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barnesdreamcatcher

I don’t know why I bite

bucky barnes x f!reader

summary: after weeks of begging, bucky finally gives in and lets you sleep over. it’s nothing like you imagined.

cw: angst, discussions of nightmares and ptsd symptoms, canon typical violence, established relationship

wc: 2.2k

a/n: i’m so sick at the moment but at least i get to stay home and write instead of going to uni :) mitski, save me!!!

now playing: I Bet on Losing Dogs – Mitski

Bucky sits on the bed when you emerge from the bathroom. His dark blue shirt stretches across his back, tightening with every inhale. He is facing away from you, head tilted down. He doesn’t acknowledge your arrival but you know he hears you. He always does.

gottareadthosefics2

I keep seeing more smut in angst tags than angst! I need to cry not cum!

assetunclassified

Where's the trauma? The tragic deaths? The heartbreak? And why is everyone naked?

Tears

Summary: In the chaos of the repurposed Avengers Tower, a disaster team of reformed villains builds a strange kind of home. Amid the bickering, broken furniture, and glitter bombs, one hopelessly dramatic tech genius keeps falling harder for Bucky Barnes, who meets every flirtation with maddening calm and the occasional smirk.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: language, mild innuendo, chaos, secondhand embarrassment, emotional vulnerability disguised as humor, found family shenanigans.

AN: This started as pure chaos and somehow turned into a slow-burn love letter to found family, bad coping mechanisms, and Bucky Barnes’ forearms. I wanted it to feel like a sitcom with feelings—equal parts laughter, yearning, and glitter explosions. Thank you for reading, screaming, and enabling my nonsense.

The thing about moving into someone else’s house is you can feel the ghosts. Not the spooky kind—though, with your luck, that’s probably next—but the kind that linger in steel and glass, in buildings that used to belong to gods.

Avengers Tower. Well… The Watchtower now. Outside it still sneers at Manhattan, polished enough to make you feel underdressed. Inside? A slip hazard, thanks to Yelena’s dog. (Pets are good for team morale. She'd said. She was right. Morale up - hygiene down) The piano’s a snack shelf, the staircase a laundry rack. Once cold and corporate, now it’s yours—coffee stains and all.

The Mission Room still fakes you out with glowing tables and perfect views, like Stark might stroll in with a quip. Then the doors slide open and reality smacks you: broken bots turned coat racks, Sharpie mustaches, sticky notes about Sokovia.

In the lounge, John’s mid-tantrum about Mario Kart while Ghost obliterates him. You sit cross-legged, controller in one hand, soldering iron in the other. Pizza box teetering, Bucky looming.

“This is a briefing space,” he growls. “Relax, honey. We're team-building.” He mutters something in Russian. Probably "note to self - hire cleaner". Hot.

Bob reads in the corner, calm but coiled. Yelena throws knives at a priceless painting, and honestly? Looks better this way.

The kitchen’s worse: sticky counters, fridge plastered with death-threat notes about yogurt and vodka. Alexei, the Alcoholic Guardian, raises a crystal glass: “Feels like home, doesn’t it?”

Behind him, the espresso machine sputters and spits. Someone’s taped a warning to it: Don’t piss her off.

Val left you the Watchtower. You trashed it in record time.

You're about to raid the fridge when you freeze.

Because there he is.

James Buchanan Barnes, ex-Winter Soldier, ex-Avenger, current professional brooder… sleeves rolled up, standing at the sink. Washing dishes. Soap suds on his forearms. Water dripping down veins and tendons and Wakandan vibranium.

Your knees actually buckle. You slap a hand to the counter for support, gasping like a Victorian widow. "He's doing chores," you whisper hoarsely. "With his hands. Oh God."

Bucky glances over, frowning, like you're the crazy one here. Which, to be fair, maybe.

"Don't stop on my account," you add, staggering a little for emphasis. "This is… this is better than cable. I feel faint."

Something bounces off your head. You look down: popcorn. Courtesy of Yelena, perched on the counter with her snack bowl and a smirk. "You're pathetic," she says around a mouthful.

"Passionate," you correct, clutching your heart.

Ava doesn't even look up from dismantling a toaster. "Kill me," she mutters.

Bob, bless him, actually chuckles softly from the corner, voice warm. "You do realize he's just… doing the dishes, right?"

"Just?" you gasp, affronted. "That's foreplay, Bobby."

Bucky sighs like he's aged another decade in thirty seconds. But his mouth twitches—just a little, like he's fighting not to smile.

And that's how you know you've won.

The coffee table broke. No one saw it happen, but given the suspiciously guilty look on Alexei’s face and the fact that he’s currently holding a hammer and a half-eaten Pop-Tart, you have your prime suspect.

IKEA it is.

The day the furniture arrives, John practically puffs his chest out of his uniform. “I got this,” he announces, ripping the first box open like it personally insulted the flag. “Don’t need instructions. Just good old American grit.”

“Ten bucks says he cries within the hour,” you mutter, flopping onto the couch.

Thirty minutes later, he’s knee-deep in planks and screws, face red, screaming that IKEA is “a Hydra front designed to destabilize democracy.” Yelena’s recording him. Ava’s shaking her head like the universe has personally offended her.

And then there’s Bucky. Silent. Calm. He takes over. Rolling up his sleeves and assembling with surgical precision. Slotting wooden pegs like he’s disarming a bomb. Every movement efficient, deliberate, maddeningly controlled.

You can’t help yourself. “Oh my god,” you breathe, clutching the back of the couch. “The way those forearms guide those little wooden pegs… the focus in his eyes as he aligns the dowels… it’s too much. I can’t—”

Yelena snorts. Ava mutters “unbelievable.” Bob’s actually smiling, which for him is practically a parade.

You press the back of your hand to your forehead, swooning. “This isn’t home improvement. This is pornography.”

A screwdriver sails past your head and clatters against the wall. Walker, predictably. “Shut up!”

You grin, stretching like a cat. “Some people can’t handle greatness when they see it.”

Bucky doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even smirk. But you swear you catch the corner of his mouth twitching again.

Later, when the noise dies down and Walker’s still sulking over the “Hydra table,” you find yourself in the quieter corner of the lounge. Bob’s there, as always, half-shadow, half-sunlight. He’s reading, or pretending to, but you know he notices every shift in the room.

You plop down beside him, stealing a handful of whatever snack he’s got within reach. “Don’t give me that look. You’re a sharer, Bobby.”

He hums, soft, indulgent, like he’s too kind to argue. For a while, the silence is companionable. Then he stares and it gets heavy. Too heavy. And before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“I’m actually into him, you know,” you say, staring at the ceiling like it might swallow you whole. “Barnes. All the ridiculous swooning, the jokes, the… this is pornography nonsense.” You wince, rubbing the back of your neck. “It’s real. I just—can’t seem to stop making it a joke. Because if I don’t laugh, it’ll sound… too much.”

Bob closes his book gently. His voice is low, steady. “You’re allowed to want something without making it smaller.”

You blink at him. He shrugs, eyes kind but shadowed.

The room goes quiet again, the weight of his words settling between you. For once, you don’t have a quip ready. You just nudge his arm with your shoulder, gently.

“Guess that’s why you’re the only one I don’t put on a show for,” you murmur.

Bob smiles, faint but real. “I don’t need one.”

The training room was supposed to be serious business. Mats lined up, weights racked, punching dummies waiting patiently for abuse. The perfect arena for discipline, teamwork, precision.

Naturally, you decided to test out your latest invention instead.

“Sticky smoke bombs,” you announce, tossing one in your hand like a baseball. “Compact, portable, doubles as a grappling claw if you tug the ring just right. Patent pending, don’t steal my idea.”

Walker crosses his arms, already annoyed. “Last time you brought a ‘gadget,’ I couldn’t get the glitter out of my hair for a week.”

“Exactly,” you shoot back. “A tactical success. No one expects a disco ambush.”

Before anyone can stop you, you yank the ring and toss. There’s a sharp pop—and suddenly Walker is shrieking, flailing, and then dangling three feet from the ceiling, cocooned in a gooey web of sticky smoke that hardened on contact.

The room goes silent. Then Yelena bursts out laughing so hard she falls off the bench. Ava mutters “worth it” without even looking up from stretching.

Walker roars, thrashing like an angry piñata. “Get me down from here! This is a violation of the Geneva Conventions!”

And then—Bucky. Deadpan, arms crossed, looking every inch the long-suffering dad of this disaster daycare. “You’re banned from inventing.” He strides forward, grabs a utility knife, and in about three motions, slices Walker free without even breaking a sweat. Efficient. Calm. Infuriatingly attractive.

You clasp your hands together, eyes wide. “Look at him. Cool under pressure. Handy with a blade. You can tie me up next, soldier. Or untie me. Whatever floats your boat.”

Everyone groans in unison.

“Disgusting,” Ava says flatly.

“Secondhand embarrassment,” Yelena adds, still giggling.

Walker, half-glued and furious, actually throws a dumbbell at you. Misses.

You just sigh, dramatically flopping back on the mat. “No appreciation for art in this family.”

But when Bucky shakes his head—just barely, fighting a smile—you know you’ve won. Again.

You fire off the dumbest meme you can find — a raccoon holding a baguette with the caption Bucky and his emotional support carbs.

Normally, he leaves you on read. Sometimes, if he’s feeling generous, you get the blessed thumbs-up emoji. But today? Today, your phone buzzes.

Bucky: Funny.

With a period. A full stop. Proper punctuation.

Your eyes widen. You let out a noise somewhere between a shriek and a dying kettle, then collapse to your knees in the middle of the lounge, clutching your phone to your chest.

“HE USED A PERIOD!” you cry, staring at the ceiling like it just delivered divine revelation. “He’s so responsible!”

The room erupts. Yelena doesn’t even look up from painting her nails. “You need therapy.”

Alexei beams like a proud dad, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Good man! Strong punctuation. Very commanding.”

Walker, who’s been losing at Mario Kart again, slams his controller down. “That’s it. I’m burning the WiFi. This has gone too far.”

Bucky, bless his stoic little heart, just sits there with his coffee. Unbothered. Almost smug, if you squint. Like he knew one-word text would send you spiraling.

You flop dramatically onto the couch, groaning into the cushions. “I can’t take this level of foreplay. It’s lethal.”

Bob chuckles quietly from the corner, and you swear you see Bucky’s mouth twitch. Just a little. Enough to keep you screaming into your pillow for the next week.

You nearly crash into him outside the laundry closet because fate, once again, has a sense of humor.

It’s late. The tower’s quiet for once—no Mario Kart tantrums, no knife-throwing competitions, no Walker screaming about Hydra in Swedish furniture form. Just the hush of night and the hum of expensive air-conditioning. You’re carrying an armful of laundry that you 100% stole from the communal basket (dibs on the softest hoodie, sue you), and then—boom. Shoulder to chest. Vibranium wall.

Bucky Barnes. Duffel slung lazy over one arm. Neutral face engaged, like he’s about to board a military transport instead of, y’know, walk past the dryer.

You open your mouth. A joke is already loaded in the chamber, some nonsense about him haunting hallways like a broody janitor. But it dies in your throat because he’s looking at you. Not past you. Not through you. At you.

“Hey,” you say instead. Small. Unarmed. Honest. “Thanks for… earlier. The, uh, text.”

He pauses. Long enough for your brain to panic-sprint through seventeen increasingly humiliating follow-ups. (Option A: Finger guns. Option B: Fake faint. Option C: Just perish here on the spot.)

Then the corner of his mouth twitches—ghost of a smile, half-there, half-hidden. “Careful,” he says, voice low, roughened. “Keep swooning like that, people might think you actually like me.”

You freeze. It’s like the floor tilts, like somebody just yanked the fire alarm in your ribcage. Your lungs forget the part where they’re supposed to breathe.

Reasonable Response Protocol would be: smile, roll your eyes, retreat with dignity intact. But you are not reasonable. Dignity is not in your vocabulary.

“DON’T PLAY WITH ME LIKE THIS, BARNES!” you blurt. Which is not a sentence so much as a theatrical monologue performed at maximum volume. You clutch your laundry basket like it’s a fainting couch. You’re about two seconds from declaring him your sworn enemy and/or husband.

And then—he laughs. Quiet, almost to himself, like the sound surprised him on the way out. Not mocking. Not sharp. Just warm. The tiniest shift in his whole weather system.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. Affection threaded through the syllables, subtle but solid. More gift than insult. And then he keeps walking, steps steady, unhurried. Like he didn’t just detonate your central nervous system.

You stand there in the hallway, making noises that can only be described as “seal at a rock concert.” Your laundry slides to the floor. You stare after him, hoping, praying for a glance back over the shoulder. He doesn’t give it. Which is somehow worse. And better.

By the time Bob rounds the corner, holding a watering can like the Watchtower’s resident oracle, you’ve gone full statue—hands in hair, eyes to the ceiling, muttering incantations against fate.

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. He just looks at you, pity and amusement perfectly blended, and says softly, “You’re doomed.”

You grin anyway, manic and bright, because doom looks good on you.

The mats squeak under your sneakers. Everyone's paired up for sparring, and somehow you drew the short straw: Barnes.

"Don't hold back," you warn, cracking your knuckles. "I've invented a new combat style. Think… interpretive dance meets guerilla tactics."

Across from you, Bucky raises an eyebrow like you just announced you were going to fight crime using jazz hands. Which, technically, you are.

You launch. A sharp feint left, pivot into a hook kick aimed high. He blocks, but it pushes him back a half step. His eyes narrow—just slightly.

You press. A flurry of strikes, fists snapping like gunfire, each one aimed with precision. Your knee drives up for his ribs; your elbow slices toward his jaw. You're not flailing. You're hunting.

Yelena whistles from the sidelines. "Finally, she stopped embarrassing herself."

Bucky absorbs the hits, redirects, parries. He doesn't underestimate you—not now. His counter is fast: a sweep at your legs. You leap it, land in tight stance, fire a jab that clips his shoulder.

For half a second, his expression shifts. Not surprise. More like respect.

Then it's over. He pivots, impossibly quick, and the world flips. Your back slams the mat, breath punched out in one hot rush. Vibranium pins you, cold and immovable, braced by your head.

You glare up at him,, lungs burning. "Unfair. I had you."

His voice drops low, almost amused, almost lethal. "Thought you liked foreplay."

The gym tilts. Heat spikes in your blood. Every nerve screams at once.

You short-circuit. A strangled squeak bursts out, followed by frantic flailing. "Weaponizing innuendo is against the Geneva Convention!"

Yelena falls off the bench, laughing so hard she cries. Walker storms out muttering about professionalism.

Bucky pushes himself up, calm as ever, offering you a hand. Completely unbothered. Except—except—he's smirking. The game has begun.

You're locked in a life-or-death battle with a jar of pickles. Sweat beads your forehead. You try the rubber grip, the dish towel trick, even banging it on the counter like an ape. Nothing.

Then, without a word, a metal hand materializes over your shoulder. Pop. The lid twists off like it needed nothing more than a polite suggestion.

You spin. Bucky's there, casual as ever, sliding the jar back towards you like it hadn't just humbled your entire bloodline.

He glances at you, voice low and flat, like he's not even trying. "Don't pass out on me. It's just a jar."

Your lungs forget how to work. You stagger back dramatically, clutching your chest. "Just a jar? Sir, that was a boss-level mini-boss encounter and you know it!"

Alexei claps from the table like you're on stage at the Bolshoi. Walker storms in just in time to see your collapse and mutters , "God I hate both of you."

Bucky? Already rinsing out his raccoon coffee mug. Like he didn't just detonate your entire nervous system.

You're mid-pitch in the Mission Room, laser pointer in one hand, notebook of doodles in the other. Your diagrams are questionable—mostly stick figures and arrows labeled boom.

"This," you announce proudly, "is my latest invention: the Sticky Net 3000. It immobilizes enemies in mere seconds, doubles as a hammock in emergencies, and triples as—"

"—a lawsuit," Walker interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Before you can retort, Bucky cuts in, monotone, not even looking up from his notes. "If this one explodes glitter again, I'm moving out."

The room groans in unison.

You fling a hand over your heart. "That was ONE time. And technically, glitter is a form of psychological warfare."

He doesn't even blink. "And no, you can't move in with me."

Yelena's recording you. Ava mutters "unbelievable." Bob actually hides a chuckle behind his book.

Bucky? Still flipping through mission notes.

The lounge is dark except fr the glow of the TV. Everyone's sprawled across couches and beanbags, pizza crusts littering the coffee table. Tonight's selection: a rom-com.

You're heckling it mercilessly. "Please. No one pines this much in real life. Slow-burn longing? Unrealistic. Grow up."

Popcorn rains down on your head. Courtesy of Yelena.

And then—Bucky leans over. Close enough that his voice is a low hum against your ear. "Sounds familiar."

You freeze mid-chew. Popcorn halfway to your mouth.

The you explode. "TREASON!" you shriek, hurling he entire bowl of popcorn at him. It bounces harmlessly off his chest and scatters across the couch.

He doesn't even dodge. Just sits there with kernels in his hair, smirking like a cat who just knocked over your favorite mug.

The room dissolves into chaos. Walker yells about cleaning. Ava groans like she's ages a century. Yelena wheezes, recording every second.

And you? You're screaming into a throw pillow because Barnes is evil and smug and perfect and it's actually unfair.

The Watchtower roof is your spot. Not officially, but you've staked your claim—midnight coffee, soldering half-broken gadgets, staring out at Manhattan pretending you're brooding when really you're just avoiding laundry duty.

Tonight's quiet. The city hums below, neon bleeding into the river. You're cross-legged on the ledge with a half-finished contraption sparking in your lap when the door creaks open.

Of course it's him.

Bucky steps out, hoodie pulled low. He doesn't say anything, just scans the skyline like he's counting ghosts. Then he crosses over, drops down beside you with the kind of grace that makes the ledge look like it was built for two.

You glance at him, then at your gadget, then back. "Careful. I might explode."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he says, tone perfectly dry.

You stick your tongue out at him, childish and immediate, because that's what you do when you're out of comebacks. He just shakes his head. For a while, the silence stretches. Comfortable. Almost too comfortable.

Then—he tilts his head, studying you. Not the gadget. Not the skyline. You.

"You ever get tired?" he asks quietly.

You blink. "Of what?"

He shrugs, eyes still on you. "Of pretending everything's a joke."

It hits harder than you want it to. You laugh—automatic, sharp—but it falls flat. "Nah. Keeps me sane."

He doesn't buy it. You can see it in the set of his mouth, the way his jaw flexes. Then, without warning, he leans closer. Not a lot. Just enough that you can count the flecks of gray in his stubble, smell the soap-clean smell of his hoodie.

"Thing is," he says softly, "you don't need the act. Not with me."

Your chest does that stupid flip thing again, heat rushing up your neck. Words scramble in your head—deflect, deflect, deflect—but nothing makes it out.

Then, impossibly, he makes it even worse. "But well…" he adds, voice low. "I guess I like you ridiculous. Can't imagine what I'd do if you got serious."

You make a sound. It's not human. Somewhere between a kettle shriek and a squeaky toy.

Bucky leans back, satisfied, turning his gaze t the skyline again.

You sit there, wide-eyed, gripping your gadget so hard it eventually snaps in half. The city keeps humming. The night keeps moving. And you—you're doomed. Absolutely doomed.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #crack #fluff #winter soldier #bucky fanfic #thunderbolts fanfiction #tower fic

Ch. 2 - Subtle as a metal arm to the face

Summary: Metal arm, brooding stare, and zero flirting skills. Thankfully, The Last Straw has a bartender that's more than ready to take on this challenge.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: idiots-to-lovers, swearing

Wordcount: 2100+

AN: Steve makes an appearance because I refuse to believe he'd ever leave his "best friend", no matter what Marvel says. This is part 2 of a series.

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 (coming soon to a computer screen near you)

The next night, you're already polishing glasses when Bucky walks in. Sure you might have meant it as a bit of a joke, but you'd do anything to help a friend. Even cosplay as Dr. Phil.

He's early - which already shows you how nervous he is. He slides onto his usual stool, looking like a man reporting for jury duty. Metal taps against marble, too steady to be casual.

You almost tease him for it—almost. But there's something in the tap, tap, tap that makes you bite the joke back. You set a beer down in front of him, instead. Give him something to hold onto.

"Lesson one," you say, pointing a finger. "Confidence."

He raises a brow before taking a slow sip. His cheeks push up into his crow's feet as he smirks. "I was confident enough to show up, wasn't I?"

"Congrats," you deadpan. "Step one of confidence is not hiding in your apartment with a Netflix queue full of war documentaries and Mamma Mia 2 - don't ask how I know."

A quiet laugh rumbles out of him. "Harsh."

"True." You lean forward, lowering your voice like you're sharing state secrets. God, you're glad Sam hadn't decided to join today, he would've laughed you into next week.

"Here's the deal, Buck. Confidence isn't about being loud or smooth. It's about acting like you belong. Even if you don't. Fake it till you make it."

He stares at you like you've just told him gravity was optional.

Belonging was a language he'd forgotten how to speak. Not in Brooklyn. Not in Wakanda with its endless kindness he didn't think he deserved. Definitely not in the Avengers tower with its shiny walls and louder-than-life heroes. Everywhere he went he was a guest—tolerated, useful, but never home.

And here you are, ridiculous towel over your shoulder, telling him to straighten his back. Like it was easy. Like he could just shrug centuries of exile off and decide to stay.

"Act like I belong?"

"Exactly. Shoulders back. Eye contact. None of this broody 'I'm a gargoyle perched on a cathedral' posture." You poke his arm. "Though I do find it charming, most ladies don't go for it. Loosen up. Smile. People like smiles."

So of course, he bares all 32 teeth like he's auditioning for Colgate.

"You look like you're at the dentist. Relax, I'm not checking for cavities." The joke comes out automatically, but there's a tug in your chest and a soft smile pulling at your lips. For all the war stories hanging off his shoulders, here he was—trying too hard just to impress you.

Not you. The ladies. Impress the ladies.

You move around the bar to stand in front of him, and fold your arms. "Okay. Pretend you're meeting someone new. Me. Go."

He exhales, looking at you to see if you're not pulling on his leg, then shifts his shoulders back and meets yours eyes. "Hi, I'm Bucky."

You tilt your head, pretending to appraise him. "Better. Slightly less serial killer."

A tiny smile pulls at his mouth. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"A little." You wink. "But you're doing better than you think."

He looks down, embarrassed, pleased despite himself. "So, what's next?"

You grin, already planning. "Lesson two. But first we get you through lesson one without looking like you're about to fight a Hydra cell. Deal?"

A low chuckle again. Warm. Real. "Deal."

FLASHBACK

It'd been a mellow night—jukebox low, glasses clinking, chatter rolling easy—until CRACK, chair leg snapping, testosterone spilling across the room. Two whiskey-filled idiots squared up, one already grabbing the other's collar.

"Great…' you muttered. "Last call for common sense."

You were already moving to step out from behind the bar, your handy bat—Sebatstian—already in your five fingered choke when a shadow slid past you.

Bucky.

No rush. Just calm, deliberate steps across the floor, enough to raise the hair on the back of your neck. Confident.

"Oh no, Dad's home." God, you hoped you didn't have to scrape guts off your expensive marble tables at the end of the night.

"Alright, fellas," his voice carried like gravel wrapped in velvet. Clearly in his element. "Fun's over."

One of the men sneered. "Who the hell are you?"

Bucky's hand closed gently but firmly around the man's wrist, peeling it off like it was a LEGO brick. No squeeze, no threat - just metal-arm authority. "Someone who doesn't want to mop blood off the floor tonight." Was he reading your mind?

The second guy—he looked like a Chandler, probably was a Chandler—took one look at the glint of metal under Bucky's sleeve and decided sitting back down was a good idea. Smart Chandler.

The first guy opened his mouth, then made eye contact with Bucky's "I've survived three wars and your attitude isn't one of them" stare. Closed his mouth real quick.

Bucky let go of the wrist and stepped back just enough to give them space to make the right decision. "Take it outside, or better yet - home."

They both grumbled but shuffled toward the door, one muttering something about "crazy ass vets" under his breath.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding as Bucky returned to his seat. "Thanks." you said, sliding a fresh rag over the counter. "I was about two seconds away from introducing them to Sebatstian."

He shrugged, taking a swig of his beer like nothing had happened. "Figured I'd save you the trouble."

You smirked. "Avenger by day, bouncer by night. Do I need to put you on payroll?"

"Can't afford me." Beat. "Wait… who's Sebastian?"

FLASHBACK END

Chandler is back again tonight, drunk and waving form his booth. Bucky waves back with the faintest roll of his eyes.

He supposes he'd let the fucker hang around because he reminded him of Steve - if Steve had self-preservation, sarcasm and a fondness for whiskey. Basically Steve 2.0: fewer death wishes, more hangovers.

No fights, no drama this time around. Just you guys in your usual orbit; you flitting around, making tips like it was nobody's business, him pretending his beer was more interesting than you.

The bell above the door jingles. Speak of the devil.

Bucky nearly chokes on his drink. "Steve?!"

Steve slides onto the stool like he owned it. "Sam told me I'd find you hiding here."

Bucky mutters something into his bottle. "Not hiding. Just… sitting."

Steve's grin is infuriatingly knowing. He turns to you. "You must be the famous Y/N."

"I plead the fifth." You toss your towel in the air, grinning. But your eyes flick to Bucky when he stiffens. Something almost makes you ask—but you swallow the question. Not your place. Not yet.

"Beer okay?" you ask. "Or should I grab you a slice of apple pie and a side of freedom?"

Bucky groans. "Don't encourage him."

"Beer's fine," Steve laughs. "I'm off-duty."

He takes a sip, letting his eyes wander around the bar. Great… he's staying. "I gotta say, Buck, this is nicer than I expected. And here I thought you only left your apartment for missions and court dates."

"Thanks, pal."

You grin. "He's actually been pretty good company. Less brooding than advertised. We're working on his social skills."

Steve's eyes light up. "Oh, this I gotta see."

Bucky slumps a little lower in his seat. "She's giving me lessons. Lesson one: confidence."

Steve bites back a laugh. "Perfect. She's got more guts than half the Howlies."

You raise your bottle. "Flattery won't get you free drinks, Rogers."

For a second, with Steve on one side and you in front of him, Bucky feels something he hasn't in years. Not exile. Not war. Just… normal.

"Don't worry, Buck," Steve nudges. "We'll get you back in the game."

"I'm right here," Bucky mutters, tightening his grip on the bottle.

"Yeah," you say with a grin, "and tomorrow's lesson two."

FLASHBACK

The door banged open hard enough to rattle the glassware. Bucky winced, looking up at you, looking like you were just about ready to yell at whatever drunk had wandered in after hours - then stopped.

Because it was him. And he knew he looked tired. And he was bleeding.

Hair still wet, much like his tactical gear. He knew he looked like he'd walked out of the Potomac and into your bar. Smelling of wet dog. His left arm had a mind of it's own, hanging limply by his side. Whirring pitifully. A streak of dried blood ran just below his collarbone.

"Jesus, Buck. You're bleeding." Your voice caught him off-guard. The worry gripping at your vocal chords, making you quiet, pulling him out of the fog.

"It's nothing. Just… a scratch," he shut the door behind him, eyes swept the bar like he expected enemies. Old habits die hard.

"A scratch? You look like you wrestled a jet-ski."

He huffed out a humorless laugh. "Close enough."

You guided him to his usual stool, hands already moving, and he let you. Up close, you smelled like the bar - warm, faintly sweet, a little sharp.

His metal fingers twitched as he tried to shrug out of his jacket without making a mess.

"Sit" Your ton brooked no argument. "Let me see."

For a moment, he closed his eyes. Too quiet at home. Too empty. But here—the hum of the radiator, the warmth of your hands—it made sense.

You peeled back his shirt, revealing the shallow gash along his ribs. He hissed.

"This'll need stitches. Lucky for you, I know how to patch idiots up." Your hands linger longer than they should.

"Guess I'm in the right place, then," he tried to smile, winced.

You dabbed at the wound, softer than he expected. "Are you planning on showing up half-dead more often from now on?"

He caught your glance, saw the little flicker of concern behind your usual teasing. He let you work, letting the quiet of the bar soak into him. Not pushing it away. Days in Siberia felt like a lifetime ago. Now, here, your hands and the warmth of the place felt like something he hadn't realized he'd been craving.

You finished and handed him a glass. "Here. On the house."

He raised it. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," you said, leaning on the counter. "Next time you come in, make it without the blood, okay?"

His mouth twitched faintly, letting himself feel something like relief. "No promises."

For the first time in a long while, breathing didn't feel like a battle.

FLASHBACK END

Steve leans back, eyes flicking between Bucky - who is scratching at that scar on his ribs he'd gotten way back when - and you. "So…" he begins, voice slow and deliberately casual, "you've been spending a lot of time here."

Bucky freezes mid-sip. "I… uh… it's just a bar. Good drinks, decent music."

"And the bartender?"

The word hit harder than it should have. Not your name, not even your smile—just the label, bartender, as if that's all you were to him. He told himself it didn't sting.

"What? No. That's… just-"

"Relax, Buck," Steve chuckled. "I'm just saying, you seem… unusually enthusiastic."

Bucky's jaws tightens. "That's a stretch."

You, blissfully unaware of the undercurrent, raise a brow. "You guys done plotting, or just admiring the ambiance?"

"Ambiance," Steve grins. "Definitely ambiance."

Bucky gives a sharp exhale through his nose, bottle tapping once against the counter. "Yeah. Ambiance." A sip of his beer.

Steve leans in. "It's fine if you like her. She's sweet. Bit of a sharp tongue, but— " he smirks, "—she's pretty. A guy notices these things."

Bucky nearly hisses, "I notice the drinks." His grip on the glass is a shade too tight.

And then you laugh, still completely oblivious, brighter than the jukebox behind you. "Glad you approve. Want me to make you something special?"

Bucky glances at Steve, who looks seconds from exploding with laughter. "…Yeah. Something special."

Steve shakes his head, grin tugging. "Confidence is good, Buck. But subtlety's an art."

Bucky doesn't answer. His eyes follow you instead—the quiet grace in every pour, every flick of your wrist. The way light catches in your hair, the faint curl of your smile. It stole the air right out of his chest.

"Subtlety," he mutters, low. "Went out the window a long time ago."

You slide the drink towards him with that small, devastating smile. "Special. Just like you asked."

He takes it, pulse unsteady.

Steve raises his bottle. "See? As subtle as a metal arm to the face."

Bucky shoots him a look, but a reluctant smirk tugs at his lips. Maybe Steve has a point. Maybe he is too obvious.

Lesson 1: confidence and subtlety. He doubts he'll ever master either—but with you across the bar… maybe the point wasn't mastery at all. Maybe it's just having a reason to try.

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 (coming soon to a computer screen near you)

Taglist: @kazbrekkertreasureofmyheart

#bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #winter soldier #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #fluff #crack #steve rogers is subtle

Ch. 1 - Super soldier walks into a bar

Summary: Metal arm, brooding stare, and zero flirting skills. Thankfully, The Last Straw has a bartender that's more than ready to take on this challenge.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: idiots-to-lovers, swearing

Wordcount: 2700+

AN: Back again with a new obsession. This is going to be multiple chapters, hope you're ready.

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 (coming soon to a computer screen near you)

Bucky found it by accident - one of those nights when sleep refused to come quietly. The kind of night when the memories clawed their way out from the dark corners of his mind and made everything feel too close, too loud, too real. He'd thrown off the covers sometime after midnight, the walls of his apartment pressing in like they were conspiring to trap him.

So he did the only thing that ever seemed to help, even a little. He walked.

The city was quiet, for once. Just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of neon signs reflecting off wet pavement. The cool air bit at his skin, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Walks were supposed to help, or at least that's what his shrink kept insisting - get out, get moving, shift the focus. He wasn't sure if it actually worked.

He didn't know how deep into Brooklyn's side-streets he ventured when he noticed it. Tucked away between a shuttered bookstore and a boarded-up laundromat was a narrow doorway, half-hidden in shadow. Above it hung an old wooden sign, the paint chipped and weathered from years of rain and neglect. It swayed slightly in the breeze, creaking on rusted chains.

The lettering was simple, almost too plain to notice unless you were looking for something - anything.

THE LAST STRAW

He doesn't know what possesses him to step inside. Maybe it's the rain, steady and cold and pouring harder and harder against the back of his neck. Or maybe it's the quiet pull of memory - something about the glow from the windows, the soft hum of something that isn't a club beat or a pulsing bassline. He hasn't set foot in a place like this since the forties. Bars these days never felt right - too loud, too dark, all neon signs and playlists that grated on his nerves no matter how hard he tried to get used to them.

But this place? This place is different. And it hits him the second he walks through the door.

It's warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. The booths are deep and plush, like they were made for sinking into and forgetting the outside world. The lighting is soft, golden - more like candlelight than bulbs - and someone's strung up Christmas lights that are still blinking, even though it's the middle of July. It shouldn't work, but somehow does. Somehow it feels like… comfort.

For the first time in days, he's not shivering under the weight of his own mind. For the first time in longer than he can remember, grabbing a beer sounds like something he wants to do, not just something to pass the time.

FLASHBACK END

You watch the once-stranger walk in for the fourth time this week - it's Thursday. You smile warmly from where you're polishing the glasses, waving him over to his seat in front of you.

"You're early."

"Figured I'd show up before closing for once."

He looks awkward, slightly, but good. Hair and beard cropped short, a sideways smirk casually pulling at his lips as he takes the seat in front of you. Gone are the dark circles from way back when, and the way he carries himself just feels lighter. He's doing good.

"Brought a friend," he almost mutters, gesturing to the man behind him.

And that's when you notice him, Sam fucking Wilson, in all his glory, in your bar. You wipe your hands on a polka-dotted towel and come around the bar a step, extending a hand.

"Sam fucking Wilson," you say, marveling at the way his smile pulls wider at your greeting, "I've been hearing about you for months."

"All good things, I hope."

You glance over at Bucky, bored look on his face. "Depends who's talking." You're only half joking.

Sam laughs at that, and you're not sure but it looks like Bucky's hiding a small smirk. Unsuccessfully. Your hands feel slightly clammier when you walk back around the bar and ask Sam to pick his poison.

"Dealer's choice," he answers, taking a seat next to Bucky.

"Brave man," a wink thrown in for good measure, "The last guy who said that got two pink umbrellas, three maraschino cherries and enough rum to make him think karaoke was a good idea." You're not entirely sure but you think you see muscle in Bucky's jaw twitch just a little.

Sam winces. "How bad was it?"

"Let's just say the Bee Gees are filing a restraining order."

Your drink of choice for the newly appointed captain is not as chaotic though; finely aged bourbon with a shot of lime juice and sparkling water. Simple and uncomplicated. He smirks after the first sip, pleased with your choice.

You smile. "How come you didn't tell me your friend's actually charming?"

"I like her," it falls off his lips easily enough, and Bucky simply rolls his eyes.

You laugh and their eyes snap back to you as you push Bucky's usual in front of him, "Don't worry, Buck. I still like you best, he just has better manners."

And you weren't kidding. The first time he had stumbled into your bar he was everything but social.

FLASHBACK

You knew who he was the moment he stepped foot inside;

Brooding James Dean meets high-tech assassin kinda vibe. Messy shoulder-length hair that looked like he just walked off a battlefield runway. Metal arm gleaming like liquid steel, catching the light with every subtle movement, giving him that "I'm dangerous, but fashionably so" aura. Throw in that dark, leather jacket that's clearly seen better days (and maybe a few heroic scuffles), stare-sharp icy eyes, and a walk that screams "don't talk to me unless you brought a plan or a shield" and you basically have him.

Bucky Barnes; rugged, deadly, and effortlessly handsome.

Only now he seems so out of sorts. He sits stiffly on the stool, tense, eyes shifting around as if taking note of every entrance and exit. Which he probably is, you recon. His arm lays awkwardly on the bar, a silent reminder that he's more used to combat than conversation.

You almost feel sorry for him, but snap out of it and into action as soon as his fingers nervously start drumming at the marble counter top. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Well, aren't you a long way from the battlefield," you pull out the brightest smile you can muster, watching his ears tint pink.

"I… uh… just wanted a beer," he stutters, looking down at his fingers like they're about to betray him.

"Simple man, just my type."

You slide the bottle in his direction, not missing how he shifts, finally settling, if only slightly.

FLASHBACK END

"Are you turning my bar into a mission control room or something?" you ask, only half joking.

Bucky raises a brow, bottle halting near his lips.

"Just making sure the world doesn't explode while we're having a drink," he deadpans, then takes another sip.

The night rolls on with casual conversation, good music and Sam flirting with one of your regulars only to get shot down with a simple "Sorry, not interested.". You laughed before pouring another round.

"To nurse your broken heart."

"You guys don't get the game," Sam shakes his head, a disappointed look on his face, "That went exactly as planned."

Bucky snorts, muttering a, "Right… it sure did."

Sam downs his drink in one gulp and laughs, before grabbing his jacket with a flourish. "Watch and learn," he says simply, sauntering out with a wave goodbye. To yours and Bucky's surprise, you see the redhead place a few bills on the table before walking out after him.

"Well… I'll be damned." You cross your arms across your chest, eyebrows raised in respect as you lean back.

"Yeah… he left without paying his tab," Bucky grumbles.

FLASHBACK

Bucky slid onto his usual stool, the leather and wood not creaking under his weight anymore, settled. The smell of polished wood and the faint sweetness of tonight's signature cocktail (Honey, I'm tipsy, your creation, Bucky was sure) greeted him like a old friend. A song played in the background, he was pretty sure it was Queen. Outside the city roared on, but inside, everything slowed.

He watched you behind the counter. Stacking glasses and wiping bottles, moving with your usual grace, a light sway of your hips to the beat.

And then you turned, catching his eye and smiled. The small, knowing curl of your lips almost made him stumble. Almost. He watched the way a drop of your beer slipped down your chin as you took a sip. Swallowed drily. You slid his own beer his way, clinking your bottle to his.

"You're late." A statement. It was already after-closing. "Trying to avoid the chaos?"

"Something like that," Bucky muttered, taking a sip. God how he wished it had any type of effect on him.

You chuckled and leaned on the counter, resting your chin on your hand, eyelashes fluttering lightly and Bucky wondered if you were tipsy or simply tired.

"You know, you could come in less often and I'd barely notice… though I would miss the company."

He'd tried. He tried walking the other way, taking different routes on his mindless therapy strolls. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own and he always ended up here. Your warm and cozy bar.

He swallowed and shook his head. "Don't flatter me."

"Oh, I'm not flattering," you teased, eyes sparkling, "just stating facts."

He laughed quietly, the sound coming out low and unpracticed, but it was easier here, with you. He'd decided he liked watching you work, the small gestures you didn't realize anyone noticed: the way you twirled that polka-dotted towel between your fingers, how you hummed along to the music, the quick flick of your eyebrow when a customer said something ridiculous.

He stayed until you locked the wooden doors behind you, the old mechanism giving you a bit of a headache because "Why won't this key just freaking turn?" And when he offered to help you didn't step back, watching as his fingers wrapped and forced until; click. And you cheered as you grabbed the key back from him.

If he felt warmth creeping in from the way your fingers brushed against his, he'd ignored it. And by the time he left you in front of your apartment building, the city's noise had crept back in, but he carried that warmth with him.

FLASHBACK END

The night's officially tapped out. The Last Straw has turned into a ghost town - just Bucky, you and Bill Wither's voice murmuring from the speakers like the world's chillest third wheel. Bucky's warm beside you, nursing his 5th bottle quietly, looking like a man deep in reflection or trying to remember if he'd left the stove on. He's in that weird middle zone between "nostalgic" and "mildly furious at his younger self". You sway your hips like you're holding your own private concert, and he tries not to look like a cat chasing a laser pointer.

God, why couldn't he flirt like Sam? Sam made flirting look easy, like breathing, or tying your shoes, or winning arguments over Twitter. Bucky, meanwhile, still felt like Sam was trying to trick him into a cult. Swipe left? Swipe right? He barely knows how to swipe his Metro Card.

"I'm still shocked Sam managed to get Vera to follow him…" you shatter the silence like a thrown beer bottle - except softer. More polite. A beer bottle wearing slippers.

He blinks, mildly startled. "You and me both," he replies, trying to keep the conversation alive. No idea why he does it. Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's the fact that when you speak, he forgets how to be a 106-year-old murder cyborg. Maybe it's Maybelline.

You get a look. He knows that look. It says I-know-something-you-don't-know and usually precedes either a brilliant epiphany or the fact that earlobes don't have a biological purpose. He braces.

"I bet you're just as good," you look like the cat that caught the canary. "Heard you were quite the ladies' man back in the day."

Ah, there it is. Teasing mode: ACTIVATED. He doesn't need Wanda's mind reading powers to decode that one.

"Y/N, you and me both know I'm not the guy I used to be. That guy wore suspenders and said 'dame' unironically."

"Oh, come on!" You roll your eyes with the practiced expertise of someone who's dealt with his dramatic sighs before. "You've got that tall, dark, and slightly traumatized vibe to you. That's basically a dating app genre."

He gives you a look from under his lashes, deadpan. "Tall, dark, and slightly traumatized? Is that what you're into?"

You grin like a fox with a secret. "Maybe," you smirk, then switch into your Serious Friend Mode. "But for real, Buck. You should go out. A date could do you some good. Loosen the gears a little."

He winces like you jut suggested he join a Pilates class.

It's not that the conversation is new - you've both tiptoed around the topic of his "emotional availability" before - but tonight, you're shoving him toward the dating pool like a mom tossing her kid into swimming lessons.

"Look, I'm just… rusty, okay? Dating in the 21st century is like… It's like showing up to a rave with a flip phone. I don't belong there."

Not to mention, the dating profile Sam made for him has sat untouched for months. Username: @WinterSimp17. He regrets everything.

"You wanna die alone?" you ask, voice half-sarcasm, half-concerned best friend. "Because otherwise I'd suggest you start swiping. You need to start somewhere."

"Doll…" he starts, then groans. "It's not like I haven't tried. I'm just not like you or Sam. You two make people want to talk to you. I make people want to call security. I scream 'trust issues' in five different languages."

You chew on your cheek thoughtfully, eyes scanning his face. And he knows that look.

Whatever you're about to say next, he's 90% sure he's not emotionally or mentally prepared for it. He's got one hand wrapped around the bottle, the other drumming metal fingers on the bar like he's waiting for a verdict. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Finally you lean in a little, elbows on marble, chin in your hands.

"Well," you say, voice sliding into a purr that's 30% teasing, 70% bartender-mock-serious, "if you're that hopeless, maybe I could show you a thing or two."

Bucky blinks. Once. Twice.

He's expecting the punchline - the snort, the roll of your eyes, the "just kidding, gramps" - but it never comes. You're smirking, but there's a serious undertone there. You're willing to help if he just asks for it.

He snorts. "Show me, huh?" he tilts his head, fingers still tapping away. His tone is dry, but not dismissive. More like he's testing the roll of them of his tongue. "You're offering lessons now?"

You shrug, playing it off, but your smile widens. "Hey, I teach drunks how to hold their liquor every night. Teaching a super soldier how to flirt? That's just Tuesday, sweet-cheeks." A wink thrown in for good measure and Bucky can feel his ears warming.

For the first time all night, he lets out a laugh. A real laugh - short, sharp, surprising you and himself. "Never thought I'd need a wing-man with a liquor license."

"Oh, I'm way more than a wing-man." You lean closer, conspiratorial. "Think of me as your… social rehab therapist."

He sets the empty bottle down, turning his attention fully to you now, one eyebrow raised. There's a flicker in his eyes that isn't just amusement. "Alright," he says slowly. "Say I did want to… learn. What exactly are you planning to teach me?"

You grin, tilting your head in tat adorable way that makes him want to squish you until you stop.

"Step one," you say, tapping a finger to his chest, "stop looking like you're about to get drafted. Step two… well, you'll just have to come back tomorrow and find out."

His mouth quirks at the corner. He knows he should joke back, but instead hears himself saying:

"Tomorrow night, then, I'll bring a notebook. Maybe a chaperone."

"Good idea. I hear Captain America gives great feedback on first dates."

And for the first time in a long time, he isn't just waiting in a bar, beside you, for the world to pass him by - he's heading towards something.

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 (coming soon to a computer screen near you)

Taglist:

#bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #winter soldier #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #fluff #crack #sam's a flirting machine #don't ask me what I'm doing #idk

the--sad--hatter

Gunslinger Art

This absolutely stunning piece of art was just gifted to me by @powerstrangerdacre and it blew my freaking mind! I fucking adore it! Thank you my new friend, I am astounded and grateful!!!

I love the comic book feel to it, that’s the vibe I’m going for when I write The Gunslinger Chronicles. And we all know Gun loves pink, so I can say she would approve!

“Oh, I do! I love it! It’s so pretty and violent, so me!”

You’re not Deadpool, stop breaking the fourth wall, Gun!

“It’s cute that you think you can control me.”

Yeah, I know I can’t. I’ve long since given up. The point is, this is AWESOME!

imnotusedtobeingloved

A WARM SUMMER DAY

Hello! This is my first time really posting something here, so please be kind. You can also read this chapter and more on Wattpad on @indezent_ . This is an original story i wrote, so please do not copy it. I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section! :)

It was a warm summer day. The sun was shining through the windows of cramped shop in Grecy, a small town in Agranon. It's owner, Dan Galahad, was nowhere seen inside. Instead the customers were be greeted by the two similar faces of his kids. Shaey was standing behind the counter, while her brother Fallon checked their inventory. The small selling space was filled with all sorts of fishing rods, bait, and other supplies that were needed for fishing. But not only that. They also sold most of the fish that their father managed to catch out at sea, where he spent most of the time.

Shaey smiled at the first paying consumer that had stumbled into their store, as she wrapped their items in a neat little package. The doorbell rang when they left the store and the girl counted the money in the cashbox for what felt like the 20th time. "How much is it?" Fallon asked, watching her curiously with the same azure blue orbs they shared. "Not as much as we need," his sister sighed glumly, while putting it back into the case. Dispirited he leaned against the shelf next to her. "We're just not selling enough of our products..." she continued, putting a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Fallon put his hand on his sisters back, trying to ease her worries and searching for words that would bring her a peacefull mind. Despite his effort, nothing seemed to help the hopeless situation. Pondering over their current state, the siblings found comfort in the silence and in each other.

The Galahad family had never been wealthy. They'd been happy with their small shop and living area right above that. It was a fact, that had never bothered them until they had to face a serious problem. One where riches were desperately needed. Their mother, Mara Galahad had turned terribly sick. The healer they'd begged for help had not been able to make a diagnose that solved the mysterious illness, instead he'd recomended medicine weren't able to pay and left with the small amount of cash the family offered. Since then it had only gotten worse. No matter what they had tried, Mara didn't get better. Her skin had turned white, something they had never seen on the usually tan woman before. Painful convulsions and stomach cramps often took a toll on her. At night their father would wake up and notice her shacking from passing fevers or nausea. In her worst episodes she would not even remember that she had more than one kid. Sometimes she didn't know that she was married or to whom, and the other day she recognized none of them. Now Dan and his kids tried making more money with everything they had. Most of the time they'd even sell their own food, starving for days only to gain a few more coins.

Fallon was the one to break the silence first. "Maybe we should tr-" he didn't get further than that, as a deafening noise disturbed the air. "Fallon!" Shaey shouted, grabbing the rough fabric of her brothers shirt as the ground shook from the impact of the crash. "What is happening?" It felt like the world was torn apart. The shops products rained down to the floor, being rattled from the earths tremors. "I don't know," he called out. "But someone needs to look for our mother!" Shaey nodded, giving him permission to run upstairs. Trying to safe herself from the falling objects, she stumbled towards the entrance. She had to know what was going on out there. The familliar sound of the doorbell barely reached her ears as she opened the door. Stepping outside, legs wobbling and hands shaking, she looked around.

The town she knew since she was small... it was destroyed. The home of loving people she knew all her life were burning down to the ground. Lifes were crashed, until there was nothing left but ashes. And the rest? They were killed by the attackers. Shaeys eyes widened when she saw a group of men walking towards her. Normally she'd be happy to see other human beings in such a situation, but these people clearly didn't belong here. Black armor protected their bodys from wounds as well as curious eyes, not granting anyone a look at their faces. The heavy weapons in their possession ready to strike the next victim. Shaey swallow dryly. In an urgent attempt to get back into the shop, she raced back to the door. As the floor shook once more from another exolosion, she stumbled and fell, her palms scraping upon the impact. In an attempt to get up, she leaned against the wall of their home, pulling herself up. But too slow. They'd already reached her. Shaey screamed when one of the men roughly grabbed her hair and tilted it backwards to look into her face, the heat of the flaming houses around them tickling her skin. Automatically her hands reached for the assaulters wrist, wanting to free herself. "Trying to escape i see," one of them mocked as he played with his daggers. "But sadly unsuccessful," scoffed another and added: "Let's make sure it stays that way," before slapping her across the face, right into the nose. Shaey gasped as her eyes watered from the blow, her hair strands tugging painfully at her scalp and a trail of blood making it's trail down to her chin. "Shaey?" a muffled scream came from inside the house. "What do we have here?" A man with a bow on his back now watched the door of the store specifically. It was only a second before Fallon toppled out of the house. "Mother, she couldn't-" he stopped himself, when he saw what state his sister was in. Out of the corner of her eye Shaey could see that parts of his clothes were burnt. "Shaey!" he repeated, walking towards them. It was before he could even come close to rescueing her, that the man with the bow grabbed him. "No!" she called out, fearing for her brothers life. "Let him go, i beg you!" The man, still holding her blonde strands in a tight grip, chuckled lightly. "That's cute. Such a shame we'll have to kill you," he snorted and nodded towards the others. While he was spinning his daggers before, the third man now walked toward her brother. "It was nice knowing you," he grunted before taking her swing, aiming right at Fallons abdomen. Shaey screamed. And her scream was not left unheared. A prickling, bubbling feeling rose in her chest as she saw her brother getting attacked. When it was almost to much to bear, it set itself free. The water that curved around the houses rose up into the air, lashing out at her enemies. The mens bodily fluids suddenly turned against them, draining from within them in seconds and leaving the bodys to dry out. In the chaos, the hand holding onto her hair lost it's grip, giving her the opportunity to free herself. Shaey raised her hands at the rest of them and the water followed her movements, sending a blast that sent them flying into the walls of a nearby building where their bones where cracked. They either died immediately from a broken neck, or got squished by the burning bars that fell on the spot seconds later. Fallon watched his sister wide-eyed as she sank to the ground, staring at her hands and legs wobbling. Overwhelmed he could only manage to pull her into his arms, where she still could not tear her eyes away from her fingers, upset about what she'd done. She had just bend the water to her will.

The siblings sat still for what felt like hours, while the world continued to crumble around them. Fallon run his fingers through his sisters dishelved hair, a harmless attempt to calm not only her, but also himself down. Shaey was shaking in his arms. He had tried to get them both to stand up, but found them both to be too shocked and weak. So he'd done the only thing that seemed natural to him and pulled his distressed sister into his arms, shuffling them into a save distance where the fire would not reach them. After a while the turmoil calmed down. There were no more screams to be heared. The only sound that was still prominent was their own breathing and the crackling of the flames nearby. It took a while before the sniffling mess in his embrace moved again. "What... What abou... bout mom?" she stuttert. Fallon sighed. One one hand he was glad she was talking again, but on the other... "Mother," he started and bit his lip, tears welling up in his eyes. "She didn't make it... the roof had already been aflame when i arrived... she'd," he swallowed dryly. "She suffocated, Shaey. She was gone when i found her." It took everything in him to not start crying in that moment. Instead he hugged his sister so tight, that it hurt. Her slim body shook in his arms, searching for warmth and peace. And he held her. Half an hour passed before Fallon first raised his head again, alerted by a noise in the distance. "Wha... what is it?" his sister breathed, as her eyes nervously darted across the streets. "I hear horsemen coming closer..." he answered, fearing the worst. "We have to get up!" Both siblings stumbled when they tried to simultaneously get themselves and each other up from the ground, as the voices and the sound of hoofes got closer. "...ave to see if there are any survivors," were the first words they managed to identify in their frazzeled state. Fallon nervously looked for a place to hide, but everything around them was either burried in ashes or still burning. Before he'd finished the thought they were discovered by a woman, sitting atop her grey speckled horse. She calmly eyed the siblings that were staring at her as if she had six horns, eight hands and an emblem that said "I hate puppies", before she turned to look over her shoulder and shouted: "Over here!" A small group on horseback rode towards them, swiftly dismounting. "Who are you?" Shaey asked, her voice cracking halfway. "We are Soldiers of the Inquisiton," the woman answered. "My name is Dana Sinclaire. I'm the third in command," with a prompt gesture she pointed to her companions. "This are Rita, Brandon and Tanner," her gaze came back to Shaey and Fallon. "And we are here to save you." "To save us?" Fallon asked sceptically. "Why would anyone care about two lost siblings from a small town, whose mother is dead and whose father is god knows where?!" Dana seemed unfazed by his outburst and simply continued explaning their situation. "Your town has been destroyed by someone we started chasing long ago. We've tried to analyze where he would make his next move, but it seems like we were to late this time. The Inquisition has been keeping Amos safe for months now. We fight the enemies, rebuild broken homes and safe survivors. Including you two."

assetunclassified

I love this story and the characters so much! Ugh... killed me.

imnotusedtobeingloved

Hellos! I don’t know if anyone will be interested, bc i’ve not really posted anything on here yet, but i’d like to do Commissions for some of you. The reason why i decided to open them is, that i’m not able to gain that much money right now, but i want to be able to afford some awesome birthday presents for my mom and my grandpa. I’m doing this for the first time, so i’d appreciate you sharing this, if you are not interested, or tagging someone who might be.

If you want to check out my art-style first, and what i normally do, the best way to that is my instagram profile: https://www.instagram.com/indezent_art/

Thanks for your help! :)

#commision info #commisionwork #commisions open #my art #original art #oc #oc art #own character #character sheet #charater design #character concept #female characters #male character

weepingvoidpenguin

Confession

ENDGAME SPOILERS!! READ AT YOUR OWN EXPENSE, SIS BECAUSE THIS IS NOT A GAME. I’VE WARNED YOU!!

PETER PARKER X READER

Summary: It’d been five years since you disappeared in Peter’s hands right after he’d broken your heart. Now, after so long, there’s a chance to get you back and Peter will stop at nothing to ensure so. He has to get you back, has to tell you that he was lying. That he did want to be with you and he’d never throw away the opportunity again. But the question is, will you let him?

Warnings: Uh… none? Some swearing

Word Count: 3k

FEELING CREATIVE.. IDK MIGHT DELETE LATER (BUT ALSO FR MIGHT MAKE A SMUTTY PART 2)

“Kid, get out of here, I don’t want you to be a part of this,” Mr. Stark hollered to me when I walked up from behind to see what they were looking at.

“But Mr. Stark, I’m already a part of this,” I said back, trying to still be respectful. I didn’t want Tony to get mad at me but if he thought I was just going to leave when we were so close to getting them back … to getting her back, he thought wrong.

“Listen, kid, I know how much this means to you but I‘m not letting you get squashed like a… well, like a bug,” he responded.

My head snapped in his direction at the comparison, Really, Mr. Stark? Really?

“Mr. Stark I’m not going anywhere,” I repeated, a little more edge to my voice.

“Queens, Tony’s got a point. This is gonna get really ugly, really fast,” Cap tried to reason but I wasn’t hearing any of it.

I took a deep breath, an anger starting to brew in me that I’d never felt for Cap or Stark, “And I said-”

“Let him fight,” Thor interrupted.

I looked up at him from behind, my mouth still hanging open from my defense.

Thor shrugged his shoulder, never once taking his eyes off the man that killed his brother and then half of his people, “Those who fight for others and not themselves fight valiantly,”

My eyes shifted from Thor to Tony and Cap, they barely glanced at each other before nodding.

“Alright, kid, but from a distance only,” Mr. Stark ordered and I nodded.

If that was all he was going to give me then I wasn’t going to push it.

Thanos had been a nightmare in my head for five consecutive years now but it’s not his face that haunts me when I close my eyes, it’s hers. The look she gave me when I spoke the words that felt like acid in my mouth, that heart-wrenching image is what keeps me up at night. I should have told her the truth.

But if Banner’s snap worked, like really worked, and she was back then nothing was going to stop me from confessing. Not even this purple titan.

“You know it’s a trap, right?” I asked, the boyish tone in my voice long gone, for about five years now.

“Yup,” Cap mumbled, his glare piercing through the man they’d already killed once, “But we don’t really have any other choice. Keep the stones away from him,”

Lightning and thunder clouded from nearby and a blast of white surrounded Thor for a second, changing his garments and hair.

I didn’t hear what he said after that, too focused on where I should hit Thanos first, but then they sprinted at him. One right after the other they attempted to land a grave blow but Thanos was too strong, too fast, too smart. It appeared that he knew what they were going to do next and deflected all of their attacks.

I stepped down from the rock and ran towards the scene of the battle, my heart in my throat and my mind racing with pictures. Her (h/c) hair, her (e/c) eyes, her soft skin, her beautiful smile and her immersive mind. Just her. She was all that ran through my head as I charged at the man that took her away from me. The man that turned her to dust just hours after I hurt her. She was in my arms those last seconds of my life, clinging to me as tightly as she tried to hold onto life but she vanished all the same. I wasn’t sure if she heard what I said to her as she turned to dust but I was hoping, praying, that she knew. That she knew I was lying to her, that she somehow figured it out while she’d been gone. But she couldn’t and I knew that.

You can’t think if you don’t exist.

I threw a few webs at the enemy, pulling his arm back when he was going to land a fatal hit to Tony. He grabbed the web attached to him and tried to throw me around but I cut it off and kicked him in the face with the momentum he tried to use against me.

“What did I say, kid? From a distance!” Tony yelled as Thanos grabbed my calf and chucked me straight towards a ragged rock.

“Karen!” Tony yelled and activated the legs from my suit to catch my fall.

The metallic legs pierced into the rock, smashing it into smaller, more jagged pieces. A few of which stabbed my back. The pain shot from my back to my head and I hunched over, gripping my stomach as the air was forced out of my body from the impact.

“Kid!” Mr. Stark shouted as he ran towards me and Thanos grabbed him by his arm, hitting him square in the face and sending him flying.

I tried getting up, I really did, but my eyelids grew heavy and my vision began to blur at the edges.

Get up.

My arm, heavy from exhaustion, barely moved at my side despite my command.

Get up.

Thanos’ blade cut through Cap’s shield and continued to destroy it, breaking it until it could only be considered scrap metal. My chest grew heavy and any anger I had for the titan was diminishing, not because I was no longer angry but because it was replaced with fear. Fear that we would lose again. That I would lose again.

Then, even from this distance, I could see a strange look come across Cap’s face. He shook his head, as if hearing a voice in his ear or trying to fight pestering wind. His hand slowly came up and rested on his head and he looked around as if looking for where the interference was coming from.

The sight of the familiar yellowish circle appearing out of thin air made my heart stop and my jaw went slack, hoping beyond hope that it was who I thought it was.

Figures began to emerge from the portals and I was walking towards them without a single registration of the pain in my body.

Y/N.

One by one they exited the portal. Dr. Strange. The antenna lady. Quill. Bucky. Sam. Scarlet Witch. Even a tree thing.

But Y/N was nowhere to be seen.

“Please,” I choked out, the knot in my throat tightening as my legs carried me towards their exit. “Please, God,” my legs burned with exhaustion but my will won out and I was lost in the crowd of our army looking for the familiar sight of (Y/N)’s (h/c) hair.

“Avengers …” I heard Cap order, “ … Assemble,”

The sounds of thousands of warriors shouting overwhelmed me and I knew she wouldn’t be able to hear me if I shouted her name.

But that didn’t stop me from trying.

“(Y/N)!” I yelled, my eyes scanning the running bodies. “(Y/N)!”

A single figure, just one, hesitated before taking their next step. The (h/c) hair of a girl moved as her head turned, looking for the source of my calls.

“Here!” I shouted, my arms flailing in the air to catch her attention, “(Y/N)! God, please just look at me! See me!” I shouted over the sounds of war.

She turned towards my direction and the sight of her face hit me harder than any force ever has. Fuck, I miss her.

My steps faltered despite wanting to do the exact opposite. “(Y/N)!”

She scanned the battlefield. I knew she couldn’t hear me but her ability allows her to hear thoughts in her vicinity and it gives her an advantage in battle. Her eyes flickered to every moving figure, one by one, until finally, finally, her eyes landed on mine.

And she looked away.

No, please, please don’t.

She faced the war ahead of her and ran directly into it upon seeing the familiar red glow of Wanda’s power. (Y/N) jumped into the air and gracefully landed next to the witch who had her sister power. (Y/N)’s power was almost identical to Wanda’s and it helps her feel stronger when she fights alongside her but they’re not the same. Wanda was made of an infinity stone while (Y/N) was granted her power by something called The Raven. She claimed it was a force identical to that of another celestial power and was meant to subdue it if it ever got out of hand.

I wanted to chase after her, to grab her by the shoulders and force her to look at me while I confessed that I lied to her. That I tried to make the decision I thought was best. But I was wrong.

I was gonna get to her if it was the last thing I did, literally.

My legs pumped with adrenaline and incentive. I had to reach her. To tell her. Then the cries of pain rang through the air and I saw T’Challa being wrapped in rock. I looked back at (Y/N) who was throwing bad guys left and right and tearing them apart. She was fine. She was strong. And she wasn’t the one that needed help.

I changed my direction and grabbed the Gauntlet that was thrown in the air before slinging my web closer to the van that Cap said it should go so we could put the stones back in their rightful time.

I’ve just gotta put the stones back and then I’ll talk to her.

“Karen, activate instant kill,” I said to the AI built into my suit as the beastly aliens swarmed around me.

“Peter!” I heard my name being shouted and the voice was angelic. Scared and in pain but angelic all the same.

The beasts were blasted away by a surrounding purple light and I knew it had been her. She still cared. Or maybe it was just a courtesy, she would’ve done the same thing for any other teammate. And that’s a fact.

“Queens!” Came another shout followed by Mjolnir flying past my head.

I shot a web at the hammer and was pulled out of the remainder of the swarm just for a blast from above to cut the strand, sending me hurtling straight for the ground.

“I got you, kid,” yelled Mrs. Stark in a suit of her own before sending me towards a girl flying a … a Pegasus?

I didn’t get to observe the horse for too long as I was yet again being tossed to the ground because of a cut web. Colors flashed by my vision while I clashed against the debris of the destroyed property.

A groan of pain escaped my lips and the laser blasts hitting the ground next to my body made me curl into a fetal position with the gauntlet in my grasp. I plastered myself as close to the boulder behind me as possible, using it for a makeshift barrier of sorts. My arms burned with the blasts that landed a little too close to me, causing cuts to my limbs and side.

This was it, this was how I was gonna go. Without ever speaking to (Y/N) again, without saying good-bye to Aunt May or Ned. No one. I was going to die on the battlefield protecting a glove that had six of the most powerful forces ever to exist on each knuckle.

(Y/N), I know you can hear me, I wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but I had to try, I wanted to let you know… I just… you should know that I- I’m… I’m sorry, I thought, my body now racking with each sob as I said my good-bye, (Y/N), I lo-

“Peter,” she called my name. “Peter, get up,”

I opened my eyes and rested my gaze on the glowing colors of the gauntlet, too ashamed to look up at her. It’d been five years since I let her down. Since I broke her heart. And now, here she was, waiting for me to look up at her just as I wanted her to look up at me,

“Peter, give me the gauntlet,” she ordered, her hand coming into view as she latched onto it.

The gauntlet?

I looked up at her then, confusion etched in my features as I wondered why she even came up to me in the first place. “The gauntlet?” I asked incredulously, “Didn’t you hear what I was thinking? What I was trying to let you know?”

Her grip on the gauntlet tightened just as mine did, “I heard,” was all she responded. “And I don’t need your pity,”

“Pity? (Y/N), I-”

“Give me the gauntlet, Peter!” She shouted, her eyes beginning to glow a purple hue as she attempted to pry it from my hold.

“(Y/N), please I just … I just want to look at you,” I begged, my voice faltering by the end.

Her pull on the gauntlet slacked and she looked me in my eyes for the first time in five years. Those mesmerizing (e/c) eyes of hers. The whites of her eyes were red with oncoming tears. And suddenly it was like I was looking at the same face of heartbreak I caused her to have so long ago.

“Look at me?” She pulled away, dropping the gauntlet completely.

A glowing figure landed next to her and I hesitated to pry my eyes off of (Y/N), fearing that if I did, she would disappear again.

I handed the gauntlet over to the glowing lady, earning a sad smile from her. She seemed strong and merciless but also caring and understanding. She was letting us have a moment as she continued the gauntlet’s journey to the time travelling van. She flew off with an army of women to back her up and I had to grab (Y/N)’s wrist as she tried to leave with them.

“Stay,” I whimpered, “Just for a second. Stay,”

She shook her head, no longer facing me and tried, in a half-assed manner, to pry her hand from my grip. “Let me go, Peter,”

“(Y/N)!” I shouted, making her freeze in her stance, “I can’t! I couldn’t! These past five years all I could think about was YOU. Your face was the one that haunted me every night. Your voice, your smile, our talks, all those memories kept me going for five years. Years, (Y/N).”

“Stop,” she whispered under her breath, her head now facing me but her eyes still glued to the ground.

“I lied to you, (Y/N), okay? I lied! That day where everything went to hell and you told me how you felt? I lied! And that’s all I‘ve wanted to tell you since you were … gone.” I gripped her wrist tighter and pulled her to the ground with me.

“You lied?” she reiterated.

“Yes. I lied.” My hand trailed up to her face as our surroundings changed into one of a glass like structure. We were in Dr. Strange’s mirror dimension. He had given us a minute alone. And I knew a minute was all we truly had.

“I thought that if I died, it would help you to move on, that you wouldn’t feel guilty. That you could… you could love someone else happily.” I tried to explain, “But then … then it was me who survived, who had to move on without you and I couldn’t because I know I broke your heart and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, (Y/N),”

“Stop!” She shouted, shoving me away. “Stop doing this! It might’ve been five years for you but it’s only been hours for me and the pain is just as raw as when you told me that you didn’t care for me that way. Don’t you get it? I love you, Peter Parker! And if you even remotely cared about me you wouldn’t have lied to me,”

“I lied to you because I care about you!” I shot up off the ground and followed her, “Because I thought it’d be selfish if I made you wait for me or confessed that I loved you too only for me to die! I wanted you to move on! I wanted you happy!”

She stopped mid-pace and lifted her gaze towards me, “You what?”

I huffed and blew a loose strand of hair out of my face, “Fuck this,” I mumbled and glided over to her, grabbing her by the waist and pressing my chapped lips onto her soft ones.

She froze for a second, fighting the urge to let me in, to believe me, but all I’ve been waiting for again is to see her. Even if she never forgave me for being so cruel or decided that her confession was only a heat of the moment thing, I just wanted her alive again. Alive and back in my life, one way or the other.

And she knew. She could feel it. She was an empath after all, and she knew that I was telling the truth.

And she kissed me back and I could’ve cried with joy. Her lips pushed up against mine, melding together and divulging in it. My grip on her body tightened as I brought her close to me. I’ve missed her warmth, her smell, her hold. Especially her hold. I’ve just missed her.

“I love you, (Y/N),” I confessed, finally confessed.

“How are you so certain that you love me?” She asked, making sure I still wasn’t lying despite the emotional certainty.

“Because I know what it’s like to lose you,” I pulled her into me again, resting my head on her shoulder, “And I’m never doing that again,”

assetunclassified

I don't know if I should be squealing or crying... 😢😍 I loved it! Love your writing!

weepingvoidpenguin

The Gods’ Blessing

Summary: In your world, everyone had a soulmate. That’s just how things went. Everyone had some sort of Indicator that their other half was out there, be it telepathy or a red string that connected these two strangers. Yours was one unspoken of, in fact, you’d never heard anyone say that they had the same Indicator as you. And because of this rarity you longed to meet the person who could gift you with what you lacked, maybe not so much so to be with the person but more so to finally see what others took for granted. Yet, you held onto the hope that one of your best friends was your Meant-To-Be but he has his eyes on another girl and the little green monster slowly engulfs you at the deterioration of your hope.

Warnings: None,

Potentially a Part 2, I finally have some free time over a mini break and my heart is yearning for some good ol’ Spider-Man.

Word Count: 5,223

“If I have to sit through another one of her lectures I’m going to lose my mind,” you said, rubbing your temples and taking your seat at the lunch table with MJ.

“We’re only halfway through the year,” MJ responded, twirling a piece of celery in the air as she spoke.

You grumbled and rested your head on the Advanced Biology textbook in front of you, “Yes, thank you, MJ, for so eloquently pointing that out,”

She smiled, “You’re welcome,”

“Hey guys.” Ned took his seat next to you and slammed his AP Biology book on the table, “If I have to sit through another one of her lectures,”

“Thank you!” You exasperated, throwing your hands up in agreement.

MJ snorted with laughter and pulled her phone out, “So what’ll it be for tonight? Movie at my house? Movie at the theater?”

“Studying,” you answered, throwing open the textbook and immediately forming a headache.

The chatter of the lunchroom rang in your ear and you grumbled in annoyance, trying to rehash on today’s lesson as best you could when another loud thud on the table caught your attention.

“So, have we decided what we’re doing for tonight?” Peter asked, excitement clear in his tone.

“Apparently (Y/N) has no intentions on having a good time and has dedicated her life to passing Biology,” Ned offered up, handing Peter the notes he missed for the class.

Keep reading

assetunclassified

Cool idea! Amazing writing! My heart hurts but I'm in loooove with this! Please tag me in part 2! ❤

zealous-whispers-of-us-deactiva

A Different Kind of Song

I wrote a kind of prequel to that merman!Bucky/siren!Reader thing from ages ago. But this can be read separately!

There is a subtle allude to sexual assault, so TW for that

Hope y’all enjoy :)

____________

She doesn’t remember her life as a human. All she remembers is the war, and the hunger, and the men raiding her village. The sweat-soaked skin of a warrior snatching her up as she cried out for help. The slide of his body, his blade against her throat. Then when he was finished, she remembers being thrown away into the deepest part of the sea, left to die. But she was blessed by the primordial sea god Phorcys, and was a child of Artemis, and was allowed to live. Thus, her life as a siren began. Born of her individual misery and blood, the reward for her suffering was eternal life and the chance to kill as many humans as she wished with no divine interference. This killing of men, for men were the chosen victims of any siren. Women were not drawn in by their song, and if by chance, a woman stumbled across a siren, that siren would leave her alone. She had even rescued a woman who fell into the sea after a shipwreck.

Slowly, she began to forget the trappings of humanity, the sound of her mother’s voice, and the taste of human food. She aged with the world, hidden beneath the waves. Countless men fell prey to her beautiful song, and she learned how to kill quickly. She grew to love the taste of flesh, the sound of someone drowning. She forgot what it was like to be lonely.

Keep reading

zealous-whispers-of-us-deactiva

A Different Kind of Song

I wrote a kind of prequel to that merman!Bucky/siren!Reader thing from ages ago. But this can be read separately!

There is a subtle allude to sexual assault, so TW for that

Hope y’all enjoy :)

____________

Keep reading

incorrectmarvelquotesyeet

Loki: haha, me? I swing both ways

Loki: violently

Loki: with a sword

Loki: come and get me motherfuckers

scarletxwinter

Bucky: Okay Morgan, there are 206 bones in the body, but! I’m gonna teach you how to dislocate someone’s body in 230 ways—

Sam: Dude. She’s a kid.

Morgan:…

Bucky: Oh yeah! You’re right.

*turns around for a few seconds before turning back with puppets over his hands*

Bucky, in somewhat a Kermit the frog’s voice: Hi kids! We’re going to show you how to dislocate someone’s body! Let’s start with the Clavicle region. Do you know where that is?

Sam: oh my god.

anais-ninja-bitch

nebula, unfamiliar with terran anatomy: *sits down crisscross applesauce next to morgan*

allofthefeelings

I’m so glad that with Natasha, er, temporarily indisposed, Bucky is covering Morgan’s important education.

(Actually, the Winter Soldier having been forced to assist in brutally training young women to kill, while Bucky chooses to gently teach a young girl to defend herself, is beautiful character development, and I think a great way to reclaim both his agency and his humanity.)

anais-ninja-bitch

WHEN nat gets back, she’s gonna be like

nat: okay so what did you teach her?

bucky: breaking bones, and the quickest way to a man’s heart.

nebula: through the ribs.

nat: excellent >:]

allofthefeelings

TONY, TWENTY MINUTES LATER: Why is my baby sparring with the Black Widow? Why did you give my baby a knife?

NATASHA, DRAMATICALLY CLUTCHING HER SIDE WHERE MORGAN GRAZED HER: You got me.

BUCKY: She didn’t even react like that when I shot her, Morg. You’re good at this. Great job with the stabbing!

TONY: I’m sorry what the fuck is happening.

sidewaystime

MORGAN, taking the chef’s knife from Pepper and mining stabbing: no, mom, you hold it like this

PEPPER: I don’t think that’s effective against cucumber but I’ll keep it in mind.

MORGAN: AUNTIE NEBULA! How do I stab a cucumber?

NEBULA, APPEARING OUT OF NOWHERE, KNIVES IN HAND AND READY FOR STABBING: What’s a cucumber?

anais-ninja-bitch

which is the moment when pepper decides to teach nebula how to cook.

allofthefeelings

Bold of you to assume Pepper knows how to prepare literally anything but salads and sandwiches.

Nebula, on the other hand, has had to survive alone in space.

Please consider: Nebula efficiently dicing the cucumber, and then teaching Morgan and Pepper both how to prepare a simple meal, which would apparently taste better with a specific type of meat that they can’t acquire on Terran, but this is the best she can do given the circumstances.

stayoutofitnick

Nat: Wait what did you teach her?

Bucky: There are 206 bones in the human body…

Nat: James! She is a CHILD!

Nat: If you are fighting an opponent your age Morgan, there may be up to 270 bones in the human body. Children’s bones ares still fusing together. Here is how you can use that….

the-geek-cornucopia

I’m sorry I’m going to need someone to draw Bucky with his assassin in training murder puppets. On his hands. While Morgan and Nebula watch.

tempestaurora

so.. i’ve gotta write this,, right?????? i have to write a fic about this??????

faytuous

more artwork! || buy me a coffee! || commission me!

the-omni-princess

Tangled Up Masterlist (College Social Media AU!)

Series Summary: You and Bucky show up to the same costume party accidentally wearing a couples costume. The problem? People think you came together.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (College Social Media AU!)

A/N: trying something new…

Inspired by @geosaurusrrex <3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 coming soon…

Meme Dump (eventually)

Updated: 9/14/19

assetunclassified

Giiiiirl! Duuuuuddeee! Maaaaannnn! Tag me in this puhleaseeee!

goodbyeeveryonepeacendblessings

where’s that video of the naked crackhead literally running the speed of a moving car and I use the term literally literally he was deadass keeping up with the car

goodbyeeveryonepeacendblessings