’re not bringing you food?”

“They’re repairing my floor. Their minds are elsewhere.”

“But… You look terrible.”

He shuts himself up by taking a long puff, avoiding her amused gaze. He’s not trying to be funny, but it does make him feel a little better to know she isn’t taking his careless words seriously. 

“I haven’t left the guest room. The windows on your floor aren’t made for my condition.”

How could the team, how could he, be so clueless? He should have checked on her when she didn’t come the first night. Should have knocked on her door and checked if she had enough damn pillows. Banner should have visited and taken the opportunity to ask those subtle but obvious questions. 

“How long can you go without?”

“Forever. I won't die from it.”

“But how long before it hurts?”

The question surprises her. She takes the cigarette from his fingers cautiously, as if the question was tied to a physical one. He’s aware that she’s physically weak, vulnerable, open to prodding—completely exposed. 

She thinks for a moment before saying, her shoulders hunched and eyes glowing softly, “It hurts right now.”

He does not think before saying, as he snatches the smoke back and gets a little lost in the brown lip stain he can now taste wholly, “What would happen if you drank from me?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Both curiosity and outright distaste floods her once calm expression. He should be offended by that, but instead he waits. Strangely… excited for her answer. 

“I’ve never had a true, willing victim before.”

“Don’t call me a victim.”

“I’ve never had a true, willing supper-plate before.”

“Better.”

 She huffs a short laugh. “As hungry as I am, drinking from you would be a poor decision.”

Because of the serum, because of the bite marks, because they barely know one another—the reasons are endless, really. But the Soldier wants to help, and wanting is rare. 

“Do you have to kill?”

“No.”

“Will it leave a mark?”

“A little one.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as the typical person would donate.”

“Have you ever gotten sick from someone’s blood?”

She takes a long drag, contemplative. “Once.”

He realizes that for the first time in a long time he knows more about the science portion of things, rather than the brutal aspects, before Banner and Stark. Not even psych got these specifics. He is truly two steps ahead, and something like… greed, envelops him. A peculiar type of greed—a fanatical smugness at the fact that he of all people has taken the time to learn something the others have given up prying for. 

The Soldier, for once, is being considerate. Elation pools in his empty stomach because of her hesitation—because she is considering his well-being. 

He nods, his decision final. “Drink from me.”

“Quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re killing yourself because you won’t ask for help.”

“Asking for help,” she drawls sarcastically, frowning. She flicks the dud into the aerial abyss and reaches for their second cigarette of the night. “Have you asked for it?”

He lights the end for her. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re just as isolated as I am. According to Natasha, we’re unhealthy.”

“My seams aren’t unraveling as we speak.” Even as he says it, he knows she’ll counter it.

“That’s the difference. You can see mine. Your seams are in here,” she explains, pointing at her own temple. “I’ve accepted my death a long time ago.”

His brow draws together. “If that were true, you would stay here until the sun came up.”

Shaking her head, she blows the smoke out in two short spurts. “Mostly everything about being human is dead to me. My heart no longer beats. If I don’t mask it with perfume, you’ll start smelling rotting meat. I sleep, maybe, ten days of the year. Wine is the only human thing I can consume without vomiting. I am a dying paradox, forced to pretend. But my mind is my own, and though my heart is frozen, it’s still there. I may be dead, but I don’t want to die.”

The Soldier wakes each morning, his mind finally his own, his heart somehow intact. He has a team who tries to support him, a friend who would destroy the world for the memory of him, and a vampire companion he has never thanked for simply being there. His heart beats the same as it did in 1945, he sleeps a full night through one-hundred days of the year, and he hasn’t drank wine since moving into the Tower. He is living, and yet he has no life. He is forced to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, forced to automate the husk of a living paradox. They tried to kill the human part of him, and when they partially succeeded, he wanted to die along with it. His memory is dead, slowly reviving, and he doesn’t want to die now. 

He makes an apathetic noise, unwilling to reveal just how much her vulnerability burrowed into his own. “The offer is still on the table.”

The cigarette is halved. 

“It’ll hurt a little bit.”

“As long as you don’t kill me.”

She considers once more, even studying his neck as she does. The Soldier has been at the will of others before, but this is different. He chose this.

“Then get comfortable. I don’t want you falling over.”

Their feet hit the roof at the same time. It’s the first time he notices how much taller he is. The second cigarette is flicked away, the third—for now—stays in the pack. She dusts the back of her sweatpants off, cleaning her arms next. She’s nervous, he realizes. That funny smugness comes back, stronger than before. 

“Take as much as you need,” he offers, his smirk widening when she rolls her eyes. She crosses her arms and inspects him head to toe, a smirk of her own to match his. It’s suddenly intimate. Her eyes glimmer and shine so bright he no longer wants to lift his head to see the natural wonders—the two brilliant rubies taking him apart piece by piece are the most unnatural wonders in the world. What does he look like to her? Is there a scarlet glow outlining his body? Can she see the way his index and thumb tap together, the only physical sign of nerves he’ll show anyone. Can she hear his steady heartbeat, trained to combat adrenaline, and through the ruse can she see how desperately Bucky Barnes is banging on the walls to escape? Not to oppose the incoming bite, but to be the one to feel a woman’s mouth on him again. The Soldier apologizes to him, promises that it isn’t anything sexual, and whispers that he’ll break him out soon. Little by little, he’ll help pull the dead man inside of him to the surface. 

“Tilt your head for me,” she gently instructs. She swallows hard. He does as he’s told. 

Slowly, she creeps forward. Close enough that he should feel her hot breath, but there’s nothing at all. Her cold palms rest on his cheeks, scratching against his stubble, the pads of her thumbs near the corners of his parted mouth. Boldly, she traces a hand down his angled neck—pauses—then hooks his hair behind his ear. The Soldier involuntarily shivers, but he does not reprimand himself. 

“Ready,” she murmurs, excitement glimmering in the swirl of crimson. Are his gray ones just as potent?

“As I’ll ever be.”

Just as they did back at the Hydra base, the skin around her eyes deepens in color, black veins extending far down her cheeks. Her fangs, once hidden by her tempting lips, nudge his neck. Four needle points, though the two on top are the first to puncture him. He hisses softly but quickly relaxes into her strong hold, their chests pressed together. Before he can encourage her, she bites down. 

It’s… 

Otherworldly. Bizarre. Erotic. 

She moans as she drinks, and he—matches it. 

One hand delicately holds the other side of his neck, the other trailing to his waist. He can’t trust that she knows exactly what she’s doing, lost in her bloodlust, so he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the serum rushing to heal his wound and the once dormant, primal reaction of his blood rushing south. But she drinks plenty, greedily, and he’ll offer her more still. 

She detaches herself, licking at the injury. He shuts his eyes and suppresses a groan. She takes this reaction as pain, however. 

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Was that enough?”

“Can you handle a little more?” He nods, and she punctures him again. 

He gets lightheaded the longer she drinks, but it’s worth it. Her skin is returning to its natural shade, her eyes are dimming, her lips are moistening. Even her grip feels stronger. Unlike the last time, there is no smoke circling them. She is simply feeding, visible to the elements. Visible to him. 

And apparently, visible to their first ever trespassers. 

“Three seconds, Fangs! One, two—”

The Soldier throws a knife backward just as she removes her bloodied teeth, landing a perfect stab in one of the crevices in Stark’s suit. The Colonel sneaks up behind her and hauls her up into the air. Stark flies behind him, holding his arms to his sides. 

“I always knew you were into some kinky shit, Sergeant. But unsupervised? BDSM one-oh-one, make sure your partner can be trusted.”

“Let me go,” he warns. Then, deeper and more brutal, “Let her go.”

Stark scoffs, but lets him go anyway. “She was just eating you. I think your sympathies are leaning toward the Axis—”

“She wasn’t hurting me! I let her feed because you bastards haven’t fed her in days!”

Stark and the Colonel pause, their eyes meeting. The latter seems more surprised. “Shit, Tony. Is that true?”

“Hold on, hold on, back up. Let me think about this.”

The Colonel interjects, his brow rising. “What’s there to think about? Did you feed her or not? Did you let her starve?”

“I’m not in charge of it!” Stark makes a small hand motion to tell the Colonel to let her down. The second her feet hit the roof, she’s wiping his blood from her jaw. He wants to tell her not to. It was her claim, her right. She need not be ashamed for simply surviving. “But I can see where our wires have gotten crossed,” Stark concedes.

The Soldier leaves his neck as is. Blood slowly trickles to his collarbones and into his t-shirt. Stark follows it, the slightest twinge of curiosity flashing across his bearded face. 

The Soldier steps closer to him, his gaze enough to unravel even the strongest of men. “How can you forget one of your own?”

Still, Stark persists, his self-assurance unrelenting. “If you haven’t noticed, Barnes—You two are the most reclusive, secretive, stone-faced people on this team. I avert my eyes whenever one of you even enters the room.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

They all turn to her. He hates how small her voice sounds, how modest she makes herself. To defend herself. 

“Yeah, we see that,” Stark says, rubbing his temples. “Don’t know why we bothered. If he wanted you dead, I’d suspect you’d be… deader.” 

“Then leave,” the Soldier grinds out.

“Barnes—” the Colonel sighs. He extracts himself from his suit, the silver absorbing the moonlight. “We just caught her feeding from you.”

“With permission.”

Stark mumbles, “Glad to know the Winter Soldier is all about consent—”

“We need to report this. She’s never… She’s never done that before,” the Colonel decides, though his expression tells him he’s in battle with his own words. “And if it’s because we’ve made her recruitment mirror captivity, then we need to re-evaluate the ethics, Tony.”

“For now, no one is allowed on the roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I put you in danger and they saw what they saw. If I want to be a part of the team, they need to know everything, right?”

The Colonel steps back into his suit, the closure of his mask unsettling something within the Soldier. Masks function as detachment, as a lie. He knows the man underneath, but he is forced to make peace with the myth. 

“Meet us bright and early in the lab,” Stark orders her, masking himself as well. He motions for her to follow.

Before the door shuts, she looks over her shoulder. No mask in sight. 

“Smells like cigarettes up here,” Stark mutters, coughing dramatically.

—————

She is restricted to the lab for the next two days and ordered to complete another round of psych. No matter how often he threatens to put a knife in Stark’s neck, he doesn’t budge. The Captain swears that no invasive procedures are taking place, that he is present for any and all questions Stark and Banner are throwing at her. He says she is cooperating, even telling them how and how often she needs to feed in order to be effective in battle. They find that the serum did not affect her at all.

But when he sees her at the end of her imprisonment, her red irises no longer hold an excited or even tame glow. They are void. 

They remind him of his own. 

And he is terrified.

—————

He awakens with a jolt, immediately pulling the gun from underneath his pillow and aiming at the intruder with sleepy eyes but steady hands. The shadows do little to conceal her, especially with the slight glow from her eyes and the fact that the moon shines upon her. She’s forgone her usual black clothing tonight, and instead dons pink—a cotton two-piece night set. Slight collar on the shirt, shorts for bottoms. Pockets. If he didn’t recognize her shadow like his very own, he’d wonder who exactly was standing at the edge of his bed, watching him sleep. 

“Shoot me. I want to see what happens.”

He lowers the weapon, glaring at her playfully. “Funny.”

“Never been shot before. Curiosity kills me daily.”

“Can you bleed out?”

“I can bleed. But no, I can’t bleed out.”

“Is it your blood?”

“No. It’s the blood I consume. I use it for energy.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

She smirks, shrugging her shoulders as if her unannounced presence is normal. “I knew they were going to bar you from the rooftop and were going to send me my dinner around this time, so I took the opportunity.”

He draws himself further up the bed, his naked chest on display. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pats the space beside him at the same time. He hears her snicker, the accidental innuendo making him blush. It’s a weird feeling—to be thought of in that way. To think in that way. 

She hops in beside him but stays above the blanket. He raises a brow. 

“I would only make your bed colder.”

It truly is like lying beside a cadaver. She produces little heat when she feeds, but this… This is her natural state. He feels it all, distinguishable from the natural chill of night and three feet of distance. 

“Do you like being cold?”

“It makes summers easier.”

“You’re inside all the time.”

“In general.”

He hums and brings a pillow up to clutch against his stomach. 

“What are you really doing here?”

She shrugs. “I’m public enemy number one right now. The Captain and Wanda may still like me, but I don’t talk to them. Not like how I talk to you.”

“I’m not the friend you want to talk to about your feelings, or have braid your hair.”

“Damn, and I was really looking forward to that.”

He rolls his eyes. The moonlight slices through the curtains of his bare bedroom, cutting right through them. They are separated by the light, and in a peculiar turn of events, he envies the moon for it. The one constant that brought them together, now splitting them in half. 

“When do you think they’ll calm down?”

“Depends on how willing they are to listen to me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ever wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Hardly. So, I guess what you say is good news.”

He chuckles, the barest of brushes with their shoulders igniting an ache in his stomach. He wonders if she is similarly affected. If she, too, feels the odd connection between them blossoming into something stranger. He is used to feeling nothing at all—conditioned—and yet, skin-to-skin is like learning a whole new language. Fluent in many, the Soldier believes this language of silence is exclusively their own.

“I’m sorry Stark and Banner kept you in the lab for so long.”

“They let me wander.”

His lip quirks. “Did you give them what they wanted?”

“Do you mean, did I break?”

“Were they trying to break you?”

She opens her mouth to say something, something witty he assumes, but she chooses not to. Instead, she shakes her head and bares honest eyes. “No. But I told them what they needed to know. Over time, they’ll start feeling like teammates. And I, a part of the team. They need to know about my condition, and when I’m ready, they’ll know me.” 

He realizes why her impassiveness used to irk him so—she is him, he is her. They are carbon-copies. He is speaking to himself, and he sees and feels what the Captain does. Sadness. Emitting from her, growing within him.

“Do you enjoy being excluded?”

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

“Same thing.”

She rearranges her legs, crossing the right one over the left. “It’s not the same thing. Being alone is for peace of mind. Exclusion is… forced.”

“Isolation, then. Like what Stark said. Basking in our reclusiveness.”

“I’ve been alone a long time. I find comfort in it, but I don’t like being lonely.”

“I’m not following.”

She smiles, turning to look at him. He meets her eyes—there’s a shimmer of gold in them. “I came here tonight because I don’t like being alone at this hour anymore. I like our silence. Our proximity. I’m not lonely when I’m with you, but we can be alone together.”

“Ah,” he sighs. Nervously, he holds her stare and says, “I like our time together, too.”

It’s refreshing, being open. Usually he delivers truths bluntly, honesty with a punch, and information without remorse. With her, it’s easier to be the Soldier. It’s easier to try and reach deep into the pit of what’s left of his soul, and pull out Bucky Barnes.

“Natasha’s nice. We can invite her to smoke with us.”

“No.”

She laughs. “Noted.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He wouldn’t smoke, but he’d be fun in conversation.”

“You speak to him often?”

She hums, considering. “He always speaks to me if I’m in the room. The Captain, too.”

He likes that—people he considers friends treating her kindly.

“What do you talk about?”

“The weather, mostly.”

He snorts, the sound completely unflattering. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Idiots. Do they describe the sun to you, too?”

She laughs again, the original melody caressing his skin. “I don’t blame them. I’m pretty closed off during the day.”

“You should come train with me sometime. The windows can be covered.”

“I forget you’re the expert with knives around here.”

“Knives, yes. Daggers, no.”

She moves to sit criss-crossed, facing him. “It’s not all that different. Plus, what I use are more like shortswords anyway.”

“How old are you again?”

She grins, fangs and all. Beckoning him, his blood. He sits up higher. 

“Never ask a lady her age.”

“I see times haven’t changed.”

“What else do you remember from those times?”

A little, he wants to say. Barely anything at all, he wants to scream.

“I remember ladies wore more than this to bed,” he teases, pinching a loose thread at her shorts. 

She raises a brow. “What nuns were you dating?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she breathes, the air she expels completely artificial, “they wore nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

She bounces as she gets off his bed. Her smile remains, and he finds that he’s been sporting one of his own the entire time. 

“Liar. One of my top five pet names.”

He watches her walk away, and before he can stop himself—

“What do you like being called? By your first name? A nickname?”

“I quite like being called Fangs.”

Damn Stark to all the Hells. He gives a playful scoff, “Your first name will do.”

“Call me Fangs.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Get out of my room.”

She rolls her eyes, and checks the hallway before squeezing through the slight gap of the door. “Goodnight, Barnes.”

“Call me James.”

“Your last name will do.”

—————

The Soldier grips the handles of his chair and limits his air consumption to a whopping ten breaths a minute. Any more oxygen and his adrenaline will spike. He does not want to cause a scene, no, not when the Colonel and Banner are doing that for him. 

“I think we all need to calm down and look at this situation from all sides,” the Captain reasons, the strong timbre of his voice carrying over Stark’s. 

“Cap, your bleeding heart is showing.”

The Colonel sighs, “See reason, Tony. She was starving because of our carelessness. And because we never initiate conversation with her, we didn’t ask!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t group me in that shit. I talk to her whenever I see her. I was with my sister all week so I’m excluded from your witch-hunt,” Wilson declares, leaning back in his chair, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

“Buck, we believe her when she says she wasn’t hurting you. But what in the world made you think that it was safe for her to feed from you—not even considering the serum—at all?”

“There you go, treating him like a kid again,” Stark grumbles with a heavy roll of his eyes. The Soldier turns his head slowly, his glare half-hidden behind his hair but deadly enough to make Stark clear his throat. 

“Oh, shut it, Tony. Which is it then? He let her because he’s such a kid, or he shouldn’t have let her because he’s such a kid?” the Colonel argues.

The Widow leans her head back and brings her feet up to rest on the table. “And there you guys go again, acting like he’s not in the room.”

Banner interjects, massaging his hands together as he stutters, “Drinking his blood could have made her even more super than she is. We had no way of knowing for sure because she had rejected every test before this week.”

“And did you find anything different with her blood?” Wilson asks.

“Ah! That’s one thing we discovered. She doesn’t have any,” Stark shares, clapping his hands together.

“Considering the lack thereof, there was no blood to intermingle with his, so to say. She can’t absorb it permanently,” Banner explains further. 

“Something we should have known when she first joined the team!”

“Tony, are you afraid that she’s going to be addicted to his blood now? Or any of ours?” the Widow asks, raising a trimmed brow. She looks around the table, her gaze softening slightly as it lands on the Captain. Still, she moans, “God, you guys are stupid.”

Stark makes a rattling scene as he pulls a chair out and sits down. He intertwines his fingers, mimicking a student. “Elaborate, then.”

The Widow stares at him for longer than the Soldier ever has. Her silence is as deadly as his, but more cutthroat. Where Stark would pinch until the Soldier either swung or bolted, he submits for the Widow. Be it that he’s known her longer and has more respect, he doesn’t know. 

“Did any of you read my report about the mission a few weeks ago? Or did you just send your own to Fury and call it a day?” No one answers her. “Of course. If you did read mine, you would have read where I elaborated on the capability of her self-control. I bled first. It was my blood out in the air. The target hadn’t seen her. Barnes would have dealt with him first and given me the second look. She had the opportunity to go toward my open neck and have a feast. But instead, she tore into the man who hurt me.”

The Soldier can’t help the smirk that forms when it clicks. “You let him cut you on purpose.”

“Glad to know my work is being appreciated.”

Stark leans forward, actual shock painting his face. “You jump started the experiments? That was your idea?”

“Well, you and Banner were getting nowhere.”

He turns to the rest of the table, his smirk replaced by a frown. “She wasn’t going to hurt me because I trust her. And she trusts me. We’ve met every night for the past few months to share cigarettes and conversation up on that roof. Not once before did she even look at my neck.”

“Makes sense for those two to be close,” Banner mumbles, somewhat apologetic. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me or Tony operate on your arm after T’Challa gifted you it?”

“Look, if she’s angry at us then we will all apologize and try to understand where she’s coming from—” 

He abruptly stands, cutting Stark off. He marks the Colonel and the Widow reaching for the guns at their hip. Stark looks offended for a second—

He’s had weeks to learn how to show… empathy. Weeks to learn how to look at someone and have his eyes speak for him. Stark closes his mouth, his brow relaxing, his gaze intense. Decent. Human.

“It’s not some competition between her and I. She’s not trying to be angry, or angrier than me. She’s sad. She didn’t let you into her world because you never asked! Never got to know her. You’re terrified of her not because she looks like she can kill you, but because she looks three seconds away from killing herself. You see nothing in her face—the same nothing like in mine. It’s a hazy type of nothing, and soon you will realize you shouldn’t have been afraid of her, you should have been trying to help her.”

“Buck…” the Captain breathes, restless. 

“I’m not about to kill myself, Rogers. Don’t worry. But everything would be a lot easier if you all just… asked what you wanted to ask. The more you tip-toe around what you think is happening, the longer you build up this scenario that ends in flames. I like my silence, and sometimes I like when it’s interrupted. If you listen to my advice, you’ll know when to bother me and when to leave me the fuck alone.”

The Widow snickers, but there’s pride in her look. Praise he never asked for, and never will. Though, he’s glad his argument is supported. He’s glad the red-haired menace of a woman was creative enough to seek answers herself. The only one with a spine, it seems. 

“I trust her,” he repeats. He really needs them to know that. “You’ve asked questions about her condition and you got your answers. Now, ask about her next time.”

—————

They get the call late into the night. Rousing them from sleep, the Captain tells the team to suit up and board the quinjet in under fifteen minutes. The flight to Moscow will be a long one, and the chilly descent won’t make anyone happier. They are expected to land when the moon hangs high again.

The Widow cannot return to Russia. The Soldier can’t either, but he’s better at evading. He knows how to navigate the icy forests. Wilson, Stark, and the Colonel are grounded for risk of being shot down. The only ones cleared for this mission are himself, the Captain, Barton, Maximoff, and their vampire companion. 

They split into two teams. The Captain and Maximoff head east. Barton accompanies him, and though he does not explicitly say it, he is watching just how close the Soldier walks near the woman who drank his blood three nights ago. 

The mission is to infiltrate and leave no hostages. Killing on a team-effort. They succeed. On record, the Avengers weren’t in Russia at all.

The Captain calls an all-clear and the Soldier corroborates. Sunrise is nearing. They need to return to the quinjet immediately. 

He doesn’t hear the high-tech drones flying at ground-level. But he does hear the rustling behind the trees, the regular breathing from trained lungs. He orders Barton back but it’s too late. He steps on an explosive and is sent into the air. Stark’s expertise extends to their suits as well so it’s a miracle Barton doesn’t lose a limb, but their position is known. He calls for assistance over the comms. Smoke billows at his side, then disappears altogether. As he deals with the men sprouting from hiding, she deals with the ones still crouching. Blood sprays and his legs tire fast without Barton there to help. He doesn’t even know where he landed. 

He tries calling for the Captain again with no luck. It’s an ambush with their best combat agents, and they are sorely outnumbered. If it was just guns and knives, even arrows, he could beat them all. The weapons they have are electricity-based, some fire. He’s battling his own men while also checking at the corner of his eye that sparks and heat aren’t one of her weaknesses. Because if she’s downed, he can’t go for Barton. She is a priority. 

If no one helps her, she’ll burn. 

“Go find Rogers!” he screams to her as he smashes his metal fist into the stomach of a man much larger than him. 

“I’ll go for Clint! He couldn’t have landed far—”

He’s struck by a bullet before she finishes her sentence. Her terrified gasp is perhaps the saddest part about this whole ordeal. She doesn't need to breathe, she doesn't need to gasp. He lands on his back, his stomach branded by lead, directly in this morning’s first ray of light.   

“James!”

The Captain confirms Barton’s safety, then his panicked questioning bombards the comms as he is informed of the Soldier’s condition. Her voice sounds different over the earpiece. Somehow lighter. Frightened, but lighter. Shadows attempt to cover him from afar, but they can’t reach. She’s not close enough. She digs into necks and plunges her gold shortsword into the other available meat she can find. The Soldier has been shot at many times, but shot? Once when he was Bucky Barnes, twice during his seventy year prison sentence, and once more since arriving at the Tower. Only the wound during the war had been in the stomach, and he had miraculously healed in three days then. He hadn’t thought twice about why that was. 

These are the worst injuries—get shot in the middle and suddenly every part of your body hurts. He can’t think, can barely breathe. If he isn’t helped soon, the serum will battle his natural adrenaline to the point he could die from shock. 

There are hands on his shoulders, then under them, lifting poorly. She screams and screams and screams. He smells burning flesh. He is dropped momentarily and sees the flash of a gold dagger, then the crimson of the enemy. Again, he is lifted, dragged. Again, she is screaming.

They take cover in every shadow she can fit in. She waits, whimpering under her breath, then does it all over again. He can’t fully open his eyes. 

She does this twelve more times until they are far enough from the enemy. She shoves them into an empty cave and immediately begins removing his leathers. 

He doesn’t remember much after that.

—————

The unmistakable scent of cooking rabbit hits him before the stabbing pain in his abdomen.

“You owe me,” he hears a cranky voice mutter, the voice he’s come to expect whenever the sun disappears and the moon kisses the stars. He’s on his back, his metal fist practically fused to his stomach. When he opens his eyes fully there are branches blocking his view of the night sky. There’s a campfire to his left, flames growing higher as it cooks the animal hovering over it. He moans in discomfort when he turns his neck a little more, but it’s worth it. 

There she is—skinning a second rabbit and skewering it a second later, frown on her beautiful face, cloak torn from the bullets that grazed her. Without the hood, the injuries from the sun are on full display. Scattered, silver patches mark her natural tint, slowly healing but obviously causing discomfort. She pauses her cooking to scratch at herself relentlessly, cheeks and neck bearing her lashes. 

“What do I owe you?” he croaks, coughing automatically. She abandons the dead animal to grab their emergency water containers. She holds the back of his head as she gently pours water on his lips first. Once moistened, he takes the container from her with his flesh hand. 

“I don’t like killing animals,” she says, helping him sit up. He winces and lets her move him to the base of a wide tree. 

“Sorry,” he replies absentmindedly. “You should eat, too.”

“I already did. You’re getting my leftovers.”

He eyes the fire, then the surrounding forest. “Is it safe to have one burning so high?”

She steadies the second rabbit over the wooden grill and turns the other one. She gives an unimpressed hum and remains facing away. “I dragged you for miles. I doubt they will catch up soon.”

“Miles?”

“The Captain was ambushed, too. Going to him would have put your life at risk.” A pause, then a twinge of distress. “And I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and fight anymore.”

“This had nothing to do with your strength or competence. The sun—”

“The fucking sun,” she grinds out, her usual low tone rising, “Because of the fucking sun, it made me incompetent. I am a hazard in the field when I have to cower in the shadows while my teammates are getting their asses handed to them.”

The Soldier pinches an eye closed, fixing his position slightly. “I can handle my own ass, thank you—”

“I was a nurse in the war.”

He pauses, his heart clenching. “Our war?”

Our war, he says. Like he and the Captain owned all the pain, the consequences, the deaths, the aftermath. 

“I didn’t even know I had… died. I woke up in the middle of the night surrounded by the corpses of my men. I walked for miles until I found the gods-awful British army.”

He chuckles at that, even if his stomach begs him not to. 

“I guess the enemy had a predator on the field. Makes sense… There were a lot of bodies to feed from. I stayed in the tents and worked well into the morning. And when my refuge was attacked, I left the tent so I could help.”

She doesn’t see the pitiful look he gives her. 

“I burned so badly. And while I burned, I couldn’t reach the downed soldiers. When it was all done, instinct won… I fed for the first time that night. They all tasted like bile. When I finally found my own base again, I had a birthday card and chocolate waiting for me. I ate the entire bar even though it made me sick, even though it tasted like dirt. I was questioned about how I survived when so many died, why I kept giving my rations away, why I refused to work during the day. So because of the fucking sun, I let good men die. I could not have that happen today.”

Silence hums between them, the gentle crackle of the fire speaking for them. It occurs to him that she does not need the warmth it provides, but that she built it for him. For the sole purpose of feeding and comforting him. Something liquid figuratively drips into his stomach, swirling chaotically.  

She removes the darkened rabbit from the fire and hands it to him. He thanks her with a nod of his head, and bites into its thigh. The meat is dry, but he has half a mind to thank her for removing its head so he doesn’t have to stare into dead eyes. 

“Clint’s alive, by the way. Idiot landed in a gods-honest haystack a mile from the rest of the team.” 

He laughs as he chews. She nods her head at his stomach. 

“I’m fine,” he assures her, lifting his metal hand to showcase the dried blood. The bullet went right through him. “I’m just sore.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his meal half-eaten. She’s handed him the second rabbit already. 

“Thank you,” he says honestly. “I’m not used to being saved. I find it odd that so many people want to save me. It was a calculated sacrifice, and I owe you my life.”

“Calculated,” she drawls. “I didn’t think much about it. You give me too much credit.”

“Well, if you didn’t think about it, then you’re just as much of an idiot as Rogers.”

The first smile of the night graces her face, now mostly healed from the silver patches. 

“It wasn’t your fault. Someone took advantage of—” he pauses, the words too familiar. “Someone took advantage of you when you were helpless. When you were left for dead. And when you tried to help, you got the short end of the stick.”

“Some dull stick.”

He steadies his breathing, then takes another bite. The ache in his stomach feels less burdensome as he eats. 

“You’re a veteran.”

“Do nurses count as veterans?”

“Fuck yeah they do.” They share a laugh, a moment. It’s as intimate as can be, the most intimate they’ve ever been. Even more so than when she had her teeth in his neck. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, though the sentiment means more now. “For being a friend.”

“Thank you for not dying on me. And for trusting me,” she says, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Do I surpass the Captain?”

He chuckles. “He’s my closest friend. I think you’re my best friend.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters, her quip a balm over the entire night. 

They speak for the next few hours. It’s the most he’s spoken since coming home. Where his tongue would dry out and his head would turn hazy, he finds peace and urgency instead. Peace in her voice, in his mind. Urgency to tell her everything and nothing, all at once. 

The Captain finds them before sunrise, and the Soldier—for the first time since reclaiming pieces of Bucky Barnes—hugs his closest friend because he simply wants to.

—————

Three weeks later, they are allowed back onto the roof. She brings the cigarettes this time. A different brand, one he vaguely remembers Dum-Dum complaining about. Said they were lady-smokes. He considers their taste, a memory for Bucky Barnes and a new experience for the Soldier. Those truths can coexist. 

He quite likes their flavor. 

“If you could take a bite out of anyone on the team, who would it be?”

He chokes on the smoke, fanning it away as he tries to control his laughter. “It’s actually insane of you to ask that question—”

Her mouth splits into a wide smile, her fangs showing. “Aw, c’mon! Indulge me! Who would it be?”

“Who would you want to taste?”

“Well, I’ve already tasted you.”

His chest tightens, suggestive of a lot more than he is ready to admit. She’s transitioned to blood bags instead of the vein, and some archaic part of himself is glad for it. He doesn’t necessarily want her mouth on anyone’s neck, besides his own, ever again. 

“Yeah, you have,” he says quietly, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want to say who I’m thinking.”

She takes a short drag, smiling around the cigarette. “You’ve thought about it?”

“You want to hear it or not?”

She passes him the stick, her eyes glowing momentarily. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry.”

He waits a moment, savoring the taste of her on their smoke. He wonders if one day they’ll upgrade to joints—if it would affect either of them at all. He clears his throat before admitting, “Thor.”

Silence. He takes another drag. 

“I’ve thought about him, too.”

He doesn’t choke on his laugh this time. It’s loud, flowing down into the crowded streets and mixing with reality. For so long his silence has placated his mind and unnerved others—he’s becoming human again, resurrecting.   

She matches his volume, taking the cigarette from his steady fingers. “Seriously! If I were to bring up the question of whether I need human blood or humanoid blood to sustain me to Tony and Bruce, oh! They would call him down to earth to find out immediately.”

Is it possible to bring someone who’s undead back to life, too? Were they living all along? Were they just suspended in an unmoving abyss and once something sparked, they chose to climb again? Is it ever that simple? It took him years, then months, weeks, and suddenly, days. He hasn’t broken through the skyline just yet, and neither has she, but that sliver of solace, that sliver of knowledge that it’s possible… That’s what makes him want to continue on. To hold hands with time itself.  

“I have no doubt they would,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. He breathes in the crisp night air, and feels absolutely no remorse as he asks, “What did mine taste like?”

She considers, eyes crinkling. “Sweet. Like toffee, or more what I remember toffee tastes like. When people are happy, they taste like sugar to me, remember?”

“I was happy?” he says doubtingly, but his mind doesn’t believe his own uncertainty. It’s been a long time since he’s been happy, since he was his old self. Maybe the moment her teeth met his skin, he was Bucky Barnes. Maybe he was a new rendition of his old form—with one new emotion. Learning, retaining, earning this new life. “I’m happy,” he repeats because it’s true.

“I think I’m happy, too.”

God, she’s magnificent. 

“You know what makes me even happier, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Thai food,” he says honestly, ignoring her playful scoff. “I’m serious. Let me take you out tomorrow night. And… when we return… you can taste it for yourself.”

She tries not to smile, but it splits gracefully. “That sounds so weird—”

“Hey, I’m trying here!”

She passes him the cigarette, only their second of the night, and scoots closer on the ledge. “Fine. You can take me out. But there better be wine or else I’ll complain the whole time—”

He grabs her hand, flesh on flesh, warm and cold. Intertwining their fingers, they both study the connection. Again, silence breezes through them. There is no longer a gap, no longer just smoke being shared. 

She does not pull away, but instead leans her head down and rests it on his shoulder. He savors the weight, high on the prospect of time itself, and rests his own head over hers.

xx

A/N: Let me know if you guys want a part 2, if not then this is a perfect one-shot for me! --Moni

[buckymorelikefuckme]

steve rogers x fem reader

words: 697

warnings & tags: this is just pure fluff 😭

a/n: this isn’t proofread and written p quickly, but thank you for sending this so i could let go of this sweet little idea i had sitting in my drafts 🥹♥️♥️♥️♥️ i hope you like it!! xo

You almost didn’t come to your high school reunion, and honestly, part of you wishes you hadn’t. Those were some of the worst years of your life and you don’t exactly want to relive them.

But… Okay, so, maybe it’s a silly reason to attend the reunion, but your curiosity about one specific person won out. Steve Rogers, your high school crush, a fellow nerd like yourself. He was scrawny and fierce, kind to a fault—except to bullies, even if it meant taking a hit or two. He’d been your lab partner during your senior year, the two of you soaring through the class with the highest grades and sharing an easy camaraderie.

It’d been the simplest thing in the world for you to fall for him. Your only regret was never saying anything to him about it. So, naturally, when the invitation came in the mail, the only motivation you had to go was to hopefully see him and catch up with him.

You’ve been in the ballroom of the hotel where the reunion was taking place for almost two hours and haven’t caught the first glimpse. Which is why you’re now nursing a drink at the open bar and ignoring everyone around you.

Suddenly, someone comes to stand in the spot next to you. They clear their throat lightly and, with a sigh, you lift your gaze to meet striking blue eyes that are crinkle at the corners from a smile. Your frown smooths out into surprise as recognition hits you.

“Steve?”

The gentle laugh that escapes him feels like a sucker punch. This is not the boy from school you remember. This is a man, who clearly had a major growth spurt, with broad shoulders and strong muscles that are straining against his clothes, a sharp jaw, and a full beard that your fingers itch to touch.

He says your name in return on an exhale, that stunning smile tickling the corners of his lips still. “Hi,” he greets, shyly glancing down to his feet then back up at you through his thick lashes.

It takes a moment for your brain to kick-start again, but once it does you quickly set off into conversation. Talking with Steve flows easily and you’re back to feeling like a teenager within minutes, giggling and feeling heat gather in your cheeks, almost twirling your hair around your finger more than once.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he confesses a little while later. “I was hoping you would be.”

“Really?” you question, then blurt, “Why?”

Steve laughs, shrugging as he ducks his head and bites his lip. “Kinda hard to forget your first crush,” he replies shamelessly.

“You liked me?” you ask, voice quiet and astonished, tummy swirling with nerves.

“Of course I did. You were kind to me when not many others were and so beautiful,” he admits. “Still are,” he adds softly.

“But…” You trail off, blinking rapidly as your mind races. “But I had a crush on you!”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s way more shocking than me liking you,” he teases.

“No it’s not,” you protest earnestly. “You were always so sweet and made me laugh. You never backed down from the mean kids and stood up for others who were too scared to do it for themselves. It was impossible for me to not like you.”

“Ah,” he breathes, bashfully waving you off.

“I only came here in the hopes of seeing you too,” you say after gathering the courage.

Steve meets your eyes then, sparkling and full of both tenderness and desire. You swallow roughly and do your best to hold his gaze, no matter how much it starts making you want to squirm. Finally, he breaks the momentary silence.

“You wanna get out of here? Maybe grab a bite to eat from the diner a few blocks away?” he proposes.

You’re nodding before he even finishes, beaming up at him. “I’d love to.”

The soft smile he aims your way makes your heart flutter, and when he takes your hand in his you finally let out the giggle that’s been threatening to slip out the entire time you’ve been talking with him.

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - Week 12 - No Powers AU

This week we have a grab bag of AUs but ALL of them are

NO POWERS AU. 

I know a lot of folks only read canon divergent or compliant fics, but I personally love the diversity in storytelling that a good no-powers AU affords. So here’s a handful of my favorite--enjoy! 

What Happens In Vegas by sabrecmc 

“What the hell, Tony?” Rhodey demanded brusquely. Tony winced and drew the phone away from his ear. “You’ve got cops and Feds all over the hotel. I’m watching you perp walk out of the police station on repeat on CNN. They’re saying you tried to bribe Stern? Fox News has you selling weapons on the black market, and God that picture they’re using is the one from Bali in ’09. You look like shit. They wheeled Stern out and put him in an ambulance, by the way. Got some paparazzi swearing you decked the guy. Now they’ve got ‘copters following it like he’s OJ.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Sourpatch, I’ve got it covered. Uh, though, I should probably tell you that, purely in the interests of national security and the greater good, I kind of had to fake marry that stripper-gram you sent. Thanks for that, by the way,” Tony added quickly.

1-900-SOULMATE by SailorChibi

Later, Tony would maintain that it wasn’t his fault. He was drunk and bored (lonely) and it just… happened.

Pepper would look at him and, in the driest tone that Tony had ever heard, remark that he was the only person in the history of the world who would stumble across their soulmate while drunk dialing a phone sex line.

Unknown Caller (do not engage) by gottalovev 

Steve had one job: exchange a couple of texts with a guy who thought he had Natasha's number, and let him down gently. It ends up being a lot more complicated than that.

Buried by NotEvenCloseToStraight

When Howard Stark demands Tony work at a dig site in S.America one summer to "build character" and "learn about life", Tony is furious.

But then he meets soldier/archeologist Steve and falls in love with blue eyes and a perfect smile. Just as they are ready to move forward together, Steve leaves abruptly with no explanation and breaks Tonys heart.

Ten years later, Tony stumbles across the file for the old dig site. He's determined to visit and shut it down, but discovers that instead of a village, the dig has unconvered a temple and actually needs MORE money to stay open. A security team is hired to protect the staff and the artifacts they find, and Tony comes face to face with Steve Rogers all over again– except Steve is bearded and BIGGER and way more dangerous than he used to be...And Tony likes it.

When the camp is attacked, Steve jumps into action, snatching Tony and running into the jungle to escape and work their way towards safety.

But long days and nights together bring back old feelings, and one day Steve takes a risk and asks Tony to give them another chance.

Will Tony say yes? Or is his heart buried too far for the soldier-turned- archaeologist-turned-mercenary to find it?

Jink by FestiveFerret

When Steve agrees to dog sit for Colonel Rhodes, he doesn't expect Rhodes' unusual, intriguing, and painfully attractive whirlwind of a best friend to show up unannounced.

There's an App for That by Annie D (scaramouche) 

Thanks to the modern gig economy, Steve is the successful owner of a break-up service, i.e. people pay him to break up with their partners for them. One day, he gets the first break-up request for Tony Stark.

Dangerous Kitchen Tools by ladyshadowdrake 

Engineering prodigy, billionaire, and heir to the Stark Industries empire, Tony Stark turned the business world on its head by opening a restuarant and burying himself in the kitchen. Years later, he covers an informal evening cooking class for his friend and fellow molecular gastronomist, Bruce Banner, where he meets famously camera-shy comic artist Steve Rogers.

[album-tourney]

Adjusted Round 1 match ups

I’m against the government by Defiance, Ohio - Little Boxes by Malvina Reynolds

Vienna by Billy Joel - Miracle of Life by Bright Eyes

Hungry Dog on the street by the Taxpayers - Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell

Excursion Around the Bay by Derina Harvey band - I am a Union Woman by Bobbie McGee

Jolene by Dolly Parton - Wild World by Cat Stevens

At Seventeen by Janis Ian - The Battle of New Orleans by Johnny Horton

Everybody's Talkin' by Harry Nilsson - Do you Believe in Magic by the Lovin Spoonful

Blackbird by the Beatles - Mr. Tambourine Man by the Byrds

Puff the Magic Dragon by Peter Paul and Mary - Blister in the Sun by the Violent Femmes

Ooh La La by the Faces - Ain't No Sunshine by Bill Withers

Tear the Facists Down by Woody Guthrie - Fire and Rain by James Taylor

Rule #4 Fish in a Birdcage by Fish in a Birdcage - Strangers by Apes of the State

Angel From Montgomery by Bonnie Raitt - I'd work for Free by Blake Rouse

I'm not a good person by Pat the Bunny - Ho Hey by the Lumineers

Lyndon Johnson Told the Nation by Tom Paxton - Pure Obsession by Mirabai Kukathas

Not Yet/Love Run by the Amazing Devil - Budapest by George Ezra

Diamonds and Rust by Joan Baez - Paradise by John Prine

What a time to be alive by Matt Press - Ballad of a Wobbly by David Rovics

Glad to be Gay by Tom Robinson Band - Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen

All The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands by Sufjan Stevens? - Kill the Boy Band by She/Her/Hers

Every Town will Celebrate by Mischief Brew - Oak & Ash & Thorn by The Longest Johns

The Galway Girl by Sharon Shannon and Steve Earle - Curses by the Crane Wives

You're So Vain by Carly Simon - The Chemical Worker's Song by Great Big Sea

I'm Gonna Be an Engineer by Peggy Seegar - Follow Me up to Carlow by the Young Dubliners

American Pie by Don McLean - Murder in the City by the Avett Brother

Rhododendron Honey by Leslie Fish - The Fox by Nickel Creek

California Dreamin by the Mama's and the Papa's - Ohio by Neil Young

It's too Late by Carole King - There is Power in a Union by Billy Bragg

Have you ever seen the rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival - I ain't Marching Anymore by Phil Ochs

The Wrote and Writ by Johnny Flynn - Wayward Prodigal by Cora Reef

Landslide by Fleetwood Mac - Place to Be by Nick Drake

Space Girl by Shirley Collins - Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons

Delta Dawn by Tanya Tucker - Where have all the flowers gone by Pete Seeger

Take Me to Church By Hozier - Solidarity Forever by Utah Phillipps

Let the Mystery Be by Iris Demont - Brave as a Noun by AJJ

A Horse with No Name by America - Mrs. Robinson By Simon and Garfunkel

Tom's Diner by Suzanne Vega - A Song for a Computer Programmer by Cricket!

War on the Workers by Anne Feeney - War isn't Murder by Jesse Welles

Me and my Bobby Mcgee by Janis Joplin - For What It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield

You're Dead by Norma Tanega - The Gambler by Kenny Rogers

Color in your Cheeks by the Mountain Goats - March of the Jobless Corps by Daniel Kahn

Stick Season by Noah Kahan - O Valencia by the Decemberists

Fuck it by Days N Daze - Dream a Little Dream of Me by Cass Elliot

Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen - The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down by The Band

Deny Defend Depose by Joe Devito - Big Rock Candy Mountain by Harry McClintock

Annie's Song by John Denver - The Funeral by Band of Horses

Union Maid by the Almanac Singers - 32 Flavors by Ani Difranco

Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash, And Young - Fast Car by Tracy Chapman

The War Racket by Buffy Sainte-Marie - Hurt by Johnny Cash

One Great City by the Weakerathans - Loose Lips by Kimya Dawson

Feed the Machine by Poor Man's Poison - Everything I Own by Bread

I want wind to blow, the microphones - City of New Orleans by Arlo Guthrie

Todos Juntos by Los Jaivas - II: The Road Giveth by RENT STRIKE

Roll On, Columbia, Roll On by the Highway Men - Ballad of Ho Chi Min by Ewan MacColl

Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison - Time in a Bottle By Jim Croce

The Trolley Problem by Windborne - One Kind of People by Amigo the Devil

Season of the Witch by Donovan - House of the Rising Sun by the Animals

The Times they are a changing by Bob Dylan - Cats in the Cradle by Harry Chapman

Closer to Fine by the Indigo Girls - Two Headed Boy by Neutral Milk Hotel

Heave Away by the Fables - Your Heart is a Muscle the Size Of Your fist by Ramshackle Glory

Who would Jesus Bomb by Jordan Snart - Electricity by Sister Wife Sex Strike

Rhinestone Cowboy by Glen Campbell - Plastic Jesus by Tia Blake

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald By Gordon Lightfoot - Bread and Roses by Judy Collins

Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford - I'm a Believer by The Monkees

[ice-eise-babyy]

Pure | JB.B - Drabble

Pairing: 40's!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader (ft. Pre-serum!Steve Rogers)

Summary: a very drunk bucky who refuses to leave the pub with a 'crazy lady' a.k.a his girlfriend.

Warnings: mentions of alcohol but other than that, its mainly just fluff guys

A/N: I dont even know if this is any good but i hope you guys enjoy it <33

You would be lying if you said you didn't want to hurl something—anything— at Steve's head right at this moment. It's almost 10:00 p.m and instead of being in bed drifting off to sleep, you were currently out in the streets of Brooklyn on the way to a pub, who wouldn't want to hurl someone in the head with something?

"I'm really sorry y/n. I really wouldn't have woken you up if—" Steve's 20th apology this night was shortly cut of as you gave him a sideward glare. You felt slightly guilty after doing so, knowing that you were pinning this on him even though you were partially at fault.

If you had agreed to Bucky early this morning then you probably wouldn't be awake at this unforsaken hour. You probably wouldn't have Steve throwing rocks at your window to wake you up, and you probably wouldn't be walking to a pub to pick up your boyfriend who apparently refused to leave because he wanted to see you. You sighed, recollecting the conversation you had with him earlier today.

—

"But y/n..." you rolled your eyes at his dramatic whining. "Bucky, you're just going to spend the day with Steve. It's not the end of the world." You had been convincing him to spend more time with steve for almost a week now mainly because he has been spending most of his time with you, even sleeping at your apartment. The reason being he had to leave for wisconsin in 2 days because of military training.

As much as you want to grab bucky's face in your hands and look him in the eye while saying 'i also want to spend the day with you' and have him to yourself, you knew that if you do that you would be selfish. You knew that he might end up regretting not spending more time with Steve before leaving, he just probably haven't realized that yet.

"Can you atleast come with us, doll?"

"No, Bucky. absolutely not. if i come with you, you'd probably ignore Steve the whole time."

—

You smoothed out your Navy colored dress before shoving your white gloves deep in the pocket of your coat. You slowly walked in when Steve opened the door of the pub entrance for you. There weren't much people, mostly just soldiers who came back from war or just men in general. Your eyes darted around the place and a sigh of relief fell from your lips as your eyes landed on Bucky. He was sitting on one of the stools with only his side facing you, his forehead pressed on the bar counter as he looked down at his hands that were resting on his lap, he was humming a familiar song as he did so. He was looking at his hands like it was the most interesting thing to ever exist. His eyes wide and his lips pursed. You felt a warmth in your chest as you peered at his drunken state for a few beats longer. He was out for only a few hours and to you it also felt like just a few hours but to your heart... to your heart it felt like so long, long enough to have it yearning for him. yearning for his touch, his voice, his love...

You sighed once more as you sat down right beside him. He paid you no attention, eyes still on his hand and still humming the same song. Your lips tugged into a smile as you realized what song he was humming. It was 'when you wish upon a star' by glenn miller. It was the song playing when you had danced with him for the first time.

"Bucky?"

"Go away miss. I have a girlfriend" he was so quick to turn you away, mistaking you for another woman because he haven't looked at you once. This sparked an idea. A funny and harmless one.

"Oh, you do? too bad."

"Yeah, too bad for you— *hic* not for me. I'm happy where i am."

"Really? tell me then, mister. How is she like?"

He still hasn't looked at you. In his head he thought that there was no point in looking at other women because those other woman aren't even you. the only problem was it was you but of course he didn't know that yet. A wide smile adorned his face as he heard your words. Oh boy was he excited to brag about you.

"She is amazing. Words would never ever be enough to describe her beauty. It's unparalleled— *hic* and it's not... not just her face that's beautiful," even though you couldn't see the entirety of his face you didn't fail to notice the dreamy smile tugging in the corner of his lips, "Her soul as well and her smile— oh her smile... it just makes me— *hic* make me warm in here..." his hand pressed on his chest and gripped it like he was trying his best to pull his heart out just to show you where exactly he felt the warmth. "I really really want to marry her but she said that— *hic* i gotta win the war first... Stupid fucking nazi's" his fists clenched as he muttered that last words.

Your bottom lip found its way between your teeth as you tried to hold back your laughter. This was a rare sight to see your boyfriend all dazed while talking about you. Sure he was vocal about how he felt for you. He would always say how much he loves you or how beautiful you are but... you never expected that this is how he would talk about you to other people.

"That's really cute but we really gotta go home y/n. The pub's closing" Steve's voice dripped with sarcasm as he popped up from behind you before walking over to Bucky and patting him by the shoulder.

"Bucky, we gotta get you home.." you said but he just shook his head. he finally looked up but instead of looking at you, his gaze landed on the skinny little man in front of him. "Steve! you gotta help me man. That crazy lady's trying to take me home!" he said with genuine fear and panic in his eyes before standing up and gripping steve by the shoulder, his index finger pointed towards you who was sitting behind Steve. Steve doubled over as he laughed at him and Bucky tilted his head, confused as to why his friend would laugh at such a 'serious' situation.

"Bucky, that's your girlfriend." Steve bursted out laughing again as he saw Bucky's face contorting with a confused expression before looking at you who sat behind Steve. His eyes went wide and his jaw went slack when he realized, It was you!

"my god! it is!" he practically shoved Steve away just to rush over to you and get a clearer view of you. His hands flew to the sides of your face forcing you to looking up at him. he gave you a quick peck on the lips, an ecstatic smile adorning his face as he pulled away. His breath smelled of beer and maraschino cherries. He picked you up and spun you around the moment you stood up.

—

The three of you are now walking back to Steve and Bucky's shared apartment. Bucky's left arm was draped around Steve's shoulder to help himself as he walked sloppily while his other arm was swinging back and forth as he intertwined your fingers together. the way he looked at your hands with such adoration made your heart melt and maybe even made you realize that it is possible to fall inlove with the same person over and over again...

"y/n..."

"Hmm?"

"I may be tipsy with the beer and grenadine, but..." he paused for a moment when he heard you giggle. it was funny to you because 'tipsy' was probably an understatement, "I meant everything I said... I really want to marry you... wait for me til I get back from war... okay?" his voice was small and it sounded so innocent. There were hundreds— maybe even thousands— of words that would be perfect to describe Bucky's love fore you but 'pure' was the most accurate one out of all of them. His love was pure...

"I will, bucky..."

but he never did...

[luxeavenger]

Deep Breath

Kinktober prompt: Breathplay

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Backstage Pass!Bucky x Backstage Pass!Steve x reader

Warnings: Breathplay, dvp

Words: 994

Thanks for reblogging.

Kinktober Masterlist | Backstage Pass Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-fi

part 1

“Take a deep breath, princess,” Steve tells you.

You take in a big lungful of air without needing to know why. Then Bucky’s arm comes from behind you. He presses his warm palm over your mouth, and pinches your nose closed with this thumb and forefinger. He eases your head back against his shoulder, cutting off your air, with no hope of dodging away from his restraining hand.

Your lizard brain kicks in before the rest of your brain can catch up, and your heartbeat thunders in your ears, fast and erratic. But then Bucky’s soothing voice is in your ear, “I’ve got you, princess. Stevie’s got you too.”

Of course they’ve got you. They’ve always got you. There’s no place from which you could fall where they wouldn’t be waiting there to catch you.

You nod. Your racing pulse slows, and you let your eyes flutter closed. Giving yourself over to them means you don’t have to think about anything. You don’t have to worry about anything. All you have to do is feel them. Enjoy the press of their bodies against yours. How thoroughly they surround you. How completely they fill you.

“Eyes on me, princess,” Steve’s voice is gentle, but insistent.

Your eyelids flutter open, and his smile is soft and beautiful. “Good girl,” he murmurs quietly.

Just as the need for a breath becomes urgent, Bucky’s hand is gone.

“Breathe for me, gorgeous,” he whispers in your ear.

As instructed, you breathe, and the action sends endorphins cascading through your body. Your fingers tingle with the release of happy chemicals, and you exhale a long, wavering, exultant moan.

Both of your men make encouraging noises while they push their cocks into you harder.

“Deep breath, princess,” Steve’s low baritone instructs.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth and nose again, and this time… it’s pure, unadulterated bliss.

Not being able to breathe makes you acutely aware of everything else that’s happening with your body. Steve’s thumbs stroking over the stiff, sensitive peaks of your nipples. The heat and tension of your impending orgasm building in your center. The strong, steady thrum of Bucky’s heartbeat against your back. The contraction and release of their abs and thighs as they work in tandem to fuck you.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for us,” Steve urges.

He feels it before you do, and gives a happy moan when your orgasm hits hard and messy. Come rushes out of you, soaking them both as you squirt for them.

“Fuck yes,” Bucky groans.

“Keep it going for us,” Steve demands.

Bucky releases your face, and the sudden influx of oxygen fans the fading flame of your orgasm, coaxing another orgasm out of you, a wave of pleasure so pure and intense the world goes dim for a few moments.

“Good girl,” they murmur at you while you recover. “So fucking good for us.”

Steve is beaming at you, and Bucky is wearing a beautific smile when he turns your head so he can kiss you.

You sigh contentedly.

Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers are proof that if god is real, she has favorites.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks.

“Of course.”

“Do you want to keep going?” Steve asks.

Each breath you take belongs to them anyway, so you give him an eager, “Yes.”

“Then take a deep breath, princess,” Steve orders.

You inhale, filling your lungs with the smell of sex and lust, and the crisp, clean scents of your big, beautiful men. Your lungs hold the memory of those mingling fragrances while Bucky suffocates you, and they both fuck you.

Your hands wrap around Bucky’s forearm for support. Steve studies your face, looking for any sign of pain, exhaustion, or panic. You nod at him to let him know you’re fine. If you wanted Bucky to stop all you needed to do was tap his arm and he’d let up.

But you don’t want him to stop.

Another orgasm is building in your center. It already feels like a raging storm, and you aren’t even at your edge yet. Tears sting at the back of your eyes, and gather at your waterline. One spills over onto your cheek, and Steve sucks in a breath.

“I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now, princess,” Steve delivers his praise in a voice steeped with awe. Ordinarily he’d ask if he could take a picture of you, but he’s too busy keeping an eye on you right now. You make a mental note to ask for a repeat performance, and make sure he has his phone close at hand next time.

Bucky’s hand lifts again, and you use that first precious lungful of oxygen to beg them to fuck you harder.

Your desperation spurs them on. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, every pass of his thumb lights your nerves on fire, sending little zings of electricity jolting through your core. Bucky snaps his hips into you harder, sending thunder reverberating up your body with each powerful thrust.

Your mouth opens behind Bucky’s palm, and your hands squeeze his arm hard enough that your fingernails pierce his skin.

“We’ve got you, baby girl,” Bucky whispers huskily in your ear. “We’re right here. Waiting for you. Just let go and come for us.”

Your orgasm ignites and sizzles through you like black powder. Every muscle in your body sings with the force of it.

Then Bucky lets you breathe again.

And here, right at this precise moment, you’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body. Because all you’re aware of is the weight of Bucky’s arm around your middle holding you up, Steve’s brilliantly blue eyes watching you, the incoherent noises tearing their way out of your throat, and Bucky and Steve groaning as their cocks jerk and throb as they spill their come inside of you.

Your eyelids flutter open slowly, and you find yourself staring up into Steve’s sky blue eyes.

He smiles at you radiantly, “Welcome back, princess.”

part 3

[goodgirlofglory]

Hey bestie, Happy Fourth of July! ❤️🤍💙🦅

Aka, happy birthday Steven Grant Rogers. 🪖💪

Usually, my go to reads consist of Bucky, but today I am feeling patriotic. So my ask includes reader giving steve a sloppy toppy 😏 💦 under the fireworks after an eventful birthday

But not just any blowjob, this is the first one that steve has gotten in 70+ yrs because he’s a grandpa that didn’t venture out into the modern world until he met reader. So now, he really understands why Bucky enjoyed his time with the ladies back in the 40’s 🇺🇸

And this blowjob in particular has him gripping whatever he can in his fists, has him moaning like a little boy, his mouth drooling, his eyes rolling, his soul leaving his body. 🙉 and reader is just talking him through it like the good girl she is 😊

Anyways, thank you for listening to my slutty asks. I hope you have a good day/evening where you are!! 🌸❤️

Bestie!!!🫶🎀🦋

Happy birthday to both Steve Rogers and the US of A🎉🎉✨️✨️✨️🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅

I'm definitely in my Bucky corner nowadays too, but there's no hardship revisiting dear Stevie boy, so in the name of patriotism, here's a little somethin somethin😉😌

Absolutely LOVE the prompt (and your slutty asks are always a fav)!!! Things got a little out of hand, so Steve ended up reeeallyyy subby in this, but I kinda like it, don't you?

Enjoy, sweetie, have a good day/night wherever you are🫶🫶🦋

In the name of patriotism / One-shot

Pairing: Inexperienced!Sub!Steve Rogers x Experienced!Soft!Domme!reader

Word count: 2,5k

Warnings: SMUUUUTT, oral (m receiving), soft domme reader, semi-public sex (oral behind the trees while there’s a party in the garden, ball-sucking, deepthroating, messy head, cum swallowing woop woop, dirty talk. Steve is very subby in this.

Summary: See delicious prompt above

“A-are you sure you’re okay w-with missing the f-f-fire-w-works?” he asks again, breath significantly more labored than just a minute ago - when you’d pinned him to the tree and gotten on your bare knees in the grass. 

As you look up at his face, an explosion of glittering gold and red fireworks fills the sky above him, illuminating his strong nose, high cheekbones and blond hair tousled by his own hands raking through it. You consider his words, feeling his bulge throb under your hands - where you have them paused at his zipper. The belt you just undid hangs limp on each side of your hands, signaling how fucking close you are to the one thing you’ve been thinking about for the last hour. 

Another glittering explosion in the sky, this one gold and silver, and his chest is heaving. 

“View’s pretty great from here,” you say, preening as you see his furrowed expression break up in helpless laughter. He shaks his head a little, but his cock throbs again, betraying how he really feels about that comment. 

It was by pure chance you walked by as Steve said it. You’d been on your way back from the bathroom when you’d halted outside the living room in Sam’s house and heard the boy’s talk through the crack in the door.

“Wait, nothing?” Sam asked incredulously. 

Steve’s voice came a moment later, sounding sheepish and maybe a bit abashed. 

“No. Not since the war. Sure, a kiss here and there, but you know me. I don’t get out much,” Steve’d said apologetically, and the resigned way he said it had set something off inside you. 

If there were three thing Steve Rogers was not to feel, it was inadequate, undeserving and unsatisfied. It was the whole reason you’d planned this combined birthday and 4th of July-celebration, goddamn it. For Steve to feel celebrated and loved, surrounded by loved ones, doing things he enjoyed. It had been an absolute banger of an evening, and you just got the idea of how to make the night even better for him. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t completely selfless. You did have a big ol’ crush on the man. Who didn’t? And if he hadn’t had a single sexual encounter in 70+ years, you were the perfet candidate to change that. 

So here you are, knees soaking in the dirt, hands dragging the zipper of his faded, blue jeans all the way down, your own breath growing choppy as you stare at the gray boxers hiding the thing you want most. There is already a wet patch in the fabric, right where the tip of his cock is outlined. Your mouth fucking salivates at the sight. 

He shifts where he stands, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and you bask in how impatient he is, how much you can sense he wants it, even if he’s giving you every chance of an out. Polite, chivalrous man - how can he not see you’re dying to gag on his cock behind a tree in Sam’s garden - while the rest of the party’s conveniently occupied watching the fireworks? 

“I just - um - you just have to know I-I-I’m not pressuring you or -” he starts, stuttering so adorably, and his words dies on a gasp of breath as you reach up and lay your hand atop his boxer-clad cock, feeling it jump at the contact. He is so sensitive.

“Don’t you want it?” you ask. It’ll be agony having to tear yourself away at this point, but you’ll do it if he says no of course. You can tell he won’t though. 

“No! I mean yes! I do, I fucking do - God, so much - just-”

“Then be quiet,” you say softly. It’s honestly astounding seeing him so flustered, stumbling over his words like his mind is already going under. Big, strong man, Captain America himself, putty in your hands, fumbling and blushing, and his cock isn’t even out yet. It’s making you fucking soak your panties. 

His head thumps back against the tree and he exhales like he’s relieved. Relieved it’s actually happening despite him doing his part and checking your consent. Like you weren’t the one dragging him into the bushes and telling him to stay still, winking at him while you kneeled before him. 

A small sound escapes him as you pull his boxers down, letting his cock spring free before tucking the band of his boxers all the way under his balls - so you have proper access to him. You’ll accept no less, even given you have little space and even less time to do this before someone’s gonna come looking for you - it’s Steve’s party after all - and you’re the host. 

He’s fucking huge, intimidatingly so, even for you. He’s pale, bright pink on the tip, hair neatly trimmed by the base. He’s long and thick, prominent veins on the underside leading up to a pronounced head with a tight frenulum you can’t wait to tease with the tip of your tongue. You hold him gently by the base as you examine him, and a clear drop of precome trickle out the slit at the tip and down his shaft as you watch. It’s unreal how gorgeous he is. 

“Perfect,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, and meet his eyes as his head whips down to see you. A groan seems to tear itself from him as he lays eyes on you gazing at his cock from eye level. He ducks his head a little, almost like he’s trying to hide from the praise, and you see in the flashing light of the next firework that there’s a tell-tale blush high on his cheekbones. 

Oh, he liked that. 

You take him into your mouth as you hold his gaze, making him pay attention to every inch of himself disappearing slowly in between your lips. His mouth falls open as you work him deeper, tongue working to coat him in spit, cheeks hollowing in to add suction everytime you pull him out. You command he watches it all, and lets you see exactly what it does to him. 

His brows crunch together and rise on his forehead, his mouth gasping wider open, his face contorts almost to a grimace and you eagerly eat it all up as you work your mouth over him again and again. You gasp off him, and he gasps with you, sounding almost pained as you tease him with your tongue, running it from root to tip and back.

He throws his head back only to whip it down seconds later, unable to keep his eyes away from it, body shuddering each time you swipe the tip of your tongue from his frenulum to his tip, swiping at the spittle of precome that it coaxes out each time. 

You’re going pretty slow for someone who has such little time as you do, but you can tell it does it for him. He’s sensitive beyond all reason, and you know just a little more of this and some naughty words will get him right off that edge. 

“You like it?” you ask, moving your mouth down to take his balls into your mouth. 

He chokes on a groan as you latch on to one testicle, rolling it into your mouth and releasing it with a suctioning pop. His hands fists at his side before unclenching and reaching behind him, grabbing at the tree like it can save him. 

“Yes,” he gasps, desperately. 

You take his spit covered cock in your hand and jerk him off, fast and hard right off the bat, watching with preening satisfaction as his eyes clamp shut and his jaw drops, hips shifting restlessly, itching to thrust into your hand like he just can’t help but chase the pleasure. 

“Good. I want you to come for me. Don’t hold back when you reach that edge, give it all to me,” you say, voice deliciously raspy from taking him so deep, and he’s already nodding before you’re halfway through the sentence, putty in your hands. 

The fireworks above are going off full force now, painting the Captain in flashing colours of gold, red, silver, blue, green and purple, illuminating him like a fucking work of art as he gasps and groans, bites his lips red, saliva coating them and running out the side of his mouth to trickle down to his jaw. He’s such an open book, honest, body shameless in its pleasure even as he blushes bright red as he meets your eyes, seeing you staring unabashedly as you keep jerking him, suckling the other testicle. 

You take him back into your mouth, pressing him all the way back and into your throat. He sounds almost alarmed as you take him down your throat again and again, pushing your limits to give him that ultimate pleasure, working what you can’t get into your mouth with a spit covered hand. 

To his credit, he stays almost perfectly still like you told him to, only moving his hips whatever inches he can’t seem to control - and also trembling more and more as he nears his peak, moaning almost continually. 

“Fuck,” he swears at one point, and his hand flies out to tangle in your hair, holding on with a grip that alludes to unmatched violence but keeps to a desperate cling instead, a simple gesture to keep himself grounded. You groan around his cock, encouraging and maybe a bit patronizing, even as you gag around him before pulling off with a gasp. 

“Come on, baby, I’m right here. I want it all,” you say in between suckling and messily kissing the tip of his cock, jerking him for real now, hauling him to the edge. 

He whimpers at your words, and you relish the vulnerability of it, how he gives himself to you so entirely.

“I want your come, sweet thing, I can feel you want to give it to me,” you say, earning another desperate whimper. 

“Be good and come for me. That’s it, I’m right here, give it to me,” you babble, and his hips are thrusting into your wet fist now, mindlessly chasing that edge as his eyes lock with yours, pupils blown wide, mind empty but for your words and his need to come. It’s an absolutely gorgeous fucking sight and you don’t want to go a single day without it from now on. 

You take him back down your throat and he comes fast. How can he not, it’s his first blowie in 70+ years, maybe ever - you haven’t asked him yet. Also, you’d be insulted if he didn’t come fast, given how much work you’re putting in, taking him all the way into your throat and drenching both his cock, balls and your own chin in your saliva. 

You feel the way his muscles tense up long before it happens, like his whole body is going to combust on the spot, and then this tiniest, most vulnerable sound leaves him, like a choked whimper mixed with an almost woeful sigh. And then his cock is pulsing deliciously in your mouth, throbbing as he explodes, and you hum low and long in encouragement as he gives you everything he’s got, shaking and trembling through it all. Bark splinters off the tree he’s pinned against as his fists clench through it, and his cum is thick and salty and perfect on your tongue, coming out in such intense, forceful spurts you nearly choke on it. 

The fireworks are dwindling a bit in the sky, but you can still enjoy the sight of Steve going limp, head thumping back against the tree as he puts a hand through his hair, the other coming forth to cradle your jaw as you keep his throbbing cock in your mouth long after you’ve swallowed all the cum.

You gently release him, coo at him when he hisses from the sensitivity, and tuck him gently back into his pants, doing up the fly and belt before kissing his bulge lovingly, hoping for a swift reunion. 

Ever the gentleman, he helps you with gentle hands as you get up on your feet and before you can really think on what comes next, he’s kissing you. He cradles you close with one arm around your shoulder while the other cups your jaw and his embrace is warm and tender and needy and perfect. You put your arms around his torso, holding him tight and kissing him back, letting his tongue snake into your mouth, loving that he isn’t averse to his own taste. 

You kiss long and sweetly, unrushed, and you think maybe this should’ve come before the blowjob but Steve doesn’t seem too unhappy about the turn of events, turning you around to pin you against the tree as he plasters himself against you.  Are you tripping, or is he hard again? 

The chatter of the party comes back to life, and you break the kiss to murmur against Steve’s lips. 

“We should get back to the rest before they get suspicious.”

“Why?” Steve asks casually, and it’s your time to blush from the blatant lack of care he has for the possibility of people finding you like this. You giggle and slap his chest playfully. 

“Because, it’s your party and I’m the host,” you say, but it’s a nonsense reason. You could just stay like this until everyone’s left and it’d be okay with you. Maybe you could suck him some more. 

“Would you like to stay after? I’d like…um…” he seems to struggle to put to words what he wants, kissing you hard before just saying “more”. 

You giggle again and he smiles against your lips. 

“You’re so good with your words, Captain” you tease. 

He groans and his arms pull at your hips to grind his bulge into your stomach. 

“Nothin' like you. Fuck, that fucking mouth of yours drove me crazy,” he groans, never pulling back more than just enough to get his words out between your mingling breaths. “I’d like to return the favor.”

And a thrill goes up your spine and shivers down it at the promise in his voice, the breathless desire that manifests there, and you nod eagerly just as Sam’s voice cuts through the chatter out in the yard, calling for both you and Steve.