Whoever Was In Charge Of Bucky Deciding To Take Off His Jacket Needs To Get A Raise.

we should all have this as our pfp on june 13th #thankschuck

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

yeah I write 100 word analysis posts about my favourite fictional guy. yeah I ship him with another man from his franchise. yeah I have 1k edits of him in a tiktok folder and read x reader fanfiction about him. we exist.

hair

summary: bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you. [written from the pov of Sam.]

warnings: fluff and more fluff. reader is described to have positive, sunny personality. NOT PROOFREAD.

"hey man, your hair is a little messy," Sam wasn't going to mess with Bucky's hair, he merely meant to correct it, but the way Bucky immediately halted his actions and gripped his wrists, Sam understood that Bucky Barnes was incredibly, incredibly protective of his hair.

that was when he realised never to touch it. or even think about touching it.

over the years, Sam has seen countless people try and tidy his unruly locks of hair, but Bucky has had the same reaction to all.

a swift grip on the wrist, a soft glare, and a small mutter of "don't touch my hair" was clockwork at this point.

so when you came along - you with your bright smiles and your cheerful nature - Sam often wondered why you put up with his grump of a friend.

don't get him wrong, he was incredibly happy to see him with you, blossoming out of his shell and all.

but it still puzzled him.

on a particularly slow morning, Sam had dropped in for a visit at the Barnes and (y/l/n) household. Alpine had greeted him like she always does - attention seeking attitude melting away into indifference once she got enough head scratches.

Bucky was still waking up from his sleep, moving around the kitchen with you in perfect sync, both of you preparing breakfast while Sam lounged on the island chair next to the kitchen.

he was busy on the phone, but when he looked up next, his jaw dropped and the phone fell from his grip to clatter on the counter.

there was Bucky Barnes, leaning next to you near the stove, as you brushed your hand in his hair and twisted it all around your fingers, letting him rest his head on your shoulders.

who the fuck is that, Sam wondered.

that can't be Bucky.

when Bucky, ever the skillful assassin, felt Sam's eyes on them, he turned to him with a questioning face.

"since when do you let people touch your hair?" San asked without missing a beat.

"I don't." he replied simply.

"but (y/n) was just now-"

"(y/n) is not people. she's different. special."

that shut Sam up. it was disgusting, really, how sweet Bucky was around you.

you cooed at him softly. "aww, thank you baby," and kissed him on his cheek.

"I need more coffee to deal with this disgusting cotton candy shit so early in the morning," Sam muttered under his breath.

thank you for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated :)

I know the ending was quite abrupt but tbf I didn't have a very well planned out idea 😭 lmk what you think!

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

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

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

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

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you accepted his offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But all he could do was stand and watch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had agreed to a marriage. You were betrothed.

To Loki.

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

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

"Y/N?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Then who…?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got to work IMMEDIATELY

I know it might be different because astarion is a vampire spawn. But please, just…just let me have this.

Smitten

Summary : Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x hero!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff fluff FLUFF! Joaquin and Sam are in this. Introverted! Reader. Brief mentions of violence. Cursing. 

Requested by : anon (based on this request)

Word count : 2.3k

Note : This satisfies my need to stay at home all day haha! Enjoy!

Sam had never met Bucky’s girlfriend.

But he had heard of you.

A lot about you, actually.

Nine months ago, Bucky had started mentioning you after you met at a bookshop. You were this hero, who, by all accounts, should have been the most intimidating woman on the planet. You were skilled and ruthless when necessary, even Hydra handlers would probably admire your work. Joaquin had read the files— how you tracked down an entire weapons trafficking ring by yourself, left every single one of the enemy in various states of agony, and managed to leave without any fatalities.

“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”

Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”

“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”

Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.

But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.

It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.

Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you. 

And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.

Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person. 

And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.

“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.

Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”

Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.

But by now, he felt like he already knew you.

And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

—

They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.

Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

Sam paused mid-step. What?

Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—

"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."

Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from  inside the apartment.

“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.

Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?

You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.

This was you? The you?

The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?

You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”

Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”

Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.

Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.

You nodded, stepping fully into view.

And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Oh?

Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?

—

Dinner was homemade.

More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.

Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.

“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.

Joaquin shrugged.

“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”

Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”

The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.

Sam had to rub his damn eyes.

This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.

Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”

Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”

You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”

My love.

Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?

Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.

And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’

Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.

Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”

Joaquin groaned. 

You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”

Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.

And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.

Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.

He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.

—

Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.

“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”

You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”

Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”

Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought. 

“How old were they?” Sam asked.

“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”

Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”

You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”

Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”

You blinked. “Mean?”

“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”

Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”

Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”

You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”

Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”

He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.

You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”

Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”

“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”

Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.

Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”

Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.

Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.

—

By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.

Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.

And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.

“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”

Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”

Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.

Jamie?

The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.

But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.

No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.

Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.

And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.

“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.

Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”

“Just tighten it a little.”

Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.

“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”

Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”

Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”

Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”

You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”

Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”

Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.

“Yeah, you do.”

And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—

Yeah.

He did.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

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

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

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

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

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

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

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

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

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

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

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.

Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.

Word Count: 3.6k-ish

Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.

Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.

Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.

Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.

Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.

Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing. 

But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.

The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it. 

No heads-up. No plan. 

Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons. 

By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.

From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”

“What?!” Alexei roars.

Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.

Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs. Sarcastically. “Watch me, kid.”

As if on cue, the elevator arrives with a ding. Bucky gestures curtly towards the opening metal door. “Inside. Now.”

Reluctantly, the team shuffles in like a group of sheep being herded back into their pen for a much-needed nap time.

For a beat, the only sound that settles inside the cramped space is the low mechanical hum of the elevator ascending. 

That is until Ava decides to speak up.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “it wasn’t like we meant to crash the deal. We were just improvising.”

“Improvising?” Bucky exclaims, glaring at her. “You call tossing a grenade into an active negotiation improvising?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Yelena argues, crossing her arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”

“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”

“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”

John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.

Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”

The elevator dings again at the top floor.

“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”

“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”

“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.

Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”

“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.

“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”

The group swelters in a momentary silence.

“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”

Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”

The whole team stops in their tracks.

One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.

On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright tilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.

It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.

“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.

“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”

“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.

“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”

Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”

“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”

Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.

“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”

There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.

When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”. 

Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better. 

You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.

“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.

Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.

“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.

“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”

“Walker.”

It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.

And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.

The blond gulps.

“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”

“That's not necessa—”

The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.

Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.

“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”

As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”

“Wait, hold on—”

“That's not—”

“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”

The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.

“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.

Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.

“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”

Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.

Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace. 

“Hey, doll. I've missed—”

“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”

Bucky blinks. 

He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.

“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”

“No.”

The chopping continues.

Bucky rubs his face.

“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”

“Hm.”

Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.

“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”

You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”

“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”

Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.

“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”

Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.

“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”

Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.

“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”

Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”

You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”

He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”

“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.

“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”

Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”

“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”

You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.

Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”

“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”

“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”

The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.

“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”

Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.

“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”

You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss. 

“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”

“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”

Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—

“Yelena! Give it back to me!”

“I told you it wasn't me!”

Bucky groans.

The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.

You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. 

“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”

He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.

“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.

“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.

“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”

“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”

Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.

There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.

But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.

His hair?! oh FUCK me ♥️

TT credit: estialvids

chill, Loki x GN!Reader

A/N: here to post a super duper quick oneshot in between my studying for finals. I couldn't resist this one, and it's very self indulgent as I deal with another bout of anxiety pains. Still, even if it's not particularly relatable to everyone, I hope it is still entertaining enough to be enjoyed <33 I hope to be back soon with more!

thank you to @cafekitsune for my usual choice of dividers! :)

(we don't get enough soft Loki smiles, okay? Loki's literally just a girl, this diva needs to smile more)

ALSO!!!

TW/CW: mentions to anxiety here!! Not a panic attack or anything, but reader is mentioned to be actively dealing with it and is dealing with anxiety related muscle tension

It was a loud thrum inside of you. You usually explained it as it being in your head, but you also felt it in the aches all over your body, your tense shoulders, in the feeling of your heart sitting heavy and uncomfortable in your chest. Every day felt like a new development. Some days, heat worked to ease the tension. Other days, it didn’t, and you had to sit there and let the uneasiness interweave itself with your being. Anxiety sucked.

For the past few days, you’d been dealing with really bad tension in the shoulders and neck. Whilst heat didn’t seem to be helping, ice was. So here you were, laying in bed on a weekend, an ice pack on the back of your neck easing the tension and the slight dizziness that came with it, your two worst companions lately.

“… What in the Norns?”

You  startle at the unexpected voice of your partner, Loki. The door to your bedroom was slightly open, and as he’d been walking by, he saw you lying on your stomach, ice pack on the back of your neck. You didn’t understand his offense.

“What is it?”

“What-” He scoffs. “What is it? Is that an ice pack, dearest?”

“Yes…? Are we cross with them at the moment?”

“Well, I might be amenable to that now.” He huffs, pointedly entering the bedroom and closing the door behind himself, as if to keep this entire conversation under wraps.

“What are you doing, my love?”

“… Icing my neck.” You say dumbly. You were clearly missing something. “I’m all tense again and anxious deep inside and it’s like churning upwards-” You cut your rambling off. Sometimes it felt like no one truly could understand what it was like. Especially because it was so different from person to person, too.

He sighs, moving to sit on the edge of your bed, a hand on your lower back. You can see his lip twitch briefly when you mention how tense you are, but he schools it, opting to be mature. For now.

“I am sorry you feel that way once again, my love.” He rubs your back gently. “But I am also deeply offended by your choice of tool this time around.”

You turn your head back around to look at him curiously, eyebrow raised.

He sighs dramatically, looking up to the ceiling briefly.

“You have chosen to use a measly packet of frozen, quickly melting, gelatinous mixture to ease your pains. Have you forgotten who you share your wonderful bed with every night?” He mirrors your raised eyebrow. A challenge.

Feeling particularly tired and drained, you can’t exactly figure out what he’s criticizing now.

“… You wanted me to use the bag of peas instead…? More surface are?”

He huffs indignantly.

“No. You have a wonderful, powerful, attractive, intelligent God in your bed, my darling.” He sits up higher as he talks, looking all proud. “What’s more, is that I am a Jotun. Or did your clever, delicious mind opt to forget that piece of information for today?”

As he talks, he leans over, pressing a gentle, fleeting kiss to your right shoulder blade.

“Loki… I know that. But this is a silly problem. Nothing too serious, and you always claim you’re ‘too busy’ to do stuff around the house.” You say gently, sighing with relief as you move the ice pack slightly to the left, letting it hit a new part of your neck.

He looks at the gel pack as if it has personally insulted his choice of Asgardian garb one too many times throughout his long life.

“My darling…” He croons, putting on that charming tone he likes to use when he wants to get out of something. Another kiss to your shoulder blade. “I don’t do things around the house because I am a God. And a Prince, if we must be specific. But you… I would do anything for you. What’s more, I love to do you.” He speaks slowly, the last bit evidently making him grin.

You huff, not dignifying him with a response to that salacious comment.

“That’s great, baby, but what are you offering here?”

“What am I offering? I am offering to be a mortal’s ‘ice pack’. You should be very, very honoured. Kneeling at my feet, even.” He murmurs.

“Maybe later.” You quip back dryly, turning back to rest your cheek against the pillow.

He makes an unhappy sound, and suddenly, the weight of the ice pack disappears from the back of your neck. Your hand reaches for it, trying to find it, when Loki’s suddenly finds yours.

“Do not fret, dearest. Your favourite little ice pillow is back in your freezing compartment.” He explains calmly, fingers interlacing with yours, his lips suddenly kissing your knuckles, too.

“It’s called a freezer, Loki.”

“Mm.” He hums noncommittally. “Do you still ache?”

“Yeah, but it’s not as bad.”

“Well, with the ice having abandoned you, I suppose I must rise to the challenge.” He sighs again, almost sadly, as if to express how difficult his life is.

As if he doesn’t lounge around your place like a cat every day.

“You’re the one who made the pack disappear, it’s literally your doing-”

“Shhh, shh, shh, shh.” He shushes you, petting your head like a mother would do to a fussy babe.

You feel almost offended enough to hit his chest or something. But he wouldn’t even care. In fact, he’d like it.

“Fret not, my dearest, sweetest love. You are in the hands of an expert masseur.”

“Lucky me. This won’t end in sex, though.” You warn him.

“Well… not before I’ve even started, no.” He agrees, chuckling softly at his wit.

Just as the back of your neck has started to go back to room temperature and you’ve eased your face back into the pillow, you jolt at the feeling of cold fingers on your neck.

There’s a snort from the (supposedly) very clever and sage God behind you.

“Oops… I forgot to warn you. My mistake.” He says with a tad of forced remorse.

He goes quiet for a bit, moving onto your shared bed in order to sit up against the headboard, letting his hand rest more comfortably and naturally onto your neck. There’s another brief fizz of magic, and then you hear him opening some book or other.

“You can rest now, my love.” He says tenderly, tone much more honest, now. “My hand shall stay there for as long as you need and bring you eternal relief. Unlike that ice pillow.” He mutters derisively.

“… Thank you.” Your answer comes softly, too.

He rubs a cold thumb over the back of your neck in response.

You both sit in quaint, comfortable silence for a while, the sound of book pages turning soothing you into near-sleep. As promised, his hand does not stray, move, or lift itself off your neck. Eventually, the cold of it even gets to be too much, and you move to reach for the blankets, intending to warm yourself up with them.

Loki’s side of the bed goes quiet, and his hand lifts off your neck. He tuts softly.

“What is it now, dearest? Are you cold, now?” He teases softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the cold skin of your neck. He could never resist.

“Mmhmm. Thank you for your services, babe, but I think that was enough for now.” You reply, still feeling a tad bit sleepy.

You pull the covers over yourself, and lay down with the intent of a nap. Your peace doesn’t last long at all, before Loki slides in beneath the covers with you, hands seeking you out and grasping at you. He attaches himself to you like a barnacle, and you can’t help your sleepy smile.

“I thought you were reading…?” You say lazily, words slow and tired.

“Well, yes, but I’ve read that story hundreds of times. It’s centuries old, darling. You are not.” He flirts, kissing your jaw.

“No, but you are.” You snort.

“I see how it is. I was going to offer you a massage, you know. One to warm you up, now that it’s clear just how sensitive you are to temperatures. Mortals… why was I even surprised?” He sighs. “That offer is certainly off the table now that you have called me old.”

He goes quiet again, and you nearly manage to fall back asleep. But of course, he goes back to talking all of a sudden.

“Might I remind you how very delightful I am as a bed partner, my love? Hm? Might I? We are formidable together. Truly. A true menace to your neighbors’ peace and respite. But yes… my mistake, of course. I am old.” He whispers into your ear, the quiet of it not at all enough to stifle his apparent offense.

“… Sorry.” You mumble back.

“Yes, well… I suppose that’ll do. I can’t expect mere mortals to be consistently eloquent, can I?” He murmurs, now focusing intently on kissing your neck, clearly deeming your half-assed apology satisfactory.

“You’re getting soft.” You tease. “You’re so easy to satiate nowadays.”

“Nonsense, dearest. On both counts.” He grins, biting your neck briefly.