Bucky X Reader - Blog Posts

Store Worker: Would Miss Y/N L/N come to the front desk?

Y/N, arriving at the front desk: Hello, is there a problem?

Store Worker: *points to Sam and Bucky*

Store Worker: I believe they belong to you?

Sam and Bucky, simultaneously: We got lost :(

Y/N: I didn’t even bring you guys here with me—

Y/N: JAMES!!!

Bucky: First name, could be fine.

Y/N: BUCHANAN!!!

Steve: Middle name, not looking so good!

Y/N: BARNES!!!

Steve: You’re in trouble.

Y/N: YOU TOO, STEVEN GRANT ROGERS!!!

Bucky: *smirks*

Steve: …Shit…

pls the way i smiled whilst reading this 🥺😫

and the way it’s written!!

so good <3

Sleepy kisses in the morning with Bucky plsssss 🥰🥰🥰

sleepy

bucky x f!reader

wc: drabble! 665

a/n: why are drabbles so fun!!! reminding me i'm so alone lmao

𝐢 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤.

Bucky has always been an early riser. Always.

It's ingrained in his bones– wake when the sun does, sometimes, rest when the sun does.

Until you, he never knew time could be a friend. Not someone to fear constantly looming over his shoulder. The sun wasn’t as cruel as he once revered it, his bones can breathe. Bucky sleeps now– sometimes, later than you. The sun be damned.

Watching him sleep was one of life’s little heavens. The once labored breaths that carried him through so much torment eased, gently warming the insides of his lungs and exhaling to tickle the skin of your neck. His eyelashes twitched faintly, caressing the flush of his high cheekbones as if the sunlight filtering through the curtains was made for him.

And those lips– perfectly pouted, pink, plump, precious– taunted you so cruelly. The sun teasing his skin peeking out of the sheets was always followed promptly by the pads of your fingers trailing his body. Now is no exception, dusting along the black and gold garnishing his bicep, ghosting over relaxed pecs. Your hand travels, tracing along the stubble of his jaw, feather-soft up to outline his mouth.

There is hardly a sight prettier than your sleeping super soldier coming alive at the delicate exploring of your fingertips. As much as you love him in the bliss of his slumber, it was torture knowing what a slowly rousing Bucky meant.

It isn’t until your lips meet the warm skin of his throat that he surrenders to the promises lingering in the morning air.

The black of his fingers slowly spread up your arm, goosebumps and a shiver answering his touch.

“Fivemo’minutes,” he grumbles. His eyes remain closed, but his body trembles in lieu of a slow-moving stretch, wrapping himself tighter around you and bringing your wandering hand to his lips.

Faint teases of the pillows of his lips pepper up your arm. “Jus’five, baby,” he mumbles dancing across your jaw, “w-wanna,” moving to the swell of your bottom lip, “...needa sleep,” he exhales against the corner of your slowly spreading smile, a low whine pressed one, two, three times, needily slanting his eager lips to yours.

You giggle against his mouth, hands carding gently through his short locks and scratching along his scalp, holding him close.

“Mmm. Don’t do tha– s’not fair, m’tryin to sleep baby,” time has also shown him: he’s a really terrible liar.

His body melts against you, sandalwood and warmth overwhelming your senses, his lips showing no sign of ever wanting to be anywhere else, doing anything else but tasting the beauty of another morning with his girl.

You pull away, much to his displeasure, a low moan echoing pitifully within his chest. He reaches for you, lips chasing after your evil little smirk he’d be greeted with if he just opened his eyes. “Oh, okay. M’sorry. Go back to sleep, fivemo'minutes, Bucky.”

One cerulean eye shoots open, a scowl meant to intimidate you mocks your chastising remark. Your eyebrow quirks up, lips curled into a grin that lets him know just how bad of a liar he is. Bucky attacks with a growl against your shoulder, his thick, chorded body pushing you onto your back as giggles and squeals light the room.

“Y’can’t do this to me,” his lips continue, caress after caress greedily melding against your own. And his eyes are open– sleepy, but open. The sun greets him like it always does. Twinkling, heavenly against the blue truths of his honest eyes watching you bathe in his love. “It’s Saturday, supposed to do nothin’ but sleep with my girl between my sheets,” his lips stop for a moment, sleep-ridden cheeks jutting out while smiling down so adoringly at you. Never stop. Thank you. Couldn’t want somethin' any more, five minutes is never enough.

Your fingers tangle within the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close. Your lips meet his. His eyes flutter closed. A relieved groan leaves his body.

The sun watches.

i just love love @earth2bucky’s writing 😭😭

it’s so beautiful and i was always find myself binge reading her masterlist.

angel - bucky x reader

a/n: lisTEN im working on three requests rn and i needed a break so this is the result

word count: <1k

summary: bucky coming to terms with just how much he loves needs you (also ur first kiss aw !!!)

Keep reading

Heavy Tipper

Summary// Camgirl sites were nothing new to Bucky, but a familiar face has him tipping heavily and requesting a private chat.

Warnings// maybe angst?, fluff, smut, video call sex, some dirty talk, mutual masturbation, Camgirl work, some taunting, roadhead (aka m receiving oral while driving), oral (f receiving), overstimulation, kinda face riding?, couple bites, light choking kink (Bucky receiving), light aftercare, fluffy morning sex,

AU// DBF!Bucky x Camgirl!Reader

Note// this is filth and I’m not gonna say sorry for it. There’s around 4 smut scenes. Oops 😅

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Sure there was a twist of guilt in Bucky’s stomach when he had discovered your live cam show, one he had ignored when he clicked the icon and tipped- heavily.

But, the guilt had surpassed by the time he requested a private chat.

It wasn’t Bucky’s first time on a website like this one. Watching live camgirls to pass the time and relieve some stress was something he did more often than he wanted to admit.

The moment he saw a familiar face in a preview his mouth went dry. Fingers hovering over the mousepad of his laptop as he debated clicking the icon.

A part of him felt guilty watching someone he’d known for three years in such a vulnerable state over the internet. Especially since he was so close with your family that there wasn’t a family gathering he’d missed in that time.

Maybe that was why he kept clicking the tip button until you gave the camera a sweet smile and said goodbye, before he gladly paid the hundred and fifty dollars for a private video call.

The moment you’d accepted the request and saw the broad chest on your screen you knew something looked familiar. The flash of a dark metal left hand and the edge of a patterned throw blanket you recognized as one you’d gifted him on Christmas, making a smile crack across your features.

Bucky Barnes with his head just out of the frame, broad shoulders and thick arms hidden behind a long sleeved shirt.

The same sweet, handsome Bucky who lightly flirted with you every chance he had. The one who the closest you’d ever been to getting a glimpse of what he looked like naked was in his swim shorts in your backyard. Who was now paying to get off with you over a cam site.

He was so caught up in looking over the lingerie set that was different than the live show previously, that he’d forgotten you were there for only him and not a full audience. A soft laugh drawing his attention back. “Gonna let me see, stud?”

His heart plummeted to his stomach when the pet name dripped from your lips like honey. Something he’d heard from you multiple times over the three years he’d been friends with your dad. But- what hurt would it do if you did know it was him?

“Uh- yeah, yeah.” He stumbled over his words, making sure to keep his face out of the frame as he leaned forward to sit his laptop on the coffee table, lifting his hips enough to shove his sweatpants down.

You couldn’t stop the soft moan that left your throat when his hand wrapped around his thick shaft, mouth starting to water just at the sight. Tip an angry red and shiny with precum as he cleared his throat, a slight flick of his wrist twisting his hand up so he could run his thumb over his leaking slit. Spreading his precum to let his hand glide easier.

Bucky didn’t know where his usual confidence had went as he listened to the blatant filth you spoke. Everything stuck on his tongue as he watched your hands roam your soft skin. Legs spread wide so he could watch your fingers plunge into your cunt, wishing he could just bury his head between your soft thighs and never move.

“Need you to talk to me- what do you wanna do?” Your seductive tone tore through him, eyes hooded with lust as you looked at your screen. Taking in the way he tugged his cock, thighs tensing when he’d twist his hand just right.

“God, fuck- wanna stuff that mouth, pretty girl.” He grunted out, gritting his teeth to ground himself until you were finished.

A breathy moan sounded through his speakers, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Do ya’? Looks so heavy, stud. Don’ know if it’ll fit.”

“It’ll fit- pretty pussy looks so wet bet I could slip right it.” Bucky was almost choking on his words when your head tipped back in a drawn out moan.

Seeing him in a state like this one set your entire being on fire. Bionic left gently tugging his heavy sac as he furiously fisted over himself, your mind wandering of how his large hands would feel against your skin other than the touches that maybe lasted a little too long- but you still wished would last longer.

Or how those thick thighs would feel cushioned under you, his hips thrusting up into you as his long, thick fingers wrapped around your throat. Taking what he needed and more as he took you apart.

“S’close-“ you panted out, applying just the right amount of pressure to your clit to pull the coil in your core tight enough to snap. A breathless moan feeding into the mic and through his speakers.

“Look so handsome like this,” you breathed out, riding through the afterglow.

“S-shit- gonna make me fuckin’ come, sweet girl.” Bucky knew how pitiful the whine that pulled from his throat sounded, but he couldn’t help it.

He’d never imagined you’d say anything even bordering vulgar, yet here he was jerking off over a video call with you spilling dirty thoughts from your lips like it was a normal conversation. Talking him through a body tensing orgasm as his release coated his hand and clothed abdomen in thick spurts.

He cursed under his breath as he blinked his eyes open, seeing that you were sitting straighter in front of the camera with a proud smile.

“Hope to see you on here again, handsome.”

Bucky was going to try his hardest not to get too flustered over the belated birthday celebration at your dad’s. Having a beer with him in the kitchen when he heard the from door opened.

“Sorry, I’m late- happy late birthday, stud.” You chirped, gift bag in one hand as your free arm went around his neck for a hug.

“Thanks, sweets.” He chuckled, hand resting on your lower back as you pulled away. “We just ordered food. So, you’re not too late.”

“Perfect timing actually.” Your dad chimed, taking a long drink from his beer.

“This is for you.”

Bucky eyed the bag you held out for him before narrowing his eyes at you. “Thought we agreed on no gifts.”

“Like you can actually expect me not to bring you a birthday gift.”

Bucky’s close proximity was driving you nuts, especially after the night before.

His lingering touches and wandering eyes making your heart race over dinner, his breath fanning your jaw and lips nearly touching the shell of your ear when he leaned in to crack a joke.

As you stood at the sink washing the dishes, you could feel his body heat radiating into your back when he stood behind you. Towering over you as his heavy left hand landed on your waist and he leaned down to talk to you.

“Come out for a smoke with me?” He asked, a suggestive tone hidden in his voice.

“I don’t smoke, you know that.” You laughed lightly, turning to face him as his hand dropped back to his side. A smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“Keep me company.”

Nodding, you followed him towards the back patio. “I know you were the one in my private chat last night, Buck. The arm made it pretty obvious.” You said once you’d slid the patio door shut, Bucky glancing at you through his eyelashes as he lit his cigarette.

“You’re not mad?” He murmured, exhaling the grey smoke.

“Well… you single-handedly paid half of my rent last night, so.” You shrugged, hooking your fingers in his belt loops to tug him closer. Looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “How long have you been watching?”

“Last night was the first time.” He took another long drag from his cigarette, looking at the cherry at the end. “A part of me wants to feel bad, because of your dad. But… I can’t even force myself to. Like- I knew you were gorgeous, but goddamn you’re a fucking goddess.” He huffed out, heat burning your cheeks as you looked up at him.

“I mean… just look at you. So cute and precious, but you’ve got a filthy mouth on you, sweets.” Your stomach flipped at his words, large hands caressing your waist before slipping down to grip your backside. “I just wanna fucking ruin you.”

“Gonna tell me what you’re gonna do to me while we’re on my dad’s patio? During you’re birthday celebration?” You teased, slipping your fingers under the hem of his t-shirt to feel the taut muscles that laid under smooth skin. “Not something that someone would do to their best friend.”

He groaned quietly, leaning down to talk in your ear. “Don’t shame me for wanting to fuck you senseless. I’d make you forget your own name, pretty girl.”

You whimpered, quickly covering it with a light laugh. “Where was all that talk last night, stud? You were wrecked for me and I never even touched you.”

His grip tightened on your ass to pull you closer. “Keep running that mouth I’ll fulfill that promise of stuffing it.” His tone was low and sultry, plucking something deep in your core as arousal pooled in your underwear.

“You’re the one who paid for me to get you off. Bet you make the cutest faces when you come.” You tested, getting a huff in response.

“Let’s see if you can keep that attitude when I’m done.”

You were quick to gather your things and head to the door once Bucky had finished his cigarette. Poking your head in the living room door where you dad was watching the tv. “Buck is giving me a ride home. Saves me money on a cab.”

“Alright, hun. Be safe- drive safe.” He gave Bucky a pointed look as a heavy hand rested on your upper arm.

“Gotta be a responsible driver with such precious cargo.” He joked, pulling the front door open.

“Drive safe, I mean it!” Your dad called as you walked out, getting a thumbs up in response.

Anticipation bubbled in your stomach during the drive as you leaned your forearm on the armrest. Turned to face Bucky as your fingers danced along the seam of his jeans, gradually creeping closer to the hardened bulge until you caressed it through the straining fabric.

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened when you gave him a light squeeze, chest heaving as he tried to focus on the road. “You’re already rock hard. Bet I could get you off before we even get to your house.”

He let out a dark chuckle, right hand moving from the shifter to prod at his belt and unfasten his pants. “Better get to work then.” He murmured, holding the back of your head as you slipped his erection out of the front of his briefs.

Bucky had to will himself to keep his eyes open when your lips wrapped around him, choking back a groan and gripping your hair as your head bobbed.

The position wasn’t the most comfortable, but the rewarding sounds that filled the small space made every second worth it. His hips rolling up slightly to push further into your mouth, left hand gripping the steering wheel so tight it would be surprising if there weren’t dents where his fingers were.

Luckily there was a red light when the swirling pressure started to crest higher, Bucky’s hand urging you further down in him until your throat constricted around him and hot spurts of his release flooded your taste buds. A drawn out moan vibrating from his chest as his head rested back against the headrest, riding out the aftershocks with gentle rolls of his hips until you pulled away. Cock still twitching as he grabbed your chin in his hand, smashing his lips to yours.

You traced your fingertips over his softening cock as his tongue slipped into your mouth, moaning at the taste of himself lingering on your tongue.

“Told ya’.” You smiled against his lips, his fingers digging further into your cheeks.

“Sweets, your pretty cunt probably can’t take me. Stop being a brat.”

Once Bucky had finally pulled into his driveway, you could feel a nervous twist in your stomach. Not one that made you want to back out, but one that added to the excitement that had your heart pumping since the talk on your dad’s patio.

“You’re clean right?” You asked as you guided Bucky’s shirt up, backing him to the bed as he slipped it off over his head.

“Of course.” He nodded, discarding his jeans and boxers before a hand pressed to the center of his chest urged him onto the bed. Laying on his back, propped on his elbows as he watched you strip the rest of your clothing off and climb on top of him as gracefully as you could. Sitting on his lower abdomen.

Goosebumps broke out across your skin as his hands caressed your sides, ghosting over your breasts to cradle your jaw in his fingers. Pulling your lips down to his in a sweet, tender kiss. Your hands exploring the expanse of his thick chest, feeling every dip under your fingertips as a shiver rolled down his spine from the delicate touch.

A surprised squeak left your throat when he rolled to hover over you. Soft lips and scratchy facial hair tracing your skin as he kissed his way down your neck and chest, sinking his teeth into the top of your breast until you let out a squeal and tried to squirm away.

“Sorry,” Bucky chuckled, soothing over the fresh mark with his tongue before continuing his path down. Pressing your thighs further apart as your twisted his short hair between your fingers. Heart thumping in your chest as he moved your thighs to rest on his shoulders and teased everywhere besides where you needed him.

“James, don’t tease.” You groaned, trying to buck your hips to meet his mouth before his bionic left arm draped over your stomach to hold them down.

“M’not teasing, just appreciating.” He breathed out, grazing his teeth along your inner thigh until a needy whine poured from your lips and you squeezed his hair.

You swore you were already teetering on the edge, that the moment you felt his warm tongue against your throbbing clit you’d turn to putty in his hands.

And you weren’t completely wrong-

But, Bucky wasn’t stopping at just one. His mouth not lifting from your cunt as you tried to squirm from his hold, aftershocks never seeming to stop the twitches of your body.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to push him away or keep grinding your hips against his sinful mouth. Lust blown eyes locked on the fucked out look on your face as he nuzzled his face closer, gently shaking his head as your fingers pulled his hair to the point of pain that only made his cock twitch against the mattress.

Your thighs squeezing around his head as you screamed out his name, another body writhing orgasm surging through you as you absentmindedly rode his face. The groan that vibrated against your cunt only adding to the shocks of bliss.

“Fuck, Bucky…” you panted, throat scratchy from the countless highs he pulled from you in less than an hour as he finally lifted himself from between your thighs. Lips shiny with your arousal as he gave you a cocky grin.

“Even sweeter than I imagined.” He breathed out, fisting over himself to relieve some of the ache. “Need’a minute?”

You nodded softly, leaning up to latch your lips to the base of his throat. Hand holding the back of his neck as he let out a content sigh when your other went down to trace along the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock.

“Seeing you tug your cock last night was the best thing I’d seen all week, stud.” You teased, the throaty chuckle that sounded from him making you clench around nothing as his hand replaced yours. Swollen head slipping through your folds.

“Still got that attitude.”

You gasped out when he fully seated himself in your oversensitive walls in a fluid thrust, a guttural moan filling your ears as you tried to adjust to the sudden stretch in the brief time he gave before setting a ruthless pace.

“This cunt is heaven-“ he groaned, gripping your waist as he sat up more. Watching how you stretched around him. His pace bordering brutal as you screamed out for him, hands gripping and clawing at whatever smooth, sweat slicked skin they could reach. Supple flesh of your chest bouncing with each punishing snap of his hips.

Your mind was a floating mess, only able to focus on the delectable pleasure that coursed through you from how perfectly he was splitting you open. Your eyes peaking open to watch his blissed out features- jaw slack to let almost pornographic moans fall out and chest slick with sweat as he fucked into you.

The soft clink of his dog tags being drowned out by the salacious sound of skin slapping and the squelch of your cunt. Your shaky hand reaching up to hook your fingers in the chain, tugging him down to you for a sloppy kiss. Swallowing moans and sharing breaths as your hand slipped up to wrap around his neck and apply a little pressure to the sides.

It took Bucky off-guard, but only added to the building pleasure in his abdomen. Managing to move his fingers to your clit as he found the spot in your walls that pulled the most reactions and fucked into it.

Over and over until an orgasm hit him so hard he thought he was going to black out for a moment. Holding himself up on his left forearm as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you. Your teeth digging into his bottom lip and nails carving down his back as you rode through your own.

Taking a minute to gather his bearings and blink away the stars in his vision, Bucky slowly pulled away. Heart beating so hard and fast he thought it would pound out of his chest if he moved too fast.

The shocks of bliss were still wracking through you as he slipped from between your thighs. Smooth metal and warm flesh hands caressing over your form as you draped your forearm over your eyes.

“You okay? Need anything?” Bucky silky voice was barely audible over the dull ring in your ears as you shook your head. Relishing in the way he was making over you as you came down from the final mind blanking high.

Gently massaging your thighs as he looked you over, so gorgeous and fucked out. Skin radiant with the post orgasm glow as you laid bare in front of him.

“C’mon, pretty girl. A hot shower will help.” He cooed, carefully helping you up and out of bed. Biting back a chuckle as you stood on wobbly legs.

But even the deep ache in your abdomen didn’t stop your teasing tone. “Knew you looked handsome when you come.”

Your body was still sore as you shifted around in the comfortable bed, the shower from the first round not stopping another two before both of you tapped out from exhaustion.

Bucky’s bare form was pressed in close from behind as you looked over your shoulder. Being met with a kind smile and those enchanting blue eyes as he laid on his side, propped on his elbow.

“Watching me sleep like a creep?” You teased as he grazed his knuckles along your upper arm. Earning a quiet laugh from him.

“Wore me out last night. Don’t think I’ve gone three times in one night in years.” He hummed, pressing his fingertips under your jaw for you to tilt your head back before tilting his head and locking your lips with his for a brief kiss. “Be nice if we could do this again.”

“Maybe we can.” You mumbled, barely shifting your hips to press against his half-hard cock.

“I think I have one more in me- what about you?” He suggested, hand going to grip the outside of your thigh.

“You’re insatiable.”

“Can just slip in how we are right now.” Bucky breathed out, hand slipping up to grope at your chest and erection pressing into your ass.

“What are you waiting for then, lover boy?” You purred, feeling his hand go between you before his tip prodded your already slick folds.

It was more intimate than the night before- hips slowly rolling into you as he grunted quietly in your ear. Gradually urging your front to the mattress until his sturdy frame was waving over your, stomach brushing your back as he started to grind into your ass. Staying buried deep to keep his tip pressed into the sweet spot furthest in your walls until you reached a breathless orgasm.

“Feels s’perfect being inside you. Don’ want anyone else now.” You whined at the slip of words, hand reaching back to grip the supple flesh of his ass as he filled you with his spend again before pulling away. Fingers grazing along your spine and a tender kiss pressed to your shoulder.

“You wanna be mine, sweets?”

—————

@duchessoftheheart @uhhnahhthnx @magicaleternal @cwbucky @marvel-3407 @thefallenbibliophilequote @goldylions @rbookgirl23 @missusbarnes-rogers @auriel187 @maladaptivexxdaydreaming @littlemissthistle @cupcakehinch @chunky-yet-funky @thegirlnextdoorssister @emmywinningengineer @spideysimpossiblegirl @treatbuckywkisses @simplyparker

Imagine you and chubby!bucky being co-stars on a movie who fell in love irl and you’re his date to a premiere and his stylist is getting you ready and he’s just watching you with so much love in his eyes and when you’re all dressed up he thinks you look so goddamn sexy and doesn’t wanna go to the premiere anymore but his team is like “no you’re going” and you two go and he can’t keep his hands off you and the paparazzi is loving all the love and PDA you guys are showing and then during the actual movie, Bucky drags you to the bathroom and eats you out cause he just had to taste you. The end.

SILVER ➳ BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST

➳ summary: When your best friends Peter, MJ, and Ned drag you along to a concert, you never expected to fall head over heels with the band, more so the drummer. Wild and erotic, Bucky Barnes is a rich rock star who gets everything handed to him. Between the money, fame, and platinum records, he has a nasty reputation. But when an innocent girl like you comes along, he can't stay away.

➳ pairing: rockstar!Bucky Barnes x College!Reader

➳ warnings: will feature smut, suggestive themes, angst, age gap; Reader is 20, Bucky is 30

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

C H A P T E R S

➳ one

➳ two

➳ three

➳ four

➳ five

➳ six

➳ seven

➳ eight

➳ nine

➳ ten

➳ eleven

➳ twelve

➳ thirteen

➳ fourteen

➳ fifteen

➳ sixteen

L I N K S

➳ spotify playlist

➳ the color collection masterlist

➳ If you love SILVER, check out my original fic on Wattpad; MY SWEETEST ADDICTION

Bucky *screeching*: YOU MEAN A LOT TO ME!

Y/N: wh-

Bucky: YOU’RE ESSENTIAL TO MY EXISTENCE!

Y/N:why are you screaming??

Bucky: BECAUSE I HAVE TROUBLE EXPRESSING MYSELF! IT HELPS TO YELL SENTIMENTAL THINGS IN AN AGRESSIVE TONE!

Y/N: I-

Bucky: I FUCKING LOVE YOU!

Top 100 ao3 stats for the MCU

TOP 100 AO3 SHIPS THIS YEAR

Actually kinda sad that zero marvel ships are in the top 100 ao3 ships this year. NOT EVEN STUCKY WHICH IS THE TOP MCU SHIP.

TOP 100 AO3 SHIPS OF ALL TIME

1st: Stucky dropped by one rank from 4th to 5th. But still in the top 5!!

2nd: Stony dropped by one rank as well. From 6th to 7th. BUT TOP 10 ANYWAY SO YAY.

3rd: Irondad and Spiderson rose up by ONE RANK!!! From 20th to 19th!!! WE MADE IT TO TOP 20!!

4th: Pepperoni dropped FIVE ranks. Still I'm so happy we made it to like the top 35 ships!!

5th: Bucky/Reader. I'm not really into this but biases aside, this ship stayed in its spot! Congrats!

6th: Thor/Loki. THIS DROPPED NINE RANKS. Y'all still made it to top 70 which is a-okay! Congratulations! 👏👏

7th: Ironfrost. (I think that's the ship name??) Something I don't really ship but again biases aside, dropped 4 ranks but made it to the Top 80!

8th: Platonic Stucky. STUCKY IS ON HERE TWICE but in two different contexts. Dropped EIGHT RANKS, but still in the top 90!! 👏

9th: Clintasha. okay this came in 87 AND DROPPED NINETEEN RANKS by far the most a marvel ship has dropped overall this year. At least, on the bright side, it made it to the Top 90. 👏👏

10th: Clint/Agent Coulson. This, was unexpected. Like REALLY unexpected, I didn't even know this ship is that popular. BUT IT MADE IT AND I'M HAPPY FOR THE SHIPPERS. 👏👏👏

Congratulations to all the ships in the Top 100 Overall this year!

Luck

Summary: The reader is content in her relationship and her sexuality, but when a coworker brings up some painful questions, she has to wonder if Bucky and Yelena are missing something vital from their relationship because of her.

Pairing: ace!Reader x Bucky Barnes x Yelena Belova

Word Count: ~7.3k

Warnings: poly relationship, mentions/discussion of sex (not smut, no description), angst (happy ending), acephobia, biphobia

A/N: This turned out to be an incredibly cathartic and personal fic for me to write. I would love to hear any feedback and hope you enjoy it!

There was something about the way people looked at her when she told them, that made her keep the secret for years. 

She knew she was different, and sometimes she felt broken for it.

She didn’t know how to explain it, and so for years she had kept it a silent secret, hiding the truth of her singular nature, her virginity, no matter how socially constructed it was, and her solitude. 

But Y/N was comfortable being ace, content and happy.

And until Bucky Barnes had come into her life, she had been convinced she might simply be alone forever, content that it might be that way. But Bucky had been understanding in a way that no one else ever had been or tried to be. Their relationship had come on slowly, like waves against a craggy shore. Bucky needed something slow, something that might have seemed agonizingly slow to anyone else. 

But she had enjoyed it, had liked hand holding that turned to cuddling that turned to kissing. And so when Bucky brought up sex - she felt comfortable enough to tell him the truth. 

She’d panicked a little, worried he wouldn’t get it, would write her off the moment she said it. It had happened in the past with people she thought she could trust. 

He’d listened and understood and told her it didn’t change anything. Bucky had been thoughtful, listened carefully to her explanation that she didn’t feel sexual attraction. He’d been prepared to figure something out when she told him she could have sex with him, would enjoy it too, she just wouldn’t ever suggest it. It wasn’t a need for her, like it might be for him. 

You just have to tell me what you need. 

And it worked, because working through needs and wants and freedom was something Bucky had been learning too. That this choice was always his to initiate seemed not only to work for him but encourage him.

Y/N met Yelena at the strip club she worked at as a bartender. Yelena had been chasing someone in the club, smashing glass and knocking over tables, arsenal of weapons strapped around her small body. Y/N felt a connection with her almost immediately, and not just because she’d stopped a man from stabbing her. 

Somehow she had fit between her and Bucky so well, it was like Yelena had always been there. 

Yelena vaguely knew of Bucky, knew that Bucky had known Natasha at some point, however blurry and distorted those memories might be. 

Introducing them had been easy, and falling into the current relationship had been even easier. 

She didn’t question why or how either of them had accepted it, each of them wanting it as bad as the other. She didn’t consider why it worked, why they accepted it. Never questioned if something might be missing. 

The relationship worked. 

That was all that mattered. 

~

It was usually a mistake to try to explain her relationship to people who did not know her well. Not only was she in a poly relationship, but she was also asexual. 

It confused people. 

“I mean,” the new hire Y/N’s training starts to ask, tilting her head to the side. “How does it work then? Don’t you hate sex? Oh, they’re asexual too, then?”

With her back turned she rolls her eyes and finishes polishing the glass in her hand, “They definitely don’t hate sex. And I don’t hate sex. It's just not a need for me. I could go forever without it.” 

“Oh,” the woman says, eyes trained on the currently empty dance stage. “I kind of thought that was the point though. Of being asexual. Hating it.” 

“Like anything, it's a spectrum. Some people are sex repulsed, some don’t mind the idea if it makes their partner happy. And anything in between. It’s individual.” She shelves the glass in her hand, wishing she hadn’t brought it up, had settled on an easier answer to the question so are you seeing anyone?

She should have left it at a simple yes, and fielded all the follow up questions with I’m a private person, sorry. 

But she had liked the new hire, gotten along with her for the past two weeks of her training period. She seemed open, and cool, and was also queer. But she knew better than that, that being queer did not preclude people from having other biases and stereotypes. 

“So you do have sex with them? How often?” 

She stiffens. 

It's not something people who don’t fall onto the ace spectrum get asked. The question hurts, reminds her of all the little holes inside her, all the things that she thought were broken about herself for years. 

She tries to laugh it off, finally turning to meet her eyes, “I’m not answering that, sorry.” 

The giggle that escapes the new hire, Lisa, makes her cringe, so she sets about turning all the liquor bottles so their labels face outwards, anything to avoid looking at the other woman. 

“Clearly you’re attracted to them-,”

“Yeah, I am,” she tries not to snap. “I can tell when someone is hot but that doesn’t mean I want to fuck them. That’s what asexuality is, lack of sexual attraction,” she tries to explain patiently. “I’m more attracted to personality anyways-,”

“Then what’s the point?” Lisa cuts her off. 

“Of what?” She asks leaning against the counter as one of the regulars approaches the bar. Lisa takes a minute to flirt for a tip and make his drink before sending him off again. 

“Attraction I guess?” She turns to her, crossing her arms and raising a brow. “Like, if you don’t ever really want to have sex with them, then what’s the point?”

She doesn’t know how to respond and so she shakes her head and turns away, wiping the counter down. 

The point? She loves them. She’s attracted to them in every other way, was happy to make sure all their needs were met. And it worked well, she thought, that Bucky and Yelena had each other too. 

Luckily she’s saved from answering or thinking about it too much as a wave of customers approach the bar and one of the girls takes the first dance of the night. She smiles and chats like she always does, efficient and friendly, harsh when a drunk becomes too much. 

She likes her job, likes the quick pace of it. She likes how she doesn’t have to think, despite Lisa’s words hurricaning around her mind, an endless loop.

It’s a question she had asked herself so many times, while she was coming to terms with what she thought her identity might turn out to be. 

What’s the point of being attracted to someone if you don’t want to sleep with them? 

She still doesn’t really know. She doesn't like the cracked feeling that springs up in her chest at the thought. 

Love, she tells herself harshly. Intimacy and safety and warmth, that’s the point. 

Sex didn’t make a relationship complete. 

She tries to remind herself of all the ways she isn’t broken, of all the ways she’s capable of love, that physical love is not the ultimate expression of love. That she isn’t broken because she doesn’t feel a particular pull to the act.

Bucky and Yelena love her as she is, accept her as she is. 

She’s devoted, she loves both of them in spades. 

Bucky because he’s warm and protective and gentle. 

Yelena because she’s funny and loyal and soft under the shell she wears.

She’ll go home to them after this shift, shower off the smell of the club, slot herself behind them in their king size bed, beam with happiness when one of them would inevitably turn and tuck her closer. 

Certainly she has a type, she smiles to herself.

Loyal and protective with a hard exterior that hides a heart of gold. Not to mention that they’re both formerly brainwashed Russian assassins. The bond she had watched them form over it had been when she worried the most. People with shared trauma either jived well or they decidedly did not. 

Lucky for her, Yelena’s firebrand reckoning with the world for the loss of her years and her sister contrasted well with Bucky’s quiet path of amends, hardly spoken of but which helped remind Yelena to temper herself. 

Lisa does fine during their shift and Y/N thinks that she can probably handle her next shift alone, or at least without training wheels. Their shift ends at midnight, the closers replacing them at the bar. 

She’s glad to be heading home, wants desperately to be away from Lisa and the thoughts that she makes shift around in her mind. She drifts to the dancers’ changing room, where she keeps her bag and coat. The girls greet her as she enters. She knows most of them well after years of running the bar. 

Lisa follows, the conversation between them now pleasant, about how she’d done well and could fly solo, about the customers.

She thinks the conversation between them earlier was a fluke, a little misunderstanding that they didn’t have to talk about anymore. 

But as she’s shrugging on her coat, Lisa turns and says, “Like, sorry for bringing it up again, but I was thinking - isn’t one of your partners a girl? Do you prefer sleeping with her? Have you heard of compulsory heterosexuality? Maybe-,” 

This was the worst part of it. The boxing in, the suffocating labeling that people tried to foist onto her. The assumption that she hadn’t already thought of that, that she’s confused and that a veritable stranger knew her better than she knew herself. 

“No,” she says simply, cutting Lisa off. “It’s not that. It’s not them, it's me.” 

“So then you’re bisexual.” 

The word almost sounds dirty coming out of her mouth. 

One of the dancers notices. “Hey,” Nicole, one of the veteran dancers snaps. “Fuck off. There’s nothing wrong with being bisexual.” 

“Of course not,” she answers in a tone that suggests there is. “I’m just trying to get an understanding of Y/N’s relationship.” 

“It's not yours to understand,” Nicole says, standing to join Y/N, looping their arms together. “Fuck off, new girl, before I drag you out of here.” 

Lisa looks shocked for just a moment, before opening her mouth. Y/N continues, not letting the other woman continue whatever thought had occurred to her, “Look, I’m not pressed about labeling myself, or what I feel, or my relationship. I’m attracted to both of my partners, and I don’t feel sexual attraction to anyone.”

Nicole squeezes her hand, reassuring and warm and she’s never been more grateful. She remembers Nicole sitting on the floor behind the bar on a slow night, hiding from the manager and listening to her talk about her sexuality without any judgment, curious and supportive. 

After that night, Nicole got free drinks whenever she wanted them. 

The conversation seems to be over as Lisa shrugs and moves to grab her bag. She’s about to sigh, tension draining away as Nicole pats her arm when Lisa says quietly, “I just wonder what they get out of it.” 

She pauses, Nicole’s fingers tightening against her skin again. “What?”

Lisa shrugs. “Just like, if they fuck without you, and they’re happy…like why do they need a third?”

She blinks, automatically putting out an arm to stop Nicole from lunging forward to throttle the girl. 

“Guess it's good it doesn’t affect you then,” Y/N says stiffly.

“Not trying to be rude. Just saying. Do they fuck without you around?” 

She swallows and answers, not sure why she’s entertaining the question. “They do. I know that they do. It makes sense for us, for our relationship.”

Y/N has had sex with Bucky and Yelena seperately, and on several occasions together. 

But more often than not, they had sex with each other. 

It never makes her feel like she isn’t valued, like she’s the annoying third to an otherwise stable two person relationship. 

Is it possible she misjudged the situation so badly because sex wasn’t important to her? 

But Yelena also has a low sex drive, so much so that Y/N had thought she was ace as well. But Yelena hadn’t wanted to label herself and so she had let it go. 

Either way, she and Bucky needed sex in the relationship where Y/N did not. 

She wants to comment that maybe the conversation is inappropriate for work, but the dressing room of a strip club had heard much worse than this minor embarrassment.  

“You don’t have to answer her questions,” Nicole says. 

“It’s okay.” 

Lisa raises a brow, and Y/N hates that she’s thinking about it now. If there’s something she’s missing. If she’s as incomplete as she’s always feared she was.

No, she thinks viciously, stopping that line of thought. She isn’t incomplete, but maybe she’s wrong for their relationship, if their needs aren't being met. 

Needs could be overlooked in any relationship, why not theirs? 

“I’m just saying, maybe you should think about it. Maybe you should talk about it with them. It's not fair to them after all if you’re withholding something they need because you might be confused.” It hurts to hear but she finds herself nodding anyway. She keeps a hand pressed into Nicole’s arm. 

She decides that that should be the end of the conversation, before the panic choking her bubbles up and sends her spiraling. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ve got a train to catch.” 

“Sure.” 

Some of the other dancers approach her as she heads for the door but she waves them back, says she’s fine.

Outside in the cool midnight air, she takes a deep breath, holding in the panic, the anxiety swimming around in her stomach, the worry that her partners were lacking in something vital and she hadn’t realized it. 

A burning shame builds up and cascades over as she stands there with her back pressed against the brick exterior of the building. She feels stupid. 

Has she really spent years coming to terms with who she is for a few awkward questions make her question everything all over again? 

She thought she handled this years ago, had come to terms with her identity. 

Clearly not, if it was this easy to uproot her again. 

But no, she’s secure in herself, as being as she is. The real worry is the thought that she’s hurting the people she cares about, that she’s not good enough for them, that she’s not enough for them. 

Back when it had just been her and Bucky, he had always met her after her shifts and walked her home. 

It had taken him months to kiss her, months after that to ask her about sex. 

Bucky was not from this era, how could he be expected to understand her? Understand this part of her? 

But he had, where the woman inside the club hadn’t even tried. 

“I don’t want you do anything you don’t want to,” Bucky said, licking his lips nervously. “I never want to make you uncomfortable.” 

The fact that he asked, that he was worried at all soothed her. No one else had ever cared enough to ask, to reassure her, to make sure she would always be comfortable too. “I don’t hate it…I just don’t feel a need. I want to, if you want to. It makes me happy to make you happy.”

And it had, and it does. 

She could enjoy it, she just didn’t feel the need, the want.

She enjoyed it just fine once it was initiated, but mostly because the person she was with liked it so much. 

She liked kissing much better, liked cuddling, liked the feel of skin against skin, the warmth and comfort of another presence. 

The remembrance of Bucky waiting for her all those months ago, only makes his absence now more keenly felt, even though he’d not accompanied her home in months. Not since she assured him that she would be okay, that his waiting for her made her feel a loss of autonomy, like her skin did not belong to her.

And so, he had relented, let her download a walk home app, though his worry had been renewed the day she met Yelena. The club smashed to pieces, a knife nearly lodged in her side. She had pointed out to Bucky’s great chagrin that the near death experience had not occurred on her walk. 

Y/N’s  independence is important to her, but her safety is important to Bucky. Now, she wonders if her rejection of his presence pushed him away. 

Did she push people away? 

She shoves away from the wall, hoping that the dancers rip Lisa apart as she walks to the subway station. 

The ride is short but only makes her heart pound harder, watching the late night revelers sway with the rock of the train. Usually, it would make her smile. But tonight as she watches couples flirt and laugh, she feels empty.

It only reminds her of the missing thing inside her, the want that she’s told should be there.

Maybe that missing thing will be enough to drive away the people she cares about most.  

~

The apartment is dark. 

She doesn’t turn on the lights, creeps through the living room on silent feet. In the bathroom, she avoids her reflection, avoids thinking about herself at all as she strips off her club clothes and climbs in the shower. 

Once she towels off and changes, she crosses the hall to slip into bed behind Bucky, who’s normally closest to the door, a protector against the night. 

But when she pushes the door open, she can’t seem to bring herself to step over the threshold. 

They’re curled together. She can see the blonde of Yelena’s hair over the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. Their breathing is steady and even. There’s a space for her, very deliberately left. She aches to fall into it, to press her forehead against Bucky’s back and curl her arm around his side to clutch at Yelena’s fingers. 

Instead, she closes the door, picks up a blanket from the end of the couch, and lays down there instead.

Her skin feels empty, but she tells herself it’s better than feeling too much. 

~

She’s woken by the stroke of fingers against her arm, the top of her shoulder, and then the dip of her collarbone. 

“Did you fall asleep here?” Comes the gentle accented words of Yelena. “That was very stupid of you. You know to come right to bed.” 

She blinks her eyes open, blurry vision taking a moment to clear. 

Yelena’s face is free of makeup, her long hair loose around her shoulders. She reaches out to pinch a piece between her fingers, tugging gently on the strand. “No. You looked too peaceful to disturb.” 

Yelena’s brow furrows, she shoves Y/N’s shoulder. “No. You do not disturb us. Never.” 

She tries not to feel the acid in her stomach curl at the word us. An us she suddenly feels she’s not a part of. “Okay,” she says simply instead, sitting up to take Yelena’s hand between her own. Her gaze is still hard, penetrating, like she can see to the center of her. Yelena opens her mouth but Y/N quickly cuts her off. “Where’s Buck?”

“Sleeping still.” She keeps peering at her, like she could read her thoughts if she looked hard enough. “What’s wrong?” 

She tries to look surprised, but by the way Yelena rolls her eyes it’s a poor attempt. “Nothing, Lena,” she says, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her palm. 

“If you are going to lie, at least be good at it,” she says but doesn’t press further. “No more sleeping on the couch.” Yelena stands and crosses to the kitchen. “Come help me make an American breakfast. I want the whole thing today.” 

“Should we make mimosas too?” 

“Of course,” she shrugs in that very particular Yelena way, with the lift of her shoulders and purse of her lips, brows sneaking up her forehead. 

Y/N feels a pulse of love spike within her, telling her to forget the emotional wariness that Lisa’s questions had inspired. She stands from the couch, stretching before she folds the blanket back into its spot over the sofa’s arm. 

When she turns toward the kitchen, Yelena is eyeing her again. 

Sometimes she hates living with two former spies. They miss nothing. 

She smiles, walking toward the counter where Yelena is cracking eggs into a bowl. She knows that she’s still suspicious by the way she watches her. 

Thankfully she doesn’t say anything else and they fall into an easy routine. 

An hour later they have a complete spread before them, pancakes, eggs and toast, sliced fruit, avocados, bacon and sausage. 

If there was one thing she adored about Yelena it was her tendency to overindulge, filling up all the gaps inside her with things she wanted, missed out on, and wanted to try. 

It led to mornings like these, where they were already tipsy by the time the food finished cooking, where she grips Y/N’s hips and pats flour onto her cheek. 

“Next time you will make biscuits and gravy for me,” she says, pushing her back into the counter, hands cupping around Y/N’s wrists where she braces her hands against the stone. “I have not gotten to try them yet.”

She leans forward and pushes her nose into Yelena’s cheek, “Sure.”

Yelena pulls away to raise her arms above her head and wiggle on the spot, smiling. 

It makes Y/N smile, eases the worries and insecurities swirling around inside her. 

They’re just settling down at the breakfast table laden with food when the bedroom door opens and Bucky emerges, scrubbing sand from his eyes before he takes in the spread. “Hungry this morning?” he asks, voice gruff with sleep and amusement. 

Bucky stops by the table, kissing the side of Yelena’s head. She waves him away, “Ah, stop that. Get a plate.” 

He sends her a gentle smile and moves off to get the plate. 

She tries not to let her heart sink, tries to remember if he’s always missed her at breakfast, had always only given a kiss to Yelena. Bucky knows she likes greeting kisses, enjoys them in fact. 

She keeps her expression carefully neutral, her eyes turned down, as all the light she’d felt cooking with Yelena drifts away. 

A foot kicks at her ankle under the table. 

“James,” Yelena says. “Something is wrong with your girl. She won’t tell me what. She did not come to bed with us.” She loves the way Yelena’s accent sounds when she says the word girl, rounds out the syllables until they're soft and malleable and warm. 

The warmth is slighting undercut by being called Bucky’s girl, like she’s being siphoned off onto someone else, like she’s not also Yelena’s. 

Bucky turns from the cabinet, plate in hand, watching her carefully. “Why didn’t you, doll?” 

Had he even noticed? Would he have brought it up if Yelena hadn’t? 

Something like shame wells up inside her. For overthinking everything over comments made by someone who did not know her, who did not know her people. Y/N wants to lie all the anxieties eating at the inside of her skin at their feet and let them reassure her, but she worries that she’ll see pity instead and everything bad in her mind will be confirmed. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she says quietly instead.  

Bucky is looking at her closely now too, but he’s not as good at reading her as Yelena is and so he just frowns.

He sits down at that small, worn kitchen table and peers at her. So she swallows and lifts her head, “Nothing is wrong. I really just didn’t want to disturb you. There wasn't any room anyways.” 

“Liar,” Yelena says into her glass, slouched back in her chair, not looking at her. 

“Prove it,” she snips back.  

“So shove us over next time,” Bucky mediates. 

And that dreaded us is back. Us versus her. She feels like an outsider all of a sudden. How did she ever expect to be equal among them when she did not participate equally in the relationship? 

All she can see now is how complete they are with each other, how utterly unnecessary she is.

She tries to stop the thoughts, tries to derail the things making her second guess everything about them, all of the other differences she’d always ignored, told herself didn’t matter. 

It wasn’t only about sex, though that was a big part of it. 

They share life experiences that she will never know, that she will never be able to relate to. Between being literal super people and former assassins, they also bonded through the recent loss of the most important people in their lives. The grief and turmoil they worked through everyday, how could she ever hope to understand, to compare? 

They match and she does not. 

In so many ways, she does not belong. 

When did that happen? When did they stop fitting together?

Have they ever? Was she that oblivious to everything? 

“See she keeps making that face,” Yelena says, not even looking at her as she digs for a stray piece of fruit at the bottom of her mimosa glass with one finger. “Like someone has just punched her.” 

She swallows and tries to control her face, tries not to let the hurt well up into her eyes. 

Bucky reaches out gently, always so gentle, like a giant in a model village. He touches the inside of her wrist, leans forward to lift her hand and press a kiss to her pulse point. 

It makes her want to cry, reminds her of their first couple months together where everything was shy and newly strange in the best way. When she thought everything would work out because Bucky was so old fashioned and slow with romance, that all he had to do was ask her for what he needed and she would be glad to give it. “Sweetheart, tell Yelena what happened so she can beat up whoever hurt you.” 

“Someone has hurt you?” Comes the indignant response immediately. Yelena slams her glass into the table with enough force to crack it.

“No,” she says immediately before Yelena can barrel out the front door and stab the first person she sees. Y/N turns Bucky’s hand in hers to squeeze his fingers. “Really everything is fine. I’m just feeling a bit off.” 

Yelena shoulders loosen and she slouches back down into her chair but you notice the knife in her hand that she had indeed snatched up off the table. Like she really would go fight someone with a dull kitchen blade.

She holds out her hand for it and Yelena reluctantly drops it into her hand. “You would tell me if someone has hurt you?” 

“Yes.”

Yelena relaxes at that. 

Bucky chuckles, lets go of Y/N’s wrist to load up his plate with food. 

She only picks at the food on her own plate, regretting the mimosa already as her stomach tightens and curdles around it. 

Before last night, she would have watched Yelena and Bucky with affection, how he turned toward her fully when she was talking, how they gravitated together, the gentle way Bucky laughed when Yelena exaggeratedly told a story. 

She didn’t feel jealous. 

No, she felt abandoned though everything is still the same, like a ship had sailed without her and she’d been so stupid that she hadn’t even realized it, standing on a shore with an empty horizon. She feels more than stupid, like she’s standing on the shore and the ship had sailed away months before. 

When breakfast is over and Yelena disappears to get dressed, something about meeting up with Kate, which likely just meant breaking into Kate’s place to scare the shit out of her, Bucky helps Y/N with the dishes. 

He leans into her, presses a kiss to her temple. “Whatever it is, we’re here for you.” He nudges his nose against her temple until she looks into his eyes. 

Her heart gives a painful thump as she bumps her forehead against his shoulder. “Bucky, it’s really nothing. I’m just in my head about something.”

“I’m in my own head all the time too. ‘M here if you need me.” 

She smiles, feels just a bit lighter at the way he presses close to her side, keeps contact with her like it gives him strength. 

Yelena passes them on her way out the door, her fingers hooking into Y/N’s  pajama shorts to press a hard kiss against her mouth before she smiles and disappears, Kate’s bow slung over one shoulder and a baseball bat in her hands.

Bucky drops a kiss to her hair, and Y/N watches her lean up into it. 

It makes Y/N smile, and the slam of the front door is almost comforting, the sounds of home. 

Where Bucky is all gentleness with her, Yelena is aggressive, like she wouldn’t always be able to give her love, so she gave it as forcefully as she could while she was allowed. 

But she can’t chase those stupid words away. 

What did they need a third for? Wasn’t she just complicating things for two people who deserved simplicity?

Even though she and Bucky had been together before Yelena came into their lives with the force of a hurricane, maybe she was only ever supposed to serve as the glue that stuck them together. 

She can’t help but feel like she was now the pulled stitch, the last piece of the puzzle that suddenly did not fit.

They would be better together without her, their relationship would certainly be easier. 

~

She avoids the pair of them all week, lucky that her schedule at work kept her away, that Bucky was busy with Sam in Louisiana for a few days, that Yelena was preoccupied with whatever she and Kate were up to, then liberating one the the widows who happened to be in New York. 

But they notice the change in her, because of course they do. She tries to act as normally as possible but Bucky and Yelena notice almost everything, even the slightest difference is something monumental to them. 

They notice that she sleeps on the couch, that she smiles only when necessary, that she’s melancholy, though she tries not to show it. 

Spies. They tend to know more than anyone wants them to. 

Yelena goes so far as to show up at the club, glitter framing her eyes, lips painted red, neon lights dancing around her head as she approaches the bar with a knife in her hand. “Who?”

“What?” 

“Who is hurting you? Who makes you so sad?”

She has to swallow back the burn in her throat as she lies to her, “Yelena, honey, nothing, no one.” She’s grateful that Lisa isn’t working though she’s never brought up the subject of her relationship again. Nicole likely threatened her. “Everything is fine.” 

The look in her eyes says she does not believe her, that she will fight whatever has made the minute changes in you.

“Solntse,” she says. “You know I would kill everyone here for you, yes?” 

She nods and Yelena nods back. 

“You don’t have to be sad alone,” Yelena says, “You taught me this. Remember?”

She had, when the force of her grief for Natasha had almost drug her under. 

Again, she nods, her throat so tight she can’t speak.

“I will leave you now,” she says, watching the other bartender struggle to help all the customers. “Bucky will walk you home. You will sleep with us tonight.” 

She opens her mouth to protest, but Yelena waves the knife at her, catching the attention of one of the bouncers. “No. This is happening.” 

And before she can get a word in, she blinks and Yelena is gone, slipping away so easily that the bouncer looks confused too. 

Sure enough when she leaves the club that night, Bucky is waiting for her at the corner, like he used to every single night. 

He falls into step beside her and wraps her fingers between his own. 

“Mind if we walk or do you want to take the train?”

“We can walk.” 

And so they do, silence stretching between them. It reminds her of the worries stirring inside her, that she’s let fester for the last week. She’d thought that they would ease over time but she had not stopped worrying.  

That she would never be enough, for anyone. 

Maybe for a time, but never for forever.

Bucky is the one to break the silence as they approach their apartment building. “Lena wants to have a movie night. She has the movie picked out.” He pulls her to a stop in front of their stoop, cups her jaw in his hand. “You haven’t been yourself lately. We’re worried about you.” 

She swallows but doesn’t look away from him. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to get over it.” 

“Y’don’t have to do it alone, y’know? We’re here.” 

She turns her head and kisses his palm gently. “I know.”

Bucky nods but looks worried.

When they reach the apartment and Bucky throws open the door, they find Yelena already tucked on the couch, blankets spread over her legs, a big bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. “Heeeey!” she says, dragging out the word and smiling as she excitedly points at the TV. “Movie night! Since you love this couch so much,” she snarks. “Sleeping on it all the time now.” 

Bucky shucks off his jacket as he crosses the room, settling on the sofa and slinging one arm over the back. 

They’re both looking at her now, waiting for her to come inside, close the front door. 

But she suddenly can’t find it in herself to move. 

She stands there like an idiot, watching the pair of them, how Bucky reaches out and presses the tips of his fingers into Yelena’s shoulder, and she can’t imagine how she’s supposed to fit between them on the couch even though they’ve left a clear space for her between them. 

Yelena says her name. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, stepping inside, closing the door gently. “Sorry I’ve been so weird lately. But I’ve been thinking and -,” She looks away from them, down at her toes. “I-,”

“Are you leaving?

The question is asked so gently, softly. 

But Yelena’s voice is hard steel underneath and so Y/N knows that means she’s breaking on the inside. She knows if she looks up Yelena will have that pouted mask of indifference in place. She knows that Bucky’s eyes will be wide, his shoulders stiff. 

Neither of them, for all their training, could hide anything they felt. 

“No,” she says quietly. “I don’t - I’m worried I’m…” she hesitates and then decides to come out with it. “I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” comes the fierce reply. “Stop being stupid and sit down.” 

Bucky shifts forward on the couch, “Doll, tell us what’s bothering you.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to break up with me,” she admits suddenly. “Are we happy? Do we work together? I thought we did. I was happy. But -,” she paces, can’t look at them still. “Then I had to explain to someone what being ace means and how it’s different for everyone and then she asked…what’s the point? And I have to ask you that too because I can’t stop thinking about it. What’s the point?”

Silence stretches between them when she finally stops talking. Painful and loud.

The anxiousness that’s been drumming at the inside of her chest all week threatens to burst out of her. 

“Point of what?” Bucky breaks the silence, the timber of his voice crush, weighed down. “Us?”

“No.” She looks up, shakes her head violently, “No. No, not you. I - I love both of you. What’s the point of me? I can’t - maybe I won’t ever be able to put as much into this relationship and maybe it’s selfish of me to ask you to accept that about me. If you need more. And…if you’re happy together and you can meet all of each other's needs then why -,” She swallows and continues even when her voice breaks, “Why do you need me?”

When neither of them answers, she panics, the yawning blackhole of insecurity swallowing her up.  “And I’ve been feeling lately like maybe I was just meant to bring you together. There’s so much the two of you share that I won’t ever be able to understand. Maybe I don’t belong.”

She presses her lips together then to avoid saying more, to avoid sounding even more pathetic than she already did. 

Y/N closes her eyes and leans back against the closed front door, counting backwards from ten, crossing her arms over her chest to keep her ribs from coming undone at the seams. 

“Who made you believe this?” Yelena asks, her voice angry. “I need to know so I can kill them.” When she’s upset her accent deepens, and Y/N imagines the scrunch between her brows but can’t bring herself to open her eyes. 

Something touches her shoulder and she nearly jumps out of her skin. But it's just Bucky, who has stood and drifted over on silent feet. 

“Who?” He asks and there’s a quiet anger in his voice. 

She lets him untuck her arms and guide her to the couch. 

Yelena doesn’t touch her, just sits forward and stares and waits. 

“It doesn’t matter who. She didn’t say anything that isn’t kind of true.” 

“So you believe this is true? You want to take my home and family away from me again because of this? Because of lies from a stranger?”

She shakes her head, “No, Lena, of course not. Of course, I wouldn’t abandon you. I just have to know if this dynamic is right.” 

Bucky squeezes her fingers, heads off Yelena’s fiercely building energy, “‘s not true, Y/N. What this person said isn’t true.” 

“No,” Yelena says, her voice still harsh, but she takes Y/N’s other hand and her grip is gentle. “It is not.” 

She feels so stupid in that moment, her neck and face warm, the people she desperately loves holding either of her hands.

Yelena scoffs, “You will tell me who.” 

“No,” she says, knowing that would literally put someone’s life at stake. 

Bucky takes a gentler path, as is his habit with her. His heart is loyal and soft and breakable. She has to wonder if she’s the one to have broken it now. 

“Remember when you first told me you were ace?” He asks, his thumb stroking slowly over the back of her hand. Yelena’s shoulders drop next to Y/N, and she knows there’s some form of silent communication going on above her head as the pair of them look at each other. 

“Yes-,”

“And I told you that it didn’t matter to me,” he continues. “Yelena said the same thing when we told her, remember?” Bucky waits for her to nod before he continues, “Did we do something to make you think that wasn’t true?” 

“Of course not-,”

“Because honey, this works because of you. You make us complete.” She feels Bucky tangle his fingers with Yelena’s, their hands pressing along the curve of Y/N’s spine. “You belong with us. You give us everything we need. Sex? That isn’t why ‘m here. That isn’t why we're together.”

Yelena is nodding, her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “It is because I love you. We love you.” She shrugs against her, “You give us everything anyways. You always give everything you have. More than that. And its not like I have a high sex drive either.” 

And she knows that’s true. 

Yelena rarely brought sex up. 

Bucky was usually the one to do it, and he preferred it that way, liked the control it gave him over his life. He’d made a point to always tell both of them what he needed, when he needed it.  

She’s quiet for a moment just breathing and letting herself absorb the heat of both of them, letting herself absorb the truths being given to her. “I just don’t want you to miss anything. Or feel like you aren’t getting everything you need. I want to be a part of you.” 

Yelena laughs suddenly, turning her head to press her forehead into Y/N’s arm, nuzzling against her with her eyes closed. “We would be fucking miserable if it was only the two of us.” Yelena is laughing, she can feel her smiling against her arm, “Our life experience makes both of us bitter bitches. We would be miserable without you.” 

Y/N tries not to smile, because it was true. 

Bucky pokes the corner of her mouth. “We get everything we need. Even if we never had sex, we get everything we need. And sweetheart? What's the point? God, the point is that I fucking love you. That you are everything I’ve ever needed and you understood me when no one else was trying to.”

Yelena is nodding again, her fingers gripping Y/N’s. “You make us better people,” she says quietly. “You take care of us. You tell us all we have to do is ask for anything we need and you will give it. And you do. Anything. You give everything.” She pushes her back until her back is pressed against Bucky’s chest, his arms automatically wrapping around her. 

Yelena slips forward, curling into her embrace. She’s overwhelmed by their presence, by their renewed acceptance. Bucky holds both her hands while Yelena tips her face up to kiss her carefully. 

She wants to cry for being so lucky. She cups Yelena’s jaw, kissing her back with the fierceness she knows the other woman craves.  

It had never been this easy before, with anyone else, of someone saying, I see you and it's okay. I love you as you are. You are enough. 

“I’m not broken,” she says out loud, because it's important in that moment. “I won’t change.” 

“We know, solntse.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

“We know that too.”

Bucky kisses the side of Y/N’s head, let’s Yelena lean up and kiss him before he asks, “Now, who made you believe you were?”

She sighs, brushing a strand of Yelena’s hair behind her ear. “I’m not telling you. It would put that person in serious danger. I’m pretty sure Nicole kicked her ass already anyways.” 

“Remind me to buy Nicole some flowers. We can invite her for dinner and she can tell us.”

Lucky, she thinks again, so lucky, to have found two people who so completely understood her, who accepted her without question. Two people, who only asked for what she was comfortable to give. 

Yelena fits herself against Y/N, tucking her head under her chin while Bucky wraps his arms around both of them. 

“What movie did you want to watch, Lena?” She asks, curling her hair around a finger, touching the corner of her jaw. 

Yelena looks up, her eyes going to Bucky and then back to Y/N, “You pick.” She settles back down against her. 

So she clicks on something random on Netflix and calls it good enough, knows none of them will be watching it anyways.

She pets Yelena’s hair, feels Bucky’s fingers against her arm, occasionally twitching out to touch the top of Yelena’s head. 

“It was Lisa wasn’t it?”

She sighs and Yelena laughs, knowing she guessed correctly. “I’m going to hide the knives.” 

“Like I need a knife.” 

“Don’t kill her.” 

“Ah, no, of course not,” she says, shrugging. “Maim, maybe a little.”

I loved your Bucky fic so much!!!

The concept was so interesting, it reminded me a lot of the movie paranormal activity. I was wondering if you take requests for him or know other good Bucky blogs?

Aw, thank you so much! I honestly didn’t think I would ever write for him on this blog but that idea got in my head and just stuck with me. It is actually based on that movie, mainly because I watched it a week before the idea came to me lol, good catch. Yes, I do take request for him.

@kinanabinks is my go to recommendation for Bucky fics. She’s what got me hooked on tumblr and the fandom, her writing is absolutely amazing and she’s one of my favorites.

paranormal love

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x fem!reader

a/n: Bucky is going to be very OOC for the first half of this. Just trust the author on this one, it will all make sense in time. (Toxic relationships, paranormal happenings - you have been warned)

Summary: Moving into this house was supposed to be the blessing your marriage needed. Instead you only seem to be twisted against each other. Something lurks within these walls, something angry, something lonely. Someone wants you gone, and he’ll do whatever it takes to have his revenge on the woman who left him behind. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)

“Okay,” you say, balancing the camera in your palm, zooming in on James’ back while he unpacks the kitchen boxes. “Wanna smile for the camera?”

He gives you a glance over his shoulder before turning and waving to the camera. He chuckles a little, glancing down at the lens and then back at you. “What are you doing?”

You sigh, placing the camera on the counter and letting it record. “Well, you know how the lady said this place was haunted?”

He rolls his eyes and glares at you. “I told you not to listen to her, that chick was off her meds.” You swat at his arm but he bounces away from you playfully. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, holding back a small laugh. “I just thought that if there were any supernatural happenings,” you nod towards the camera, “we’ll need proof if we’re going to make this a tourist trap.”

James smiles, leaning over to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Good call, babe.” You smile after him as he heads back out to the truck to bring in more boxes. Your eyes briefly dart to the camera before you shake your head with a disbelieving chuckle. 

Do you believe in the supernatural? Yes. The metaphysical? Depends on who’s trying to sell you their tarot cards. But you do know that when that woman handed you the keys after you bought the place, you’d never seen such stark relief. 

That poor old woman was terrified of living in this house alone. Of course, the old bitch didn’t tell you about all the horrific things that happened here until after you signed the deed. If you had known this place was haunted, even if it’s not, you never would have bought it. 

Sadly, all your money and savings are now tied into this home. James says not to worry, that there’s nothing wrong with the place. But he’s always been a cynic and he’s never really believed in anything so miraculous as ghosts. Besides, he’s the type of guy to argue with you until he’s purple in the face that the sky is red when he’s in a mood. 

There’s no talking him out of this. And you can’t begin your newlywed life arguing with your husband about the place you just made your forever home. Anyways, it’s not like you’ve noticed anything bad yet. 

The camera is mainly a joke to mess with James and make yourself feel better about the whole thing. You’ll turn it off tonight, be done with it, and hopefully get over this irrational fear of yours. 

12 AM

You spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse your mouth with water. You’ve noticed a strange metallic taste with all the unfiltered sinks. You're worried you might have to call a plumber or someone to check it out. You don’t want to get lead poisoning your first night here. 

You freeze, still bent over the sink, and your jaw snaps shut. Eyes are boring into the back of your head, hateful and angry. It’s not James, you would know if it was. This is something different, the hair on the back of your neck is standing up, goosebumps rolling up and down your arms. There’s a rush of cool air, like something running past you, and your head shoots up in surprise. 

You scream when you see James in the mirror’s reflection. He jumps back in shock, lowering the camera and giving you an exasperated look. A second ago you’d been completely alone and he’d been downstairs, where the fuck did he come from?

“What the hell, James?” You wipe your mouth off with the back of your hand and whirl around on him. He glares at you, eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. 

“Talk about an overreaction. What the hell is your problem?” He snaps, taking that tone with you that you know means you have to be careful. You don’t feel like getting into another fight with him. Especially not tonight. 

“You scared me,” you trail off into an awkward laugh, hoping to ease up the mood a little. He slams the camera down on the counter. Your shoulders jump and you flinch back from him slightly. “What’re you doing with the camera?” You ask, glancing down at the lens and frowning. You spot the red blinking light and realize he’s still recording, your brows furrow in confusion. 

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?” His tone is short and you huff in disappointment. You hadn’t realized something as small as a little scare would piss him off. You used to be good at reading his moods. Since the wedding, though, he seems to have just gotten more and more unpredictable. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, your feet dangling over the floor as you kick your legs. You hate how tall the damn bed frame is, you have a horrible paranoia that something’s going to grab you one day and yank you under. James, of course, had just laughed when you told him this and then bought it. He thought it was funny, that it would help you overcome your fears. 

You still have goosebumps from earlier, the same breeze from before tickles the pads of your feet. You glance down with wide eyes, yanking your legs into your chest and scooting back from the edge. James flips the lights off in the bathroom and walks to the end of the bed. He’s dragged out the tripod and has got it pointed at the bed. 

You tilt your head with a coy smile, “Planning on having some fun tonight?”

He glances between you and the camera, a confused furrow between his brows. You scoff out a laugh as the realization dawns over him. “If you’re up for it, I wouldn’t mind some after-dark fun.” You roll your eyes and tug the covers over your legs. He leaves the camera and crawls on the bed towards you. “But that’s not what it's for.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over his shoulder and then turn back to him with an odd look. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into the supernatural junk?” You tuck your head into his chest, letting him pull you closer as he flips the lamp off. “You’re supposed to keep me tethered to reality, remember?” You tease, looking up at him. 

He glances down at you and shrugs. “The lady did say the master bedroom is the worst, I’m just curious if we’ll catch anything.” 

You shoot the camera a concerned look and shake your head. “I hope not,” you mutter. You snuggle in closer to him, trying to dismiss the feeling of someone watching you. You’re sure it’s just from the camera being on you. Besides, you always get too deep in your head about this stuff.

3 AM

You shoot up in bed, chest heaving as you stare down at your feet. James shifts behind you, grumbling as he flips over and steals the rest of the blankets. 

Your heart is pounding loudly in your chest as you simply sit there, staring at the end of the bed. You pause, holding your breath like the room might tell you its secrets. 

You’re normally a heavy sleeper, not even a fire would get you up. But something just did, you were ripped violently from your slumber. You almost want to dismiss it as an incredibly vivid nightmare. Yet, you can’t ignore the throbbing, almost freezing pain, that’s shooting up and down your left calf. 

The muscle is spasming sporadically and you can still feel the phantom touch of someone squeezing your leg. Your hip is sore from where you’d been dragged down. You’ve had pretty vivid dreams before. You’ve woken up with your feet sore like you’d been running, or your muscles cramped from twitching around so much. But this is a lot. 

You take in a deep breath, slowly pulling your legs into your chest. You slump over your bent knees, hoping to catch your breath and settle your racing mind. It’s impossible to ignore how cold your leg feels, you feel like you’re losing blood circulation. You can’t just go back to sleep with it like this, you’re gonna have to go downstairs and get James’ heat pack. 

You’re seriously starting to lose feeling in it now. You’re wondering if something didn’t drag you and maybe you’ve got a blood clot screwing your circulation up somehow. Hundreds of different possibilities race through your mind, each more worrying than the last. You can't sit up all night scaring yourself, you’re just gonna have to suck it up. 

You briefly consider waking James up so you don’t have to go downstairs alone. You hate how those stairs look in the dark, you feel like something is standing at the end, waiting to reach through the banister and drag you down. A ghost, however, sounds more inviting than making James grumpy before he has to go in for work tomorrow morning. 

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself off the bed and blindly grope through the dark for the wall. Your left leg is practically dead weight as you drag it behind you. Your hands skate along the dusty walls and you grimace, making a mental note to dust tomorrow. 

You’re trying to take it slow, to squint out as many shapes in the dark as you can. It’s nearly impossible to tell when you’re going to hit the stairs. You can only pray that you don’t go toppling headfirst down them. 

Slowly, you inch your toes forward and curl them around the edge of the step. From there it’s a long, arduous process of just trying to get down the stairs. It feels as though with each step you take, the house only grows darker. 

You wished you had taken the risk and turned the lights on. The feeling of eyes following you only gets worse as you finally reach the kitchen. The further you get from the bedroom, the worse your leg begins to throb. You can only be happy that you still feel it at all. 

Your hand skates along the wall until you feel the cool plastic of the light switch. As harsh as it is against the linoleum, it’s a stark relief from being all alone in the dark. You dig around in the moving boxes until you find James' heating pad. You toss it in the microwave and pull yourself on the counter, drumming your fingers while you wait for it to warm up. 

He hates you. He hates that you live in his house. He hates that she’s gone. Bette, he’ll miss her, the way the old woman’s face would screw up in terror always brought a sick satisfaction to him. 

You press the warm pad to your leg and hiss through your teeth as feeling begins returning to your calf. He has to admit, he hadn’t meant to grab you quite so hard. He just wanted one good scare, to either get you out of here or show you who's in charge. Your leg has turned an odd color in the shape of his handprint and it makes his lips curl up. 

There’s a loud ringing from upstairs. It grates on his already frayed nerves and makes anger roll off of him in violent, tangible waves. Your nose twitches, your face screwing up as you look around. There’s a suspicious glint in your eye, one your little husband doesn’t share with you. 

He has to admit, you’re smart enough to realize the truth of your situation, at least. Your husband doesn’t share the same characteristic. He seems alarmingly self-assured, not that he minds, those are his favorite types to break. 

He can hear upstairs, better than you would ever hope to. He listens as your husband picks up the phone, quietly yelling at someone on the other end. A woman, if the timbre is anything to go by. They both sound incredibly angry. He’s not interested in listening to something as trivial as this. 

He turns away from you and moves towards the stairs. He pauses at the base of them, glancing over his shoulder and really taking you in. You look so small, curled up on the counter with the look of a frightened child. 

You scream as the lightbulb above you explodes, plunging you into complete darkness. He smiles to himself, drifting up the stairs and lingering at the end of your bed. Your husband’s head shoots up in alarm and he pulls the phone away from his ear. 

The name Martha lingers on the small screen before he quickly flips it off and rushes out of bed. He blows right through the man at the end of his bed, flipping on the lights and racing down the stairs. He calls out your name, voice frantic and bordering on paranoia. 

He hadn’t thought you two would get scared quite so quickly. He’d been hoping to enjoy this a bit more. Perhaps he should slow down, and savor the long fall into madness before he claims you both. He hovers at the top of the stairs, watching as your husband comforts you. 

He’s got his arms wrapped around you, trying to keep you quiet and get you to calm down. From a distance, he could almost be the perfect husband. But that look is all too familiar, he’s seen it a hundred times before. It’s only now that he recognizes it for what it is. There is no love in your husband’s gaze, only the fear that you’ll find out his little secret. 

He goes back into the bedroom, swipes the phone off the nightstand, and retreats into the shadows. 

“Don’t,” you slap James’ hands away from you, glaring at him. He purses his lips, huffing out a sharp breath and taking a step back. Anger brews under your skin, warms you up, and makes your jaw ache from how hard you’re clenching down. 

“How can you say I made it up?” You shout, no longer caring how loud you are. Your voice cracks at the end as you take on a shrill pitch. You yank up the leg of your yoga pants, shoving your leg towards him. 

Not only has the skin dipped in the perfect shape of a hand, but it’s also turned into an unnatural shade of green and purple. It’s like no bruise or injury you’ve ever had before. James looks down at the mark like it’s a bug to be squashed or a pile of dog shit he just stepped in. 

He fixes you with a sneer and shoves it away from him. You let out a harsh breath and stumble slightly into the counter. “Would you quit fucking showing me that? It’s freaking me out.”

You throw your hands up in the air, giving him an eat-shit look. “How do you think I feel? It happened to me.”

He shakes his head and turns towards the coffee pot, pouring himself another mug. You can’t believe how dismissive he’s being about this whole thing. You have indisputable proof burned into your flesh, and he’s completely ignoring your worries. 

“We need to get you to the doctor, okay?” He shakes his head, giving you the look of a disapproving parent, rather than the supportive husband he’s supposed to be. He hadn’t even been worried for you last night, just mad that you’d woken him up for nothing. 

“It’s probably a blood clot, not a damn poltergeist.”

“James-” His phone ringing cuts you off, and your eyes narrow in disbelief as he reaches for it. It’s closer to you on the counter so you snatch it up before he can grab it. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, taking on a concerningly low tone. 

“We’re going to talk about this, you’re not getting out of this one, James!” 

He whispers your name in a voice you haven’t heard before. His face is dark, brows set in determination as he slowly extends his hand. “Give me my phone.”

You glance at the Nokia and then back at him. The fear that’s been ever-present since last night turns into something else. Anxiety and suspicion make a wicked and nauseating brew in your stomach. “Why?” You whisper, eyes narrowing on him as he takes a step closer. You stumble a step back, holding the phone out of his reach. 

You feel your hand tremble with its vibrations before it begins to ring again. You look towards it just as James lunges forward. His shoulder nearly barrels into you as he grabs your wrist. His grip is so tight you almost feel the bones creaking together. “James!” You gasp, the phone tumbling from your palm and into his hand. He shoves you back, tucking it in his pocket and glaring at you. 

“Don’t touch my phone,” you open your mouth to argue and he takes a large step forward. His foot slams against the ground and you flinch back from him, eyes wide in surprise. “Do you understand me,” he demands, slowly and his voice low. 

You nod, your jaw gaping as you stare at him. He runs a hand through his hair, refusing to meet your eye now. Dark strands fall onto his forehead and he looks more disheveled than you’ve seen him in a long while. 

He looks at his watch and clenches his eyes shut. He pauses, taking in a deep breath as he straightens his tie and rounds the kitchen island. “What are you doing?” You ask, your voice so quiet you’re surprised he even hears it. 

“Going to work,” he snaps. You can’t look at him, you just keep your eyes glued to the floor as the door slams shut. You hold your breath until you hear the car going down the driveway. Ever so slowly, you peel yourself away from the counter. 

Your hand drifts, without thinking, to the imprints on your wrist. “What the fuck,” you mutter, a stunned sort of silence taking over. You can’t help but just stand there, completely dumbfounded by how quickly a simple argument escalated. 

He’s always had a shorter temper than most, but that was extreme. A door slams upstairs and you scream, leaping forward and whirling towards the noise.  “What the fuck!” You shout again, stumbling towards the knife block behind you. You can hear footsteps running upstairs and swallow around a ball of fear sinking in your throat. 

You almost call out ‘whos there,’ but that’s a little too stupid for you. You’re not planning on being the bimbo who dies first in every horror movie. As much as James likes to tease you for being a little simple sometimes, you are equipped with basic survival skills. 

You look towards the coffee maker, the port where your home phone should be is empty. You rush towards the windows, glancing out the driveway and cursing when you find it empty. You were hoping that James might still be in his car, steaming before he comes back in to apologize. But, no, he’s really gone. 

Another door slams and it feels a little petty. Despite the way your heart races and you’re struggling to catch your breath, you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. The looming presence that hung over you last night is gone. James had dismissed the lightbulb exploding as an old house and bad lighting. 

You know better, despite the claims otherwise, and you sincerely doubt that there’s an actual person upstairs. And whatever it is, was smart enough to steal your phone. You slink towards the end of the stairs, just barely craning your neck so you can see into your bedroom. Except the door isn’t open like you left it. 

Light comes through the crack of the closed door. You take a tentative step up, eyes squinting as you try and get a glimpse under the door. A shadow darts past, like rushing footsteps. You gasp, leaping back and covering your mouth with trembling hands. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands, and the loose hairs from your braids blow across your cheeks, tickling your sensitive skin. Old vents, that’s what James told you. His attempt to explain the inexplicable breeze that seems to be following you everywhere you go. You’re bundled head to toe in fuzzy socks, warm pants, and a too-big sweatshirt. And still, you feel your fingers nearly go numb and you can barely feel your nose anymore. 

That’s not a poor AC system. And those aren’t feet under your door. You’re so focused on simply watching the movements under the door that you completely forget anything else. You’re blind and deaf as you watch whatever is moving about in your room. A loud clank breaks through the silence and you nearly scream. 

Your bones almost jump out of your skin as the ice machine starts going and rattles up the old fridge. You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and glaring at the white machine. “Fuck me,” you mutter, holding your chest and just barely calming yourself down. 

You’ve only been here a night, you shouldn’t be so fucking terrified. You’re ready to just go out into the backyard and wait the rest of the day for James to come back. If you could drive off, you would. But you’ve only got one working car right now and he’s taken it to work. You move to grab your laptop off the couch when something creaks behind you. 

Old hinges cry out as they’re slowly forced to work. The sound of steps going down the stairs occupies the space behind you. You can’t find the bravery to turn around, too scared to see what might be there. Something ice cold passes through you. It nearly feels like a violation, as though something was rooting through your insides like it belonged there. It couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds but it was more than enough to have you nearly vomiting up your scarce breakfast. 

The moment it’s over you feel yourself calming down. As though an instinctual intuition has been activated, you know the danger’s passed. Whatever it had been trying to accomplish with that little show, it did it. 

You turn back to your room, the lights off and the door open, looking just as you left it. You glance over your shoulder, looking into the kitchen before starting up the stairs. You give a hesitant peek into the room like you expect it to be a wreck. But it looks spotless, the camera is in the same place James left it, still recording. 

You file that away in the back of your mind. Maybe the camera picked up what happened last night, or maybe James is right. You really are just getting too far into your head. A shrill ringing goes off near James nightstand and you frown. Your phone buzzes on his side of the bed, MOM lighting up the square screen. 

You let out a short huff, quickly snatching your phone and answering. Maybe she can talk some sense into you, or, more preferably, come over to keep you company. “Hey mom,” you answer, smiling slightly to yourself. It’s been a little while since you’ve been able to talk to her. James had banned phones after the honeymoon and then you’d gotten caught up in house stuff, jobs, and the aftermath of the wedding ‘incident.’

An older voice than you’d been expecting answers on the other end, saying your name in a confused tone. Your brows furrow and you frown, “Mrs. Barnes?”

“Honey,” she sounds strained, like she really hadn’t been expecting you to answer. James must have taken your phone by accident. It makes sense, they’re both the same model, but you put a little pink charm on your Nokia so you’d stop making this mistake. Yet, when you look to your left, you see your charm lying on your nightstand. When had you taken that off?

“Where’s James?”

“Um,” you’re still a little thrown off by her voice and take a second to answer. “Work, I think he took the wrong phone,” you laugh a little, disconcerted that it’s not your mother’s comforting voice. 

“Must have,” she answers, she sounds like she’s a million miles away, her tone distant. “Well, um, just tell him to call me back.”

“Alright,” you hesitate, concerned by how off she sounds. “Is everything alright?” You know things have been tough for her since her husband passed on. James’ sisters have been helping her adjust, but the wedding had taken him away from his family for a little while. He hasn’t actually shown any signs of wanting to reach out and it makes you feel guilty, like you’re keeping him away from her. 

Mrs. Barnes, a living saint you swear, has been nothing but kind as she welcomes you into her family. This is the first time she’s ever been so distant to you. You act more like her family than James does nowadays. 

“Has, uh,” she coughs, clearing her throat. You can almost hear what sounds like Francesca on the other end, hollering at her. The sound of James’ older sister’s voice makes you smile a little wider. “Has James said anything to you?”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head in confusion, even if she can’t see you. “About what?”

“Oh, crumbs,” she huffs and you have a feeling whatever she was about to say was important, but someone is snatching the phone away before you can hear the rest of it. You’d been so focused on her voice that you hadn’t even heard James come back in. 

He glares down at the phone, face pale and eyes wide like he’s expecting something horrific. When he places it to his ear and hears his mom’s voice, his shoulders slump in relief. You narrow your eyes at him, disoriented by the strange behavior. 

“Mom,” he interrupts her rudely, “I’ll call you later. Okay?” He hangs up before she can answer. He tugs your phone out of his pocket and tosses it next to you on the bed. “Answering my phone now? What are you, my secretary?”

You slip your phone into your back pocket, not looking at him as you get off the bed. “I thought it was mine. I think my charm broke off.” You put some distance between the two of you, glancing down at his phone and then back at him. “Why are you being so weird about it?”

He flinches like you’ve just accused him of something far worse than being overly protective of his phone. “I don’t like you digging around in my phone. That’s a problem now?” You open your mouth to argue, but he just keeps going, cutting you off, “You’re so goddamn paranoid. First the ghost, now this,” he gestures vaguely at you and you scoff, crossing your arms and glaring at him. 

You two are devolving far quicker than he had anticipated. It must have been a fragile relationship, to begin with. James slams the door and you slump down on the bed, you almost look like you want to cry. 

He goes down the stairs, watching through the window as your husband lingers on the front porch. He calls someone, his mom, and starts yelling at her as he gets to his car. Looking away from the window, he sighs. 

He’d been close, if James hadn’t come home he probably could have pushed you over the edge immediately. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or happy that his game gets to go on a little longer.

You come back down the stairs, eyes rimmed red and shoulders slumped in defeat. You brush through him, not even noticing the chill he leaves behind in you. You have the camera in your hand and a cord in the other. He grins, excited to finally have you see the truth of what happened last night. 

You plug the camera into your laptop, scrubbing through the footage of last night. He leans over your shoulder and watches as goosebumps rise along your skin. You sigh, tugging a blanket over your shoulders, but he knows that won’t do anything to help you. 

Nothing will unless you leave. But your husband has made it clear that you’re not getting out of here until he has actual proof anything supernatural lurks inside these haunted walls. Right here, in your lap, you have your proof. A phantom wind blows up the sheets of the bed, an unexplainable tug of your leg that drags you halfway down the bed. It’s violent and he almost feels sorry, he really hadn’t meant to hurt you, only scare you. 

His fingers drift over your leg and you jump, whirling around, wide eyes looking right through him. He can’t help but admire the way fear makes them shine. You’re quite pretty when you’re terrified, he couldn’t say the same for the hag that used to live here. 

You’re slow to turn back to the computer, but when you do, there’s a slight curve to your lips that he appreciates. “I fucking knew it,” you whisper, slamming the screen closed and getting to your feet. 

You’re giddy, he can taste the satisfaction overpowering the fear. You round the couch, taking in a deep breath and shaking out your arms. Your face sets in determination and you start working on clearing out the moving boxes. 

He doesn’t feel the urge to mess with you any further. He leaves you in peace, lounging in your armchair and watching you work. He’s got a nice surprise worked up for you tonight, no need to take today’s playtime any further. 

You’re efficient, only occasionally getting distracted as you smile at pictures of your wedding day. You put those up on the mantle, beside some family photos. It’s clear how much you value your familial bonds, even your husbands. You put it front and center in the home, reminding him of how it once looked. 

There’s a stark sense of deja vu as he watches you work, a nauseating feeling of what could have been. He can practically taste the newlywed bliss you’re going through. Even with your husband being a piece of work, you still value him, love him. He’d once known that love, hell, he’d reveled in it. 

But the curtain always has to come down. The magic’s never real. He’s doing you a favor by showing you the truth of it all. His gaze drifts away from you cooking dinner and he looks towards the pictures on the mantle. 

James’ mother reminds him of his own. He always wondered what happened to her, what her life was like after he was gone. Neither of them ever got what they wanted. She died wondering what happened to her only son, and he died without getting to say goodbye. 

He thinks of Bette, and feels that familiar white-hot rush of anger, your scream comes a moment later. He glances towards you, confused, before he follows your eyes and sees that he’s accidentally shattered the frames of the pictures. 

You gasp, sucking in shallow breaths as you stumble into the counter, brows furrowed in terror. He clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath, and tamps down on the anger overwhelming him. 

The door opens and your socked feet go rushing towards it, you nearly slip on the hardwoods, arms spinning wildly as you right yourself. James flinches away from your frantic hands as you grab his jacket and drag him inside. “The fucking pictures,” you stutter out your words and point frantically towards the mantle. 

James grimaces, tugging at your hands and looking towards him. He doesn’t see him, of course he doesn’t. But he does see his little accident. James scoffs, face screwing up in anger, he turns towards you. His face is set like a disappointed parent. “You broke them? Our wedding pictures, seriously. All because of a stupid fight?”

He jerks away from you, storming towards the glass and kicking at it. “You didn’t even clean it up,” he says your name, tone increasing in anger. You stare at him, disbelieving and open-mouthed. 

He sits back on the armchair, thoroughly amused. He hadn’t even had to do anything to turn him against you. Your sweet James has just been waiting for a reason to get mad. “This is fucking petty, even for you.”

“What, James,” you stumble over your words, taking a hesitant step towards him. He thinks you’re pretty when you’re scared, but not like this. He doesn’t appreciate the way you approach your husband like he’s a rabid dog. You shouldn’t be scared of him, not yet at least. He hasn’t even had his fun with him yet. 

“It wasn’t me, I swear-”

“Not this ghost shit again, seriously-”

“I have proof!” You shout, your voice is desperate as you try and make yourself louder than him. You run towards your laptop, and ignore the burning smell coming from the oven. He gets up, drifting towards it and turning it off before either of you can notice. No point in having the house burn down. Where would that leave him?

You plug the camera in, turning the screen towards him. James doesn’t make a move yet, simply glaring at you like you’re a bug to be swatted. “Please,” you beg, pathetic and needy. He huffs, rolling his eyes as he watches you both. It’s all so familiar to him, he feels like he’s watching his unfortunate disaster of a marriage play out through you. 

You scrub through the times, cussing as you pass over the clip of you getting dragged. There’s a frantic look in your eye as you hit play. It almost makes him feel bad for what’s about to happen. 

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” James snaps. 

Your face falls and you move the mouse forward and back, looking like a madwoman as you try to find the right moment. You won’t, he made sure of that. Nothing but static plays when you get to the parts that would prove your innocence. 

James tugs at his tie, shaking his head in disappointment. “Not only did you fuck up all our pictures, you didn’t even have dinner ready.” He shoves past you, heading up the stairs and muttering to himself. He pulls out his phone, lingering on a contact he shouldn’t before pressing call. 

You stay still in the living room, looking at the shattered glass and then the oven. “I made your favorite,” you whisper. You suck in a shaky breath, swallowing hard as you kneel down to try and pick up the remnants of your wedding photos. 

3 AM

He sits on the bed, glancing towards the blinking red light of the camera. There’s a clear wall between you and your husband, even if neither of you wants to acknowledge it. You lay curled up in yourself, like a child afraid to seek comfort. He pities you, truly. 

He remembers the happiness of youth, the rush of being married to the person you believe is the love of your life. He will never forget the pain of realizing the person you’ve given everything to turning into someone you don’t recognize. 

His hand drifts over the swell of your cheek. Your lashes flutter, nose wrinkling at the cold brush of his touch. But you don’t flinch away from him, instead leaning into him and looking almost happy by his touch. 

He looks to your husband, eyes narrowing on his relaxed form. He sees the phone lying near him and his face sets in determination. He’s not going to let you fall into the same trap he did. And he certainly isn’t about to let another soul cramp the already stuffy walls of his home. 

It’s been quiet around the house. Less strange events and more strained dinners between you and your husband. You’ve taken to bringing the camera everywhere with you. But anytime a light bulb explodes or a frame topples over, the video goes static. 

You should have given up the hunt for evidence but you can’t give it up. You just need James to see, you need him to believe you. Or, at the very least, you need some assurance that you’re not going crazy. You’ve begun to consider the possibility. 

The bruise on your leg is gone, the constant chills that rack you are still very much present, but there’s nothing else. Everything that happens can be explained by the age of the house. You’ve only briefly discussed it with James’ sisters. Elizabeth gave you the number of a medium she knows. 

James had gotten angry when he found the business card after her visit. He didn’t like her filling your head with more nonsense and indulging you. You didn’t like how dismissive he was. It’s been a few days since the fight and you still have no desire to reconcile with him. 

It’s becoming easier to simply ignore his presence around the house. You know it’s not healthy. You’ve only just begun the marriage, you don’t need to have communication issues tainting it before it’s even on its legs. 

Still, it’s as though something’s keeping you from him. Every attempt at speaking with him is interrupted, thoughts of apologizing just to placate him are struck from your head quicker than they come. 

You stand up from the kitchen table, placing your pictures to the side. You’ve finally gotten new frames for them all, you only need to put them back up. You have no problems putting up the family pictures. Yet, the moment you make to grab the wedding picture of you and James, you grow inexplicably tired. 

Your eyelids flutter shut and you sway on your feet. Your bones grow heavy like you’ve been working all day. But you’ve only been up a few hours, and you had so much more to do today. You try and fight forward, leaning on the table and reaching for the portrait again. You almost feel like you’re nudged back, moved towards the couch. 

A short nap, you promise yourself. Just long enough to get your energy back. 

He followed him to work. That’s never happened before. He’s never been able to follow someone out of the house. He tried, with Steve, he tried to make every aspect of his life hell. But he couldn’t. 

Yet, with this one, he has no problem following him. Maybe it’s the odd resemblance they have. A haircut and a shave, they could be identical twins. But then again, he hasn’t seen his face in a long while, perhaps he’s misremembering it. 

It’s difficult to maintain this control. Half of him lingers in the house, with you, the other half is here. He’s being drawn closer to James and further from you. He doesn’t know if that’s conducive or an interruption to his plans. 

He only vaguely sees you, in his mind’s eye. He leads you to the couch, lays you down, and keeps you away from the reminders of James. He’s gotten good at keeping you both separated. It was easy to begin with, all he’s doing is showing you the truth of the man you married. If only he could really show you. 

James phone rings and he focuses on him once more. It’s Martha again. He hasn’t figured out the truth of their relationship, he’s sure he already knows it. He’s lived this life once, knows the truth of why a husband would act like this. The late-night calls, the constant misdirection of anger. 

He’s paranoid, terrified you’ll find out the truth. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. The perfect housewife at home, and the mistress who fulfills his every desire. At least, that’s his theory. He still needs to be completely sure. 

He ignores James, focusing once more on his connection to the house. He finds you right where he left you, deep in your sleep and completely oblivious to the world around you. He kneels before you, sweeping some hair off your cheeks and tilting his head as he takes in your restful face. 

You look so peaceful when you’re like this, a slight curl to your lips as you wander through dreamland. He wished he could keep you like this, wished he could completely get rid of James. But without him, you wouldn’t be able to keep the house. You’d leave it, leave him. He can’t have that. He’s been lonely for so long, he needs you, craves you. 

6 PM

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

Chewing fills the cavernous silence of your dining room. Forks scrape across porcelain, shallow breaths as you both dance around the tension that threatens to tie a noose around your marriage. You reach for your wine, hoping for another heady swallow. Just like before, you’re dissuaded from it. 

You grow tired at the thought of drowning your sorrows in the alcohol for another night. You clench your eyes shut and take a deep breath, moving the glass away from you and turning back to the roast you made. 

James’ brows furrow as he watches you. “Everything alright?”

You hum, “Tired.” He scoffs and your face falls flat. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he cuts more aggressively into the meat. "Something wrong?” You demand, sucking on your teeth as you anticipate his answer. You’re sure it’s going to be the same broken record he’s been playing since the honeymoon. 

“Nothing,” he shrugs, tone dismissive. He pauses, taking a deep breath before laughing sardonically. “It’s just funny.” You hate how he does this, drags out his answers, and forces you to take the bait. 

You’re not playing this game of his tonight. You won’t do it again. You can’t keep going in circles with him, can’t keep indulging him in these childish tantrums. He waits, eyebrows raised and pretty blue eyes boring into yours, demanding attention. 

Those damn eyes. You wish he was just a little uglier, maybe then you wouldn’t have been so blind to how fucking awful he really is. You almost resent his mother and sisters for this. They could have warned you off, told you the horror stories of his past before the wedding. Instead, they’d warned you after it was too late and your entire life was entangled in his. 

“I work all day, come home, want a peaceful meal. What do I get?”

He falls silent again and you let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, James,” you drawl, bored of this already. Your patience for him is practically nonexistent nowadays. You used to be able to endure these conversations with him, or at the very least soothe him. But you’re tired of feeling like a babysitter and not the wife you’re supposed to be. “What do you get? A homecooked meal, a clean house, someone to come home to. Tell me,” you demand, slamming your hand on the table and surprising him. “What the fuck do you get?”

“A nagging fucking wife who does jack shit all day and complains about being tired! I work for us, so you can stay home and live out your little housewife fantasies!”

Your jaw drops and you suck in a sharp breath. You can’t even form words, nearly laughing at the audacity and ridiculousness of what he’s saying. “Oh my god,” you can only scoff, shaking your head and leaning back in your chair. You smile and roll your eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” He stands, leaning on the table and trying to make himself bigger than he is. It only paints him in a more pathetic light. 

You cut him off before he can say anything else, scooping up your plate and storming into the kitchen. “You’re the one who insisted I quit my job. You,” you turn and gesture towards him, a disgusted sneer on your face, “wanted a fucking housewife. I was just the dumbass that listened to you. You have no right to throw that in my face. You wanted this, James!”

“Yeah, well,” for a moment you think he’s speechless. His jaw opens and closes, nothing but air leaving his parted lips. You should know better by now, he’s always got some bullshit to spew. “I didn’t think you’d be so incompetent at this.”

You drop the plate in the sink, leaning on it for support and closing your eyes. You take in deep breaths, trying to cool down the heat racing under your skin. Your blood’s pumping so hard you’re surprised a vein hasn’t burst yet. 

“Fuck this,” you push off the sink, shoving past him and moving towards the front door. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, watching as you grab your coat and your keys. 

“Going for a walk,” you tell him shortly, slamming the door behind you. You just need some time away from him, away from the suffocating shadow that seems to linger behind him all the time now. 

You pull the business card Elizabeth had given you and dial the number. You don’t know if this anger is coming from whatever the hell lives in that house or if this was always coming. But you’re not going to just roll over and let this thing ruin your marriage. 

7 PM

You’re out for an hour. He’s upset the entire time. He wants to drive James’ head into the corner of the counter over and over again until there’s nothing left but unidentifiable mush. It’s the same fight he used to have. It always started over something so stupid, he could never say anything right. 

No matter how many times he thought he finally figured Bette out. Every time he thought he had avoided some trigger for her, a new one formed. It didn’t matter how perfect of a husband he was, he would never be enough because he wasn't him. He wasn’t Steve, the man who could do no wrong in her eyes. 

He stands in the corner and watches as James paces for a while before he finally leaves, taking his keys and his phone. He takes the car and leaves you stranded here at the house. 

He knows that James could fix the car sitting idle in the garage. He could fix the car. It’s just another way of keeping you under control. James gets to decide when and where you get to go out, you don’t get a say. 

You seem relieved, though, when you come back and see James gone. You’re happier without your husband, it’s both good and bad. He needs you to resent James, needs you to hate him. But that could prove tricky for him in the future. 

“Thank you so much,” you’re on the phone, you’ve got something lumpy in your jacket. One hand lays under the buttons of your coat, stroking idly. “Yeah, Thursday sounds great. Thank you, again, for coming on such late notice.”

You hang up, placing your keys and phone in the bowl by the door. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up.” You open your jacket, revealing a bundle of matted, dirty fur underneath. Somewhere in all that mess is the scrunched face of a pissed-off cat. 

You coo to it, stroking its head and ignoring the fact it looks like it wants to rip your hand off. You bring it to the kitchen sink and he watches as you take the next few hours to wash its wounds and properly groom it. 

He never cared much for cats, or any animals, really. He never had the time or the energy to try and take care of something other than Bette. She was practically a full-time job to cater to. But he enjoys how peaceful you look being able to take care of the cat. He enjoys how much sympathy you display, even as the little bastard rips and tears at your pretty skin. 

He looms over your shoulder, stroking his phantom fingers over the cat's wet fur. It’s enough to scare it into submission. Its claws release your skin and it shrinks back into your hold. He grins, backing away and leaving you to it. 

You frown down at the cat, murmuring soothing words to it as you look around the kitchen. Sometimes he thinks you see him, thinks you can truly see through all the walls and witness what’s left of the man he was. He knows it's foolish, a ridiculous hope. 

You’ll never be able to see him. Even if you could, you would only think of him as a tormentor. He was a blight on your home and marriage, why would you ever care about him?

3 AM

You feel eyes on you. Not the unfamiliar eyes you’ve been feeling, you know these. Intimately. You stir from your light sleep, squinting through the dark. Minimal light comes in through the blinds, but it's just enough for you to see the figure standing beside you. 

You gasp, flinching away from James. He just stands over you, glaring down at where you slept. Eyes devoid of anything. “James?” You whisper. Alpine, the cat you snagged from a neighbor’s dumpster, leaps off the bed. 

She hisses at James, skirting around him and running out of the room. Your brows furrow in confusion. You look back to James, muttering his name again. He gasps like he was dragged out of a coma. 

He stumbles on his feet, tripping over them and nearly nosediving into the bed. You instinctively steady him, guiding him onto the bed beside you. “What are you doing?” You hiss at him, holding his face in your hands and looking him over for any explanation of what was just happening. 

You’ve never even heard him talk in his sleep. Let alone, sleep with his eyes wide open and staring at you. It was beyond disturbing. There’s something unfamiliar in his eyes, they’re soft as he looks at you. Soft in a way they haven’t been for a long time. 

His hand comes up to cup yours, the other almost hesitantly running across your cheek. “James?” You ask again, caught off guard by the odd display of affection.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. You’re ninety percent sure you’re still dreaming, he’s never apologized first before. It’s always been you to broker the peace. You’ll sacrifice being right if it means he’ll stop giving you the cold shoulder, he’s never done the same. 

You try to ask him what he’s talking about, but he’s surging forward before you can speak. His lips are chapped, dryer than you’re used to. He doesn’t give you much time to process anything. His hands drift to your waist, dragging you into his lap as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You’re taken aback by the taste of metal on his tongue. It’s coppery and bitter, not at all like the mint toothpaste you both use. 

He’s not kissing you like you’re used to. He’s not trying to devour you or suffocate you by shoving his tongue as far as it goes down your throat. This is gentle, sweet. It feels like you’re being savored, not claimed. You don’t mind it, in fact, it would be nice if you weren’t so disturbed. 

He’s not acting like himself, he barely looks like he should, and he tastes wrong. This isn’t your husband kissing you. You want to pull away, you try to. But his fingers are digging into your waist and your lips are firmly locked. You can feel the chill of his hands through your pajamas. They’re like icicles, you’re sure there’s going to be a mark from them in the morning. 

“James,” you manage to mutter, pulling away from him just enough to catch your breath. “What’s,” you trail off, tongue growing too heavy to speak. Your words slur together, become one nonsensical jumble stuck in your throat. 

He shakes his head, biting his lip and slowly lowering you back onto the bed. “I’m sorry. I thought this would work.” You narrow your eyes, you have barely enough energy to shake your head in confusion. Your lips part to ask another question. He leans down, pressing one last gentle kiss to you before your eyes roll back and you’re asleep again. 

“I told you I have it handled,” James practically pouts as he sits in your armchair. You used to use it to crochet, it’s got the best view of the backyard and you like to watch the bunnies that live under the porch. But more and more, he stays there. Every second he’s home, he seems to live in that chair. 

Bette had given it to you with the house. You hadn’t really thought anything of it, but with how he’s been acting lately, you can’t help but wonder if its’ connected to whatever secrets live in these walls. Most people would be haunted and their husbands would get worse, you seem to be experiencing the opposite. 

He’s kinder, he’s bringing you flowers and cooking you breakfast. You’re woken up with praise and gentle kisses. Then he’s back to normal by lunchtime. He’s miserable at dinner, only to wake you up in the middle of the night with saccharine apologies. You’re so sick and tired of living in this whirlwind of love and misery. You just want some goddamn answers. 

You need to know the truth of what’s happening to you. Is this just how James is? Is this the house? Is there even anything wrong with the house?

You’re hoping the medium will be able to answer that for you today. Mystic Wanda, the name doesn’t give you much hope but Elizabeth told you she’s one of the best. 

Alpine runs against your legs and James glowers at her. “I told you I wanted her out of here.”

“Tough,” you respond bluntly, eyes trained on the front door. He’d thrown a hissy fit when he saw her the morning after your weird make-out session. You hadn’t bent, though, and you know he’s still upset you’re no longer blindly giving into his whims. 

The doorbell rings and you leap off the couch, rushing towards the door and throwing it open. Wanda’s eyes widen in amusement and she smiles at your eagerness. “Please, come in, and thank you again for coming on such short notice.”

You usher her inside, offering to take her jacket. She passes it to you, eyeing the interior of your home and giving you an appeasing smile. “Well, Elizabeth is a good friend of mine, she told me you were having an emergency and I wanted to help.”

James scoffs from the armchair and she glances over at him with a bemused look. You glare at him over her shoulder. “James, I presume?”

“Oh,” his eyes widen in faux amazement, “did you divine that?”

Her eyebrows raise and you know she’s unimpressed. “I could tell from the attitude. Your sister warned me you were a cynic.”

He mutters a bitter, “Whatever,” under his breath and goes back to ignoring her. 

“I’m sorry about him,” you take her by the elbow, guiding her into the kitchen and away from him. You peer over into the living room, ensuring he can’t hear you. Wanda waits expectantly for you to begin speaking. 

“He’s why I wanted you to come.” You tell her, fiddling idly with your wedding band. “He’s not himself lately.”

“More volatile?” She guesses and you shake your head, laughing bitterly to yourself.

“Less, actually. But he’s unpredictable. I never know when he’s going to be this sweet stranger or the miserable man I’ve grown used to.”

Her brows twitch and a confused smile graces her lips. “Most people aren’t upset when their husband gets better.”

“I know it’s odd,” you admit, sighing and looking down at the countertop. “But, I just need to know I’m not going crazy. I’ve been dragging this around everywhere,” you push your camera towards her. “Every time something happens, the feed cuts out. I’ve been dragged down my bed, harassed, made to think I’m losing my mind.”

You run a rough hand over your face, feeling the aches of this whole experience settle wearily along your bones. “I just need some clarity. That’s all.”

“Well,” she reaches for your hand, squeezing it in hers and giving you a comforting smile. “I can certainly help with that.”

Wanda sits in the armchair, having booted James out of it. He seems a little bit more cognizant as he sits beside you, a little more scared. You keep a wary eye on him while Wanda closes her eyes and “connects” with the house, as she put it. 

She breaks the silence abruptly and it makes you jump. “This chair came with the house?” You nod silently but you have a feeling she already knew the answer. She hums, running her hand along the arm of it. 

“It was his before it was stolen by the man he called friend. He lives in it, watches you from it.” You feel your heart racing, panic steadily rising within you. It’s like a physical caress, the fear trailing down your spine. “He wants something, too many things,” she sighs and shakes her head, frustration playing along her fine features. “It’s hard to discern the truth of it all.”

“But he’s real?” You cut in, imploring her to tell you what you’re desperate to hear.

She gives you a resigned smile, but there’s no happiness in it. “I’m afraid so.” She shouldn’t be so apologetic, this is all you wanted. To know you weren’t crazy, to have James hear it too. But when you look to him for some satisfactory celebration, his face is slack. 

“James?” 

Wanda leaps up from the chair, taking a step towards him. Your husband is gone, any sign of awareness or thought is completely gone. He looks devoid of life, like he’s been a living corpse for weeks. “James?” You call again, voice threatening to break. 

His jaw snaps shut and you jump back, rushing off the couch and stumbling towards Wanda. She grabs you, tugging you behind her, and takes in a deep inhale. “It’s him,” she whispers, eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never encountered one so strong before.”

You glance at her and then back at James. There’s fury playing on his features, and again, those eyes you don’t recognize yet somehow feel familiar. “I think you should leave,” he demands, his voice low. 

It isn’t the normal way he commands you. This is a threat, a complete assurance of power. James stands up in one fluid motion, stalking toward Wanda. She goes stiff before you and you worry she’s going to go slack the same way James did. 

“Now,” he tells her, eyebrows raised with impatience. 

“James, she can help,” you try. His head whips toward yours and you flinch away from the intense look he gives you. 

“We don’t need her help,” he whispers your name and it almost sounds like he’s pleading with you. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, you glance between Wanda and James, unsure which to follow. 

Wanda shakes her head as you take a step back from her. James’ shoulders slump with relief. “Don’t do this,” Wanda warns. “I won’t be able to come back here again. He’s growing stronger, you’ll be beyond anyone’s help soon-”

She's cut off as the light bulb above you explodes. You scream, moving instinctively towards your husband. His arms eagerly wrap around you, drawing you into his gentle hold. He runs a hand over your back and you almost miss the quiet apology he mutters into your hair. 

“Leave,” James doesn’t have to tell her again. She practically runs to the door, nearly forgetting her coat as she rushes out. You slump against him, somehow feeling defeated even after getting what you wanted. 

“Doll?” He peers down at you, pulling back slightly to get a better look. “Are you okay?”

You stare into eyes you know don’t belong to your husband and force yourself to nod. You let this stranger hold you close and ignore the sinking weight of guilt. He feels so much better than James ever did and you hate yourself for thinking that. 

Your husband is in there somewhere, being tormented by some malevolent spirit, and you’re letting him do what he wants to you. Playing house with him like everything’s normal. “Come on, let's go outside.”

You can’t do anything except listen to him. In the back of your mind, you think about how odd it is that he’s showing himself now. He usually waits until later in the day. 

How sick is it, you have a schedule for when your husband will be possessed?

He leads you to the back porch, to the rocking chairs that were there when you moved in. but he doesn’t let you sit in one. No, he guides you down onto his lap, keeping you close as you get yourself comfortable. 

James isn’t like this. He doesn’t let you love him like this. Your touch practically repulses him nowadays. But he can’t seem to get enough of you now. Holding onto you like he might not get to again. 

“Wanda said he was growing stronger,” you mutter absentmindly. He goes tense under you, but he doesn’t yell at you or get mad. He just squeezes your hand in his, idly tracing shapes over your palm. 

“I was thinking of planting some rosebushes,” he tells you, completely brushing over what you said. 

“I thought you wanted to rip the garden out and build a pool,” you tell him bitterly. The neighborhood has its own pool. You’ve been begging James to keep the old lady’s flowers in the back but he won’t have it. 

Now, miraculously, he’s giving in to your whims. You don’t know if you should be happy or disgusted. You’re sitting on the lap of something that isn’t your husband anymore. You don’t feel like you can trust your mind anymore. You struggle to differentiate between your dreams and reality. 

He laughs a little, brushing some hair out of your face and smiling at you. It’s not the smile you fell in love with, or the eyes you fell in love with, but you can feel yourself falling. Or, maybe, you’re just desperate for someone to be kind to you. For someone to love you the way a husband should love his wife. 

“I want you to be happy, Doll.” James doesn’t call you Doll.

“Maybe some gardenias too,” you lean back into his chest, letting yourself get more comfortable. 

You feel his smile against your skin, he turns his nose to nuzzle against your cheek, planting a kiss there. “I’ll buy the seeds tomorrow.” You nod absentmindedly, trying to settle the way your stomach flips. 

3 AM

“James!” You scream his name, leaping onto his side of the bed and holding onto him as tight as you can. He shoots up, grabbing you and turning you to face him. 

“What?” He demands, face pale with worry. 

You frown, glaring at him, “You didn’t hear that?” The bedroom door slams closed and you scream again, curling into his hold. 

“Holy shit!” He shouts, he tries to hold onto you but something grabs his leg. The same way you’d been dragged the first night, he’s pulled out of bed. You scream his name, the bedroom door flies open, and watch as he’s dragged into the hall. 

You leap over the bed, feet tangled in the sheets as you lunge towards the door. He’s screaming, primal sounds of nothing but pure terror ripping through the house. You pound on the locked door, tearing at the knob until you think you might rip it off. 

“James! Please!” You sob against the wood, slamming your shoulder into it until it cracks. Pain shoots down to your elbow and you flinch back, “Fuck,” the screams go quiet on the other side of the door and your eyes widen. 

“James!” You screech, your fists pound against the door until you feel the skin crack and blood dribble down your arms. Something cool brushes against your neck, like a breath. “Stop,” you plead, “stop it, give him back.”

The door swings outward, the wrong way, and you wonder how the hinges don’t break. The only light on is the linen closet. The same closest that you know has a scuttlehole. You don’t think, just run towards it. Your bare feet pound against the hardwood, shaking the whole house in your race for the door. 

You burst through, nearly stumbling facefirst into the ladder. You clench your eyes shut, nails digging into your palms as you look up to see the scuttle hole already open and beckoning you forward. 

Blood trails up the ladder and you could almost cry seeing it. You can’t waste time, can’t dawdle. You don’t know what happened to James but you know it’s not good that he’s quiet. You force yourself up the rickety ladder, pulling yourself into the attic and looking around for any signs of life. 

You didn’t realize how much junk the old lady had left behind in the house. But the attic is chock full of her past. Dusty and browned filing boxes litter old antique tables. Wardrobes, trunks of clothes from the fifties. A mannequin with an unfinished dress. There’s an entire life up here, one she seemed to have just willingly left behind. 

You frown down at something that really draws your eye, a box with a scrawled B.B. on the side. The light’s on, but it's dim and only illuminates the box. Still, you try and squint through the dark to find James. There’s no sign of him anywhere, you can’t help but wonder what the trail of blood on the ladder was. 

You lean down and pick up the box. “What’re you doing?”

You scream, your throat going sore from how much you seem to be doing that tonight. James is on the ladder behind you, a dazed look on his face as he waits for your answer. You tilt your head in confusion, trying to calm your heart from the adrenaline rush that was ten minutes earlier. 

These are different eyes. This isn’t him. Your gaze darts back to the box and you pass it to him. “Take that,” you demand. He doesn’t question you, if anything it seems to make him happy. He drops it down the ladder and holds his hand out to help you down. 

You take it, hissing at how cold his hands are. He only gives you another eerie smirk. Once you’re steady and on the ground, you back slowly out into the hallway. “What happened earlier?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

Your face drops and you scoff, “You were fucking dragged down the hall and I got locked in the bedroom. You weren’t sleepwaking, James.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and flips the lights off. You’re plunged into darkness, a slight whimper ripping its way out of your throat. You’re forced to rely on his guidance as he leads you down the hall. “You’re tired, Doll, we should just go to bed.”

You think back to the box, waiting for you in the closet. There’s no arguing with him, though. You’ll have to deal with it tomorrow morning. You can only pray that you’re not awoken so violently again. 

“Sweetheart,” you mumble tiredly, swatting blindly at the voice. There’s a low chuckle, and then the familiar press of lips against your forehead. “Wake up, I’ve gotta go soon.”

You’re slow to open your eyes, just barely making out James’ blurry shape. “James,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes to try and force them to focus on his form. “What’re you doing?” You asked, words slurring together. 

He places a tray down on the nightstand and the smells of coffee and pancakes break your dazed trance. You sit up straighter in bed, giving him a confused look. Two years of dating, and a few months of marriage, not once has he greeted you with breakfast in bed. 

“James?” you question, he only shakes his head, darting forward to kiss you. Your eyes flutter shut and you find yourself leaning into the touch. It doesn’t take long for it to grow heated, his chilled hands drifting under your shirt and tugging you towards him. 

You’re finding it easier and easier to simply give in to his whims. Your legs spread over his and you melt into his hold like you were made to fit against him. “Shit, Doll,” he huffs against your parted lips, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. His lips are a pretty pink, swollen, and glistening from your kisses. You almost want to bite them. 

You hold back the urge, leaning back and giving him a small smile. It’s enough to make his whole face light up. “You know how badly I want to stay in bed with you today?” You almost invite him to, but the foggy cloud of an abrupt wake-up finally parts. 

You remember the box from last night, what you need to do today. So, you pull back from him, his arms releasing you reluctantly. It’s so peculiar, how his metal hand is warmer than the flesh one. “Going to work?”

He hums, eyes narrowing in on you suspiciously. You reach for the coffee and take a sip, exactly how you like it. It’s pathetic that your suspicion grows because you know your husband doesn’t know how you take your coffee. 

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him, and it’s the first time you haven’t had to force the words out to appease him. It almost feels genuine this time. He gives you a resigned smile, kissing your cheek and leaning back. 

He pets Alpine, stroking down her smooth white fur and smiling at her too. “I’ll see you both later,” he tells you, a promise. You bite your lip and nod. His footsteps echo down the stairs and you leap off the bed, the abrupt move scaring the life out of Alpine. She growls in discontent and stalks off. The door closes and you run to the window, watching the driveway to make sure he’s gone for sure. 

You race into the hall, throwing the closet door open and dragging the dusty box out. Mildew and mold cling to it, but you don’t have time to be concerned with germs. You need answers. You take it downstairs, toss it on the kitchen table, and forget all about your breakfast upstairs. 

It’s odd, how much cozier the house has become. Sunlight streams through the windows and warms your seats and couches. You no longer feel eyes in the shadows. A creak is just a creak. It’s like your fear has just been snatched from you. 

The thought is enough to unsettle you, but you ignore it for now. You’ll worry about that another day. You toss the lid of the file box inside and what greets you only further irritates you. Piles of unorganized papers and pictures, each of the more faded by time than the other. 

You pluck out the first one you see and nearly gasp. It’s James, but not James. A picture of a WWII soldier, in his uniform and posing in front of an army vehicle. He looks just like your husband, but his eyes crinkle a little more when he smiles, his happiness palpable through the picture. He’s even got a prosthetic arm. 

You flip the picture over, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, is written out in pretty cursive. Directly under it is 1942. You drop the picture, taking a few steps back and shaking your head. “No, no, nope,” you shake your head, simply ignoring the truth that lay in front of you. 

Somewhere out there, there’s an alternative version of your husband who was a WWII veteran and apparently lived in this house. Same fucking name and everything. “Oh, fuck me, this is insane.” You glare at the box, not wanting to believe anything you’re seeing. 

How could your life have devolved into this shitfest, just because you moved into one fucking house? How could one crappy ad in the newspaper have completely turned your life upside down and thrown you into the twilight zone?

You throw yourself into a chair, slumping over the wooden table and taking in grounding breaths. You wanted the truth, you’re going to get it. Even if none of it makes any sense. The next few pictures you grab are all in the same sepia tint. One of him standing in front of the garden, another before a truck, even one in the goddamn armchair currently sitting in your living room. And in each one, he looks as happy as can be. But there’s something nearly artificial in his smile. 

You look at the pictures on your mantle and frown. You can’t exactly judge him. You’ve got the same smile in all your pictures too. Just slightly off, something about it slightly forced for the sake of the person beside you.

You find one of him with a very unhappy-looking woman. She’s pretty, even if she does look a little wicked, and she also looks remarkably like you. What bizzaro world is this? She’s nearly identical to you, but she looks goddamn miserable. A hulking blond man has his arm slung around Bucky, fingers just barely grazing the woman’s shoulder. 

You flip it over and find, Bette, Bucky & Steve at the new house, 1950. Bette, the woman who sold you the house. Who told you what nursing home her kids were sticking her in. You leap up from the table, running to grab your coat and racing out of the house. 

Bucky glances down at James' phone and grins. He pulls the car into the apartment complex and picks up the call, “Hello?”

“Where are you?” The woman on the other end demands sharply. 

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting back the spirit surging within him. His left hand twitches without his permission and his eyes narrow in frustration. James was easy enough to subdue last night. He was caught off guard, terrified. 

Now, he’s pissed off and fighting. Bucky doesn’t appreciate the efforts to take control. “I just pulled in. I’ll be up in a minute.” He shuts the phone off and jerks the rearview mirror to face him. The eyes that stare back at him are not his own. 

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” James demands, spitting the words out like he has any sort of power over Bucky. 

Bucky grins, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

James’ face falls and his eyes widen with worry. “What does that mean?” Bucky flips the mirror back in place, glancing up to the third-story apartment where Martha waits for him. He turns the engine off, slowly exits the car, and makes his way up the stairs. 

He’s sure to take his time, enjoying how James grows more and more terrified. It only feeds him, makes him stronger, and grants him more control over him. He’s getting better at controlling him, finally had enough strength to fully take over last night. 

Before, he only had the energy to take over the body for a few hours, at most. But the longer he held influence over James, the further his influence spread. Soon, he could leave the house, without having to use James’ body as an anchor. He’s evolved past anchors and the brick walls that once contained him. He only had one last loose end before he could be with you fully. 

He knocked on the red door, waiting for Martha to answer. It didn’t take long. She threw the door open, face screwed up with rage. “Look who came back. I told you that little bitch of yours wouldn’t be good enough for you.”

Bucky kept the look on his face serene. He tried not to show the rage that raced through him at her grating tone. He wanted to rip her tongue out and choke her with it. He wished he could pluck out her eyeballs and serve them to her on a silver platter. A million different ways came to him as he stepped into her apartment. 

“Hello, Martha.”

“Thanks for seeing me, Bette.”

Bette kept her hands in her lap, picking at the wrinkles of her skin. “It’s grown so thin,” she looked at you, seeing straight through you. “I used to be like you, so pretty, so young.”

Your face screws up in discomfort and you nod dismissively. “You know why I want to talk.”

Bette sighs and clicks her tongue. “Oh, Bucky,” she says his name forlornly, playing the perfect mourning lover. But you know better, she doesn’t mean a damn bit of her grief. 

“Drop it,” you snap, looking around to make sure no nurses are watching. The white sterile walls of the nursing home loom over you. Bette’s eyes snap towards you, the thin film of dementia disappears and she slumps into her chair. 

“Fine. Dammit, what the hell do you want? You already took my house.”

“Yeah, and your damn ghost. I want some fucking answers, Bette.”

She chuckles, the noise bitter and her expression cruel. “You know, you remind me a lot of Bucky. Got that same kicked puppy look to you that makes me want to smack you around.” Despite your best intentions of remaining passive, you feel your heart twinge in sympathy for Bucky. 

Bette’s got the same bitter look in her eye that James used to. You don’t see much of it anymore. Strange how much your life has changed in just over two weeks. “I thought he’d see you and finally move on. He’d finally get his damn revenge on me, I mean you look just like me.”

You can’t help but agree with her. You slip the picture out of your purse and put it on the table before you. “I saw,” you mutter, glancing down at the uncanny resemblance between you both. “I want to know what happened, Bette. I want to know why he’s stuck in my walls, why he’s stuck in my husband,” you add.

Her eyes widen and her jaw gapes. “He’s got your husband?” You nod and you’re caught off guard when she begins to cackle. “God, even dead he’s still the same pathetic, snivelling bastard he used to be.”

You can’t help but get angry, you almost want to defend him. Sure, he’s tormented you, but clearly, he had a reason to be bitter about having to look at your face all the damn time. You’d go crazy too if this was the bitch you were married to. 

“Bette,” you warn, voice low. 

She huffs and snatches the picture. “No harm in telling you, I suppose.” She gives you a wicked grin, “No one will believe you anyway.”

“I met Bucky when I was young, too young. We got married because he was getting shipped off to war. He wanted someone to write letters to, to come home to, and I figured he’d die before I ever saw him again. I could cash in on widow’s benefits. Then the son of a bitch had to go and get honorably discharged for getting his arm blown off.”

Your brows furrow in disgust. You’ve never seen such an evil old woman before. You pray you don’t turn into a wicked old hag like her when you get older. “Steve, his best friend, was discharged around the same time as him. Came to live with us for a while so he could get his life in order.”

Bette glares at you and tosses the picture back to you. You catch it before it slides off the table and she keeps going. “See, some women weren’t as loyal as I was. His lady moved on real fast, left him lonely and looking for a warm place to sleep at night. Bucky, well, he just wasn’t a man. He obeyed me like a little bitch and took every hit I gave him because he thought he deserved it. Steve never did that, always put me in my place. He was a man,” she hisses out the word and you have the sudden urge to slap her. 

“One thing led to another, we were in love and Bucky was in the way. We got rid of him, what else do you want me to say?”

You can’t even figure out where to begin. She’s fucking despicable. Not only did she not love him, he was utterly devoted to her and she fucked his best friend. Killed him to be with him. Despite this overload of information, only one question comes to you. 

“Where did you bury him?”

5 PM

You let out a loud grunt, sweat pouring down your back as you bring the sledgehammer into the brick wall. There’s a loud crack and you pause, taking a step back. A moment later a brick slips out of its place. It doesn’t take much longer for the others to follow. 

There’s a loud crash as it all comes tumbling down, decades of dust and debris float into the air. It drifts down your nose and creeps into your lungs. You drop the sledgehammer to the cement of the basement with a clatter. You kneel over, waving the dust away and trying to cough it out. 

Something rolls against the floor, something hollow that clatters against your shoe. You glance down, stunned into silence as a gaping skull stares back up at you. You stumble away from it, nearly kicking it back, and trip right into the warm chest of your husband. 

Bucky stares down at you, his face blank and devoid of anything you might be able to read. “You talked to Bette?”

You nod mutely, taking a step back from him. You wince as your heel comes down on something that cracks under your weight. You try to look down, to see what bone you’ve just broken, but he stops you. He grabs your chin, tilting your face towards him and forcing you to meet his eyes. “What are you going to do?” He demands, he tries to sound strong, but you can hear the fear that trembles under the cool tone. 

Rest In Peace

Husband, Brother, Friend

James Buchanan Barnes

“It’s a bit morbid isn’t it?” You peer up at him and shake your head. 

“No, he deserves a proper burial.” You place the flowers on top of the fresh grave and stand. You take a few steps back and Bucky pulls you into his chest. “You, I mean. I just feel like your memory deserves its rightful resting place.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and you squeeze his hand. “You think Steve’s in here somewhere?”

You scoff and feel yourself growing angry on his behalf. “He deserves to rot under a bridge somewhere, along with that bitch.”

Bucky laughs pulling back from you and giving you a wide smile. It’s genuine, the first genuine smile you’ve seen on his face in a long time. “Thank you,” he mutters. You shrug, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m your wife, I’m supposed to have your back.” You reach up, pushing a wave back behind his ear. He’s finally let his hair grow out again. He complains it gets in his eyes when he tries to garden, but you love how it looks on him so he keeps it. 

His face lights up, the same way it always does when you say you’re his wife. You interlace your fingers together, pulling him away from his grave and back towards the car. You’re supposed to meet Mrs. Barnes soon, you’re having Thanksgiving dinner at your house tomorrow so the whole family can finally see it. 

Since the discovery of Bucky’s bones and the literal skeleton in the house's closet, you’ve kept family members away from you both for a while. It was a long adjustment period, getting used to the truth and each other. Accepting the fact that James was gone for good wasn’t as hard a pill to swallow as it should have been.  

You have a theory that you both were meant to be with each other, either in the forties or today. Something got messed up in the universe’s timeline and instead, you got James and he got Bette. This paranormal experience must have just been fate’s way of cleaning up what it had ruined so horribly. 

You look up at Bucky, the way his eyes crinkle even when he’s not smiling, and feel something warm spreading through your chest. You don't mind the cold fingers and chilling touch at night when it’s him you’re sharing it with. 

You place the turkey down in front of Bucky and he sends you a blissful smile. You can’t help but lean over the back of his chair and plant a loud kiss on his cheek. Janey gags, tossing a roll at her older brother. “Quit it, would you, I’d like to have an appetite.”

You chuckle, taking your seat beside him. Bucky can’t help but want to cry. This is what he’s wanted for so long. His family back, the woman he loves to love him back. It’s what he begged for. The loss of it all had turned him into this bitter, malevolent spirit. 

As much as he’d like to say he regrets or feels guilt for what he did to Bette, Steve, Martha, and James, he can’t. He tormented Steve until he died of a terror-induced heart attack at fifty. He’d driven poor Bette into the nursing home where her children would let her rot for the rest of her miserable life. Martha won’t be heard from again. 

And James, poor James. He must have had the worst fate of them all. It’s been a while since he’s heard anything from James. He searches for him now, his tiny presence lingering somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Bucky takes your hand, looks at his sisters and mother, and smiles at them. He raises his glass for a toast, slapping at James until he’s forced out of his slumber. Look, he thinks, speaking of all he’s grateful for to you and the other women. They know, he feels James looking through his eyes. 

He sees the way his family smiles at Bucky, and how much happier they look with him. They know, he tells James, they know I’m not you. James pounds futilely against Bucky’s walls. He screams and sobs, begging for you to help him. 

They don’t want you, James. They know that the world is better without you. He lets James linger in his misery, he savors his despair, lets it energize him, and then tosses him back to the abyss. James goes quietly, he gave up fighting a while ago. 

It wouldn’t matter anyway. His brief period of rebellion has fed Bucky enough to keep him subdued for the rest of his life. You squeeze his hand, “I love you,” you whisper, passing him the sweet potatoes. 

He smiles back at you and repeats the same words he’s already said a hundred times to you. This is at it always should have been. Steve, Bette, and James were all stepping stones to get him to you. He wasn’t going to let you go now. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Marvel (Winter Soldier), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

40s bucky headcanons (lwky kinda suggestive)

40s!bucky who begs for you too send spicy polaroids with your mail when he’s away

40s!bucky who obviously sends ones of him back

40s!bucky who in his time in london got ridiculed for being so protective of his letters

40s!bucky who the second steve snatched one away from him and ripped it he yelled

40s!bucky who carefully went through photo surgery with tape

40s!bucky whose mail got lost and opened and then reported

40s!bucky who got called into his base commander’s office for outer personal misconduct

40s!bucky who could care less

I DONT ALLOW MY WORK TO BE TRANSLATED REPOSTED OR PLAGIARIZED WITHOUT CREDIT OR PERMISSION

Hello! I'm pretty new to writing fics on here I've only got two so far a Luke Patterson x Reader and a Peter Parker x Reader (Link to my masterlist in my bio)

But I would love some requests if that isn't too much to ask love you all!!

P.S. At this point in time I won't be writing anything that isn't an x reader I'll update if I decide to change that. I am willing to write a lot of different things so feel free to req for any show, game, celebrity, ect.

P.P.S I write smut but only for characters/ people 18+ Thank you 😁