[daystarpoet]

aimee. she / her, multi writer, nineteen-forties bucky adorer, bio student.

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love like an ache in the jaw‬ ‬‹𝟥 my beautiful twin @faiszt — my lovely madame @kittens4kitty

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marvel | star wars | stranger things | the marauders | the pitt | various characters | off campus | misc. music

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[kruegerspillow]

uno! ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: playing cards with him will always end up more like a mission instead of a game...

warnings: fluff, not proofread.

word count: 1.7k

The table was small, the kind that wobbled when you leaned on it too hard, but it had seen a hundred late-night games with Dex already. Cards stacked neatly in a draw pile, two mugs sweating on the wood, and the dim light above both of you—it all set the stage for what was about to become a warzone.

Dex had that look again. The one with his tense jaw and his sharpened eyes, pupils narrowing as though the deck in his hand wasn’t just colored numbers, but classified information he needed to decode.

For most people, Uno was just a way to pass the time. But he was, in fact, not most people.

You tossed down a yellow seven without much thought, sipping your drink casually. His gaze flicked from the card to your face, and you could practically see the gears turning. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his deck held close like he was shielding it from prying eyes.

“Yellow,” he repeated, voice low.

“Yeah, does that yellow card tell you anything?” you teased, but your grin didn’t last long—because he slapped down a Draw Four.

“Red. Your move.”

You groaned, dragging four fresh cards into your hand. “You don’t even need to play that right now. You just did it out of spite.”

“Strategy,” he corrected, eyes locked on the pile. His fingers twitched like he was already planning three turns ahead, memorizing what had passed, calculating what you might still be holding. To him, it wasn’t a game of luck—it was pattern recognition, the kind of obsessive skill he’d honed until it was second nature.

“Mmm, totally.”

He glanced up at you, then looked back down at the pile of cards. He flicked his next card down with unnecessary sharpness, a red nine landing flat against the table.

Your chest warmed with amusement, even though you rolled your eyes. He took it so seriously every single time, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate it. That intensity of his—the way he poured himself into anything—was just so in character for him.

You tried to regain footing, tossing a skip onto his pile. “Guess you’re not playing this turn.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the card for a moment, then at you. And you knew—you knew—you’d just lit a fuse.

The game spiraled from there. Cards slapping harder, both of you stacking skips and reverses like it was a personal vendetta. He muttered under his breath every time you dodged a trap he’d set, cursing in that low, rasping way that sounded far too harsh for something as childish as Uno.

When you had a card left, you casually leaned back and announced, “Uno.”

Dex’s entire body stiffened. His breathing changed, sharper now, and you could practically hear the blood rushing in his ears. “No,” he muttered, flipping through his deck like a man possessed.

“Yes,” you corrected, flashing your single yellow three.

“Not happening.” He threw down a wild card like it was a weapon, changing the color, forcing you to draw. Then another. Then another. Until your once-near victory turned into a clumsy handful of cards that wouldn’t match no matter how you arranged them.

“You... seriously?” you paused, watching your carefully built win crumble in seconds.

Dex leaned back finally, smug in the smallest, quietest way. A shadow of a smirk ghosted across his lips, though he tried to hide it away. “Told you. Strategy.”

You stared at him, speechless for a moment, then broke into laughter. The sound filled the room, light and unbothered, while he just sat there blinking at you like he didn’t understand what was so funny.

“You scare me,” you managed between breaths.

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “For playing Uno?”

You scoff, “For trying to kill me with Uno.”

The corner of his lips twitched. Then, he threw another skip.

The card landed between you with a sharp snap, echoing louder than it should have in the quiet of the room.

You froze mid-breath, staring down at it like it was a bullet fired just past your ribs. Slowly, your eyes lifted back up to Dex, and sure enough, he was already watching you, his smirk fading into something more dangerous—like he was daring you to call it unfair.

“Again?” you asked, incredulous. “That’s, what—two of my turns skipped already.”

“Three,” he corrected without hesitation, like he’d been counting, cataloging, filing away each move as ammunition.

He tossed another card, blue four. He knew.

You snorted, shaking your head, but still reached out and slid one card off the stack. And then another. And another. The pile in your hands started to swell again, ruining the clean, tight grip you’d had when you were on the verge of winning just moments ago. The unfairness of it all nearly made you throw the whole thing down.

“Y’know, most people play Uno to have fun,” you muttered, fanning the cards and pretending you weren’t impressed by his ruthless tactics.

He didn’t even blink. “This is fun.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hand for a second, the laughter threatening to bubble out again just from how serious he was. You peeked at him through your fingers. He was sitting perfectly still, back straight, shoulders tense. The kind of posture you’d expect in a standoff, not over a stack of neon-colored cards. His eyes flicked up to yours briefly, sharp as ever, and you realized he was daring you to underestimate him.

The silence stretched thin before you finally threw down a blue two, unable to resist pushing him a little more. “Your move, genius.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows digging into the table, his gaze darting over the discard pile. You could practically see the storm inside his head—running back every card you’d played in the last ten turns, analyzing your tone, your expressions, the weight of your draw pile. To you, it was just a two. To him, it was information.

Finally, he slid a card into place with a deliberate flick of his wrist. A blue reverse.

You squinted at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he laid down another reverse.

You blinked. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The faintest glimmer of satisfaction crossed his face, though it was subtle, tucked into the twitch of his lip and the shift of his jaw. He sat back, arms folding across his chest like he’d just dismantled a bomb instead of skipping your turn twice over.

“You’re insufferable,” you accused, gripping your hand like it was suddenly heavier than bricks.

“Efficient,” he replied simply.

Your cards had turned into a burden. Twenty minutes into what was supposed to be a lighthearted round, and the weight of plastic-coated numbers in your hand felt more like shackles than entertainment. Every attempt to claw your way back ended with him snapping down another skip or reverse like it was divine judgment.

You sighed heavily, leaning back in your chair, fanning the ridiculous pile in front of you. “You know what? I’m done. This game’s rigged. You’re rigged.”

Dex barely moved. He just sat there, straight-backed, his deck balanced perfectly in his palm. The silence dragged a moment too long before his lips curved—not into a full smile, but that razor-thin smirk that had been haunting you all game. “Giving up?”

“Not giving up,” you corrected, tossing your hand onto the table with a dramatic flourish. “Surrendering. There’s a difference. I’d rather face execution than sit here for another half-hour just to lose to a man who treats Uno like chess.”

His eyes tracked the discarded pile of cards, then slid back up to meet yours. He didn’t gloat with words; he didn’t need to. That smug little glint in his gaze said enough. He gathered the cards calmly, stacking them into a neat pile with surgical precision, as though wrapping up a mission rather than ending a board game.

You groaned into your hands. “I hate this.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice was smooth, matter-of-fact, like he was reciting a truth he’d already filed away long ago.

Before you could fire back, the scrape of his chair startled you. He pushed up, tall and deliberate in his movements, then came around to your side of the table. You raised an eyebrow, but before you could question him, he bent down in one swift motion and hooked an arm under your knees, the other around your back.

“Dex—” You gasped as he lifted you clean off the chair, scooping you up like you weighed nothing at all.

The bastard had the audacity to grin now—small, boyish, and irritatingly self-satisfied. “Game’s over. Now, you’re all mine.”

He started walking, steady and unhurried, carrying you down the dim hallway toward the bedroom. His arms were strong and secure, body heat bleeding into yours, and for someone so ruthlessly competitive over a children’s card game, he looked far too content now.

“You forfeited,” he murmured, lowering his head slightly so his words brushed close to your ear. “That means I win.”

“Barely,” you argued, wriggling half-heartedly in his hold.

“And now I win this.” He tightened his grip, just enough to make his point clear.

The smugness radiating off him was unbearable, but you couldn’t stop the way your lips twitched, the way laughter broke free from your chest again. He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and set you down gently onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight.

Hovering above you, his shadow long in the lamplight, he wore that same cheeky smile that had teased you all evening. Except now it was softer at the edges, tempered with something warmer.

You stared up at him, hair mussed from being carried, and shook your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Efficient,” he corrected again, echoing the word from earlier. Except this time, his tone held more mischief than calculation.

And when he leaned down to press a slow kiss against your temple—smug, victorious, but tender all the same—you realized there was no such thing as beating him at Uno. Or at anything else, for that matter.

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw, @cannibalisticcorpse

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[inmyvampireempire]

I love tumblr because somehow I can end up being mutuals with a celebrity (someone that wrote a fic that I loved)

[daystarpoet]

@kittens4kitty has dragged me into the benjamin poindexter pitts and i'm not here to complain

[daystarpoet]

husband's rescue ☆ b. barnes

Masterlist — I do not consent to my work being re-uploaded, translated or fed into AI. Taglist

Pairings: CEO!Bucky Barnes x wife!reader.

Tags: fluff, comfort. Husband!Bucky. Dad!Bucky x mom!reader. 1.6k words.

Warnings: cursing, kissing. Mild injuries. Bucky's employee has a crush on him. Possible spelling and grammar mistakes.

Synopsis: The worst bad days are the ones that start up feeling as though they will be the best day ever. When your perfect day takes many turns for the worse, you turn to your husband, Bucky, who will always be there for you.

A/N: Greatly inspired by me having the worst day ever last Thursday after having the best morning ever. Guess how many of reader's misfortunes were inspired by my own day.

Your morning had been entirely pleasant. Bucky’s arm had still been snuggly wrapped around your waist, fingers digging into your flesh when you woke up. It was a rare occurrence. Usually, Bucky would wake up at least one hour before you did.

He was busy, and he worked hard—you would never be able to resent him for that. That, however, did not mean that you didn’t absolutely love those mornings in which you got to see his blue eyes open for the first time in the day.

“Mornin’…” he mumbled, his voice still a complete rasp.

“Good morning,” you had smiled back, giving in when he pulled you closer.

Bucky placed three sleepy kisses on your cheekbone and one over your lips. You breathed in deeply; there was something deeply distinct about how your bedroom smelt in the mornings. It was your body wash mixed with Bucky’s shampoo, with a hint of something that was simply him—a scent you would have recognised everywhere and that never failed to make your stomach feel light.

Little Rebecca had behaved even more so than she usually did. She was a pleasure to raise, that was for sure. Polite and always smiling. She had yawned and curled her tiny hands into fists around your shirt as you carried her to the bathroom.

When you dropped her off at daycare, she didn’t fuss one bit. She waved brightly and yelled, “Goodbye, Mommy!” while trying to balance four different colourful blocks on her hands.

The outlook for the day was ideal, which meant you were more than bummed when things started going wrong.

On your way to Pilates, your car stopped three different times. Three different occasions in which you had to awkwardly signal to the cars behind you to drive around because the engine had decided not to start after you had stopped at the red light. You swallowed the insults and turned on some music.

The next blow came in the middle of the street. You hurried, balancing your weight in those brown leather boots you had bought the week prior. New York was as busy as ever; time waited for no one, and you were not about to be left behind. It was a short walk from your work to the grocery store, and if you hurried, you would be able to catch that perfect time right before the store got flooded with customers.

Turns out, the street said, 'Not today.' One wrong step and a loose tile later, and you were clutching your poor ankle. “Dammit—” You winced in pain as you stopped walking. Your foot had twisted into some uncomfortable position, surprised by how the hard floor had dipped when the tile moved.

You took a deep breath; you could push through it.

The pain only worsened when you returned home to find the elevator to be ‘out of order’. That was five stories with a handful of grocery bags and an injured foot.

You unlocked the door to your apartment with arms aching and out of breath. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Some water would fix it, you were certain. You reached out into your tote bag, only to find a huge, wet mess. The water bottle had the lid separated enough from the actual bottle to allow quite a few drops of water to spill.

“God fucking dammit!” You cursed out in exasperation. You covered your face with your hands, already feeling the tears behind your eyes, which only made you feel worse. Were you seriously going to cry because of a bad day?

That was the last stroke.

With whatever strength you had left within you, you threw the soaking wet tote bag on the clothesline before making your final choice: you were fed up, and you were going to visit your husband.

In that moment, there was nothing that you needed as much as a kiss, a hug, and reassurance that everything would be okay from one of the people you loved most in the world.

Your car was left in the parking lot. There was no way you would risk it again. You took the subway instead. In the short path between the subway station and Bucky's work, the grey clouds in the sky began their slow but steady downpour.

You had brought no umbrella.

By the time you crossed the main entrance to Bucky’s office building, you were barely holding it together. The rain had got enough water in your hair and clothes to make it uncomfortable. The workers at the front desk paid no mind; they were used to you. The problem came later on, when you were about to knock on Bucky’s door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A young woman asked,

“Yeah, I’m just here to see my husband.” With the way the woman looked at you, with her eyes wide and lips turned down, you knew what was coming.

“That’s a nice try, honey. But Mr Barnes is busy.”

“Ma’am, seriously. James is my husband—”

The woman was stepping closer, sharp in her heels. “I don’t know why so many women think they can get to him. He’s a busy man.”

“Many women?” You stuttered, confused and increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”

You took one final step over, swinging the door open and stepping into your husband’s office, knowing that if you waited a second longer, things would get messy. Bucky looked up immediately, dropping the pen in his hand when he caught sight of the scene.

“Mr Barnes, I’m so sorry; I tried to stop her—” the woman cried, placing her hand on her chest. You did not like the way she looked at your husband one bit.

“Stop her?” Bucky asked, standing up from his desk. His eyes scanned over you, noticing every single detail. The way you leaned all of your weight on your healthy ankle, or your wet hair, or the way you shivered, or simply how miserable you looked.

“This is my wife.” His tone was more like an angry boss and less like the tender husband you knew. “Always let her in. Always.”

The woman nodded awkwardly and scurried out of the door. Bucky waited until she had left and was far away enough. His head turned back to you. There was this thing that Bucky always did with his face when he was concerned about you, his brows would knit and his eyes would widen.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, curling his fingers around your arms. “What happened?”

You did not waste a second before jumping into his arms. Your face rested on his chest, right next to that blue tie of his that you loved to take off him. His arms embraced you, and one of his hands traced your back.

Bucky held you like that until he felt the tension start to leave your body. He pressed a warm kiss to your head before he pulled away. He held your gaze until you spoke.

“I just had the worst day ever,” you began, holding onto him tighter. “My car stopped like three times on my way to Pilates, and then I stepped on a loose tile and hurt my ankle—and then the fucking elevator was out of order, so I had to walk the stairs all the way to our apartment, with the grocery bags, mind you. And then I spilt water—and I think I might get my period soon, and I just feel, so, so terrible.”

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand ran up and down your arms. At that moment, he needed you to relax before he could begin to unpack what was bothering you so much to be able to help you. “You said you hurt your ankle? Here,” he carefully led you to his office couch, allowing you to use him as an aid to sit down. “I’ll take a look, alright?”

You nodded, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face. With a carefulness that was solely reserved for you, Bucky removed your boot. He placed it on the floor and grabbed your ankle with one hand. Trying hard not to make the injury worse, he slipped your sock.

“It’s a little swollen,” he confirmed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “That loose tile and I will have a chat.”

You almost laughed. “Not the time, James.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised his free hand in mock surrender before going back to your leg to trace small circles on your thigh. “How about you rest here for a while, hm? I can have Natasha bring you some tea; I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to see you.”

“James, honey, are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? You don’t have to drop your entire schedule just because I’m having a bad day—and for stupid reasons at that.”

He sighed, sitting on the couch next to you and draping one of his arms on the headrest behind you. “It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to have a bad day, and you’re more than allowed to reach out to me when you do. What kind of terrible husband would I be if I shut you away? And as for my schedule, that’s the great thing about being the boss: I get to plan my own week. It’s not the end of the world if I delay some tasks to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at you told you everything you needed to know. He meant it. He always did.

“I still need to pick Rebecca up…”

“I’ll drive you, or we can have Steve and Sam pick her up—you know she loves her uncles.”

You nodded with a growing smile. “That she does.” You shifted closer on the couch, resting your head on Bucky’s chest. His arm wrapped around you, and he kissed your head. “Thank you.”

“Always. Don’t ever doubt it.”

Taglist: @balladofareader @viqwxcs @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka @wonwoosthetic @hiraethmae @cluvsya @sra7riddle-malfoy @canisusmajor @its-in-the-woods @nicolebarnes @lotsa-juicy-shit @faiszt @wildflowersandvibranium @wickedfun9 @heathericious @shellsbae00 @unadulteratedbeardpeanut @pearlsvie @sassandscribbles @thecrimsonfog @thegirlwhowaited5everok @kittens4kitty @vampsan @illumoria @mrscelebrini @ribeiroteresa97 @hardpaperbagelthing @classicsandfantasy @lovedcoast @my-drvidess @highhopes1008 @mc_1982 @itzpixiebabe @j3susforlif3

[bodeckerhedron]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES

[daystarpoet]

code of conduct ⚝ chris beck

Masterlist — do not reupload, translate or feed my work into AI. Taglist.

Pairings: husband!Chris Beck x wife!reader

Warnings: fluff. Possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Kissing and mentions of intimacy. Making out in the lab.

Synopsis: It's been a little too long since Chris Beck has had time alone with his wife, and he's going to make it everyone's problem.

A/N: I recently rewatched 'The Martian' purely because of Sebastian. I love that little space nerd so much, and I wish we had more Chris Beck fics on this app.

The lab was quiet. The crew knew better than bothering you when you're knee-deep into science mode. For the past forty minutes, your field of vision had been nothing but an amplified red spec of some Martian-dirt component that you were yet to identify.

You were biting your lip and cracking your fingers. Next to you was a sketchbook, where you had tried to draw what you were seeing. It was rough, but it was enough.

The doors opened and in came the one person who did not give a single shit about your 'don't bother me while I research' rule. Chris Beck. Your husband.

You knew he was there before he even said a word. He grabbed your notebook and lifted it to inspect it. "Nice drawings. I see we're taking up abstraction."

"Don't mock me," you deadpanned.

"Me? I'm not mocking you, sweetheart. You've got a real knack for this. Who needs all this space stuff? You could've been an artist instead."

You scoff, and he stares at you. His forearms are resting on the table, and you can tell he's up to no good from the sheer mischief that he's radiating.

Truth be told, this spaced marriage was not easy. All you were allowed to do was share small pecks here and there—much to Chris' disappointment, who looked at you with his kicked puppy face any time you rejected his advances.

Damn your professionalism.

"How are you?" When he asked that, he thought he would sound earnest. He was genuinely concerned about your well-being. He had known you since college and knew exactly how prone to overexerting yourself you actually were.

"I think we might need to take the samples again in a lower concentration—1:1,000, maybe," you said, not looking away from the microscope. "It's impossible to get a good count like this."

"That's not what I meant." Says Chris, sliding closer to you and resting a hand on your waist.

"Then I don't know what you meant."

"I brought you water."

You hummed in response.

Chris's hand moved; from simply being settled against you, it slid all the way across your stomach to fully wrap itself around you and pull you into him. You yelped but made no move to complain.

"That's better, no?" He grinned and leant in to press a kiss to your neck.

"Chris—"

"I know, I know," he pressed another one to your pulse point. You had to hold back a small shiver. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing and had no shame in taking advantage of it.

Your eyes fluttered shut against your better judgement. You tilted your head, allowing him to keep his onslaught of kisses. Chris lifted his head and kissed your mouth instead. Your hands moved to hold onto his shoulders.

As if it were even possible, Chris pulled you closer. He breathed you in as he kissed you, starved to show you everything he'd been bottling up for the past three months. It would kill him, he was sure.

He bit your lip, and when you made a sound, your husband got even bolder. In one step, he backed you up against the lab's counter with one knee between your legs. That was when you pulled away.

Chris was dumbfounded. Both of his hands still held onto your waist, and his eyes tried to read the creases in your expressions to find an answer to the sudden rejection.

"We can't do this, you know that. We signed a code of conduct." You sighed, tilting your head as you absorbed his clear disappointment.

"The contract never explicitly said anything against lab...intercourse. For science, y'know..."

You slapped him on the chest, not nearly hard enough to cause him any pain. "We are not having sex inside the lab!"

"Fine, fine!" He laughed, scrunching his eyes and nose, and shaking his head in that way he always did. "I just miss you."

"I'm right here, baby." You placed your palm flat over his chest, tracing up and down over the NASA logo on his white shirt.

"You know what I mean. I miss arguing over what show we should watch at night, and I miss having dinner at that Indian restaurant on Fridays." His head tilted lower, almost hiding with a bit of shame.

You brushed your nose against his before resting your forehead against Chris'. "We do other stuff now. We argue over who got the culture media contaminated and eat dehydrated food. I'd argue it's perfectly romantic."

He kissed your forehead. "You're right. Still, can I at least treat you to some coffee instead?"

"My, my. Is that a date?"

"You bet."

[daystarpoet]

husband's rescue ☆ b. barnes

Masterlist — I do not consent to my work being re-uploaded, translated or fed into AI. Taglist

Pairings: CEO!Bucky Barnes x wife!reader.

Tags: fluff, comfort. Husband!Bucky. Dad!Bucky x mom!reader. 1.6k words.

Warnings: cursing, kissing. Mild injuries. Bucky's employee has a crush on him. Possible spelling and grammar mistakes.

Synopsis: The worst bad days are the ones that start up feeling as though they will be the best day ever. When your perfect day takes many turns for the worse, you turn to your husband, Bucky, who will always be there for you.

A/N: Greatly inspired by me having the worst day ever last Thursday after having the best morning ever. Guess how many of reader's misfortunes were inspired by my own day.

Your morning had been entirely pleasant. Bucky’s arm had still been snuggly wrapped around your waist, fingers digging into your flesh when you woke up. It was a rare occurrence. Usually, Bucky would wake up at least one hour before you did.

He was busy, and he worked hard—you would never be able to resent him for that. That, however, did not mean that you didn’t absolutely love those mornings in which you got to see his blue eyes open for the first time in the day.

“Mornin’…” he mumbled, his voice still a complete rasp.

“Good morning,” you had smiled back, giving in when he pulled you closer.

Bucky placed three sleepy kisses on your cheekbone and one over your lips. You breathed in deeply; there was something deeply distinct about how your bedroom smelt in the mornings. It was your body wash mixed with Bucky’s shampoo, with a hint of something that was simply him—a scent you would have recognised everywhere and that never failed to make your stomach feel light.

Little Rebecca had behaved even more so than she usually did. She was a pleasure to raise, that was for sure. Polite and always smiling. She had yawned and curled her tiny hands into fists around your shirt as you carried her to the bathroom.

When you dropped her off at daycare, she didn’t fuss one bit. She waved brightly and yelled, “Goodbye, Mommy!” while trying to balance four different colourful blocks on her hands.

The outlook for the day was ideal, which meant you were more than bummed when things started going wrong.

On your way to Pilates, your car stopped three different times. Three different occasions in which you had to awkwardly signal to the cars behind you to drive around because the engine had decided not to start after you had stopped at the red light. You swallowed the insults and turned on some music.

The next blow came in the middle of the street. You hurried, balancing your weight in those brown leather boots you had bought the week prior. New York was as busy as ever; time waited for no one, and you were not about to be left behind. It was a short walk from your work to the grocery store, and if you hurried, you would be able to catch that perfect time right before the store got flooded with customers.

Turns out, the street said, 'Not today.' One wrong step and a loose tile later, and you were clutching your poor ankle. “Dammit—” You winced in pain as you stopped walking. Your foot had twisted into some uncomfortable position, surprised by how the hard floor had dipped when the tile moved.

You took a deep breath; you could push through it.

The pain only worsened when you returned home to find the elevator to be ‘out of order’. That was five stories with a handful of grocery bags and an injured foot.

You unlocked the door to your apartment with arms aching and out of breath. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Some water would fix it, you were certain. You reached out into your tote bag, only to find a huge, wet mess. The water bottle had the lid separated enough from the actual bottle to allow quite a few drops of water to spill.

“God fucking dammit!” You cursed out in exasperation. You covered your face with your hands, already feeling the tears behind your eyes, which only made you feel worse. Were you seriously going to cry because of a bad day?

That was the last stroke.

With whatever strength you had left within you, you threw the soaking wet tote bag on the clothesline before making your final choice: you were fed up, and you were going to visit your husband.

In that moment, there was nothing that you needed as much as a kiss, a hug, and reassurance that everything would be okay from one of the people you loved most in the world.

Your car was left in the parking lot. There was no way you would risk it again. You took the subway instead. In the short path between the subway station and Bucky's work, the grey clouds in the sky began their slow but steady downpour.

You had brought no umbrella.

By the time you crossed the main entrance to Bucky’s office building, you were barely holding it together. The rain had got enough water in your hair and clothes to make it uncomfortable. The workers at the front desk paid no mind; they were used to you. The problem came later on, when you were about to knock on Bucky’s door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A young woman asked,

“Yeah, I’m just here to see my husband.” With the way the woman looked at you, with her eyes wide and lips turned down, you knew what was coming.

“That’s a nice try, honey. But Mr Barnes is busy.”

“Ma’am, seriously. James is my husband—”

The woman was stepping closer, sharp in her heels. “I don’t know why so many women think they can get to him. He’s a busy man.”

“Many women?” You stuttered, confused and increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”

You took one final step over, swinging the door open and stepping into your husband’s office, knowing that if you waited a second longer, things would get messy. Bucky looked up immediately, dropping the pen in his hand when he caught sight of the scene.

“Mr Barnes, I’m so sorry; I tried to stop her—” the woman cried, placing her hand on her chest. You did not like the way she looked at your husband one bit.

“Stop her?” Bucky asked, standing up from his desk. His eyes scanned over you, noticing every single detail. The way you leaned all of your weight on your healthy ankle, or your wet hair, or the way you shivered, or simply how miserable you looked.

“This is my wife.” His tone was more like an angry boss and less like the tender husband you knew. “Always let her in. Always.”

The woman nodded awkwardly and scurried out of the door. Bucky waited until she had left and was far away enough. His head turned back to you. There was this thing that Bucky always did with his face when he was concerned about you, his brows would knit and his eyes would widen.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, curling his fingers around your arms. “What happened?”

You did not waste a second before jumping into his arms. Your face rested on his chest, right next to that blue tie of his that you loved to take off him. His arms embraced you, and one of his hands traced your back.

Bucky held you like that until he felt the tension start to leave your body. He pressed a warm kiss to your head before he pulled away. He held your gaze until you spoke.

“I just had the worst day ever,” you began, holding onto him tighter. “My car stopped like three times on my way to Pilates, and then I stepped on a loose tile and hurt my ankle—and then the fucking elevator was out of order, so I had to walk the stairs all the way to our apartment, with the grocery bags, mind you. And then I spilt water—and I think I might get my period soon, and I just feel, so, so terrible.”

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand ran up and down your arms. At that moment, he needed you to relax before he could begin to unpack what was bothering you so much to be able to help you. “You said you hurt your ankle? Here,” he carefully led you to his office couch, allowing you to use him as an aid to sit down. “I’ll take a look, alright?”

You nodded, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face. With a carefulness that was solely reserved for you, Bucky removed your boot. He placed it on the floor and grabbed your ankle with one hand. Trying hard not to make the injury worse, he slipped your sock.

“It’s a little swollen,” he confirmed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “That loose tile and I will have a chat.”

You almost laughed. “Not the time, James.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised his free hand in mock surrender before going back to your leg to trace small circles on your thigh. “How about you rest here for a while, hm? I can have Natasha bring you some tea; I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to see you.”

“James, honey, are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? You don’t have to drop your entire schedule just because I’m having a bad day—and for stupid reasons at that.”

He sighed, sitting on the couch next to you and draping one of his arms on the headrest behind you. “It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to have a bad day, and you’re more than allowed to reach out to me when you do. What kind of terrible husband would I be if I shut you away? And as for my schedule, that’s the great thing about being the boss: I get to plan my own week. It’s not the end of the world if I delay some tasks to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at you told you everything you needed to know. He meant it. He always did.

“I still need to pick Rebecca up…”

“I’ll drive you, or we can have Steve and Sam pick her up—you know she loves her uncles.”

You nodded with a growing smile. “That she does.” You shifted closer on the couch, resting your head on Bucky’s chest. His arm wrapped around you, and he kissed your head. “Thank you.”

“Always. Don’t ever doubt it.”

Taglist: @balladofareader @viqwxcs @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka @wonwoosthetic @hiraethmae @cluvsya @sra7riddle-malfoy @canisusmajor @its-in-the-woods @nicolebarnes @lotsa-juicy-shit @faiszt @wildflowersandvibranium @wickedfun9 @heathericious @shellsbae00 @unadulteratedbeardpeanut @pearlsvie @sassandscribbles @thecrimsonfog @thegirlwhowaited5everok @kittens4kitty @vampsan @illumoria @mrscelebrini @ribeiroteresa97 @hardpaperbagelthing @classicsandfantasy @lovedcoast @my-drvidess @highhopes1008 @mc_1982 @itzpixiebabe @j3susforlif3

[daystarpoet]

star wars hot take: i prefer the sequels 😟

sequels as in the 2010s movies....??

[daystarpoet]

husband's rescue ☆ b. barnes

Masterlist — I do not consent to my work being re-uploaded, translated or fed into AI. Taglist

Pairings: CEO!Bucky Barnes x wife!reader.

Tags: fluff, comfort. Husband!Bucky. Dad!Bucky x mom!reader. 1.6k words.

Warnings: cursing, kissing. Mild injuries. Bucky's employee has a crush on him. Possible spelling and grammar mistakes.

Synopsis: The worst bad days are the ones that start up feeling as though they will be the best day ever. When your perfect day takes many turns for the worse, you turn to your husband, Bucky, who will always be there for you.

A/N: Greatly inspired by me having the worst day ever last Thursday after having the best morning ever. Guess how many of reader's misfortunes were inspired by my own day.

Your morning had been entirely pleasant. Bucky’s arm had still been snuggly wrapped around your waist, fingers digging into your flesh when you woke up. It was a rare occurrence. Usually, Bucky would wake up at least one hour before you did.

He was busy, and he worked hard—you would never be able to resent him for that. That, however, did not mean that you didn’t absolutely love those mornings in which you got to see his blue eyes open for the first time in the day.

“Mornin’…” he mumbled, his voice still a complete rasp.

“Good morning,” you had smiled back, giving in when he pulled you closer.

Bucky placed three sleepy kisses on your cheekbone and one over your lips. You breathed in deeply; there was something deeply distinct about how your bedroom smelt in the mornings. It was your body wash mixed with Bucky’s shampoo, with a hint of something that was simply him—a scent you would have recognised everywhere and that never failed to make your stomach feel light.

Little Rebecca had behaved even more so than she usually did. She was a pleasure to raise, that was for sure. Polite and always smiling. She had yawned and curled her tiny hands into fists around your shirt as you carried her to the bathroom.

When you dropped her off at daycare, she didn’t fuss one bit. She waved brightly and yelled, “Goodbye, Mommy!” while trying to balance four different colourful blocks on her hands.

The outlook for the day was ideal, which meant you were more than bummed when things started going wrong.

On your way to Pilates, your car stopped three different times. Three different occasions in which you had to awkwardly signal to the cars behind you to drive around because the engine had decided not to start after you had stopped at the red light. You swallowed the insults and turned on some music.

The next blow came in the middle of the street. You hurried, balancing your weight in those brown leather boots you had bought the week prior. New York was as busy as ever; time waited for no one, and you were not about to be left behind. It was a short walk from your work to the grocery store, and if you hurried, you would be able to catch that perfect time right before the store got flooded with customers.

Turns out, the street said, 'Not today.' One wrong step and a loose tile later, and you were clutching your poor ankle. “Dammit—” You winced in pain as you stopped walking. Your foot had twisted into some uncomfortable position, surprised by how the hard floor had dipped when the tile moved.

You took a deep breath; you could push through it.

The pain only worsened when you returned home to find the elevator to be ‘out of order’. That was five stories with a handful of grocery bags and an injured foot.

You unlocked the door to your apartment with arms aching and out of breath. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Some water would fix it, you were certain. You reached out into your tote bag, only to find a huge, wet mess. The water bottle had the lid separated enough from the actual bottle to allow quite a few drops of water to spill.

“God fucking dammit!” You cursed out in exasperation. You covered your face with your hands, already feeling the tears behind your eyes, which only made you feel worse. Were you seriously going to cry because of a bad day?

That was the last stroke.

With whatever strength you had left within you, you threw the soaking wet tote bag on the clothesline before making your final choice: you were fed up, and you were going to visit your husband.

In that moment, there was nothing that you needed as much as a kiss, a hug, and reassurance that everything would be okay from one of the people you loved most in the world.

Your car was left in the parking lot. There was no way you would risk it again. You took the subway instead. In the short path between the subway station and Bucky's work, the grey clouds in the sky began their slow but steady downpour.

You had brought no umbrella.

By the time you crossed the main entrance to Bucky’s office building, you were barely holding it together. The rain had got enough water in your hair and clothes to make it uncomfortable. The workers at the front desk paid no mind; they were used to you. The problem came later on, when you were about to knock on Bucky’s door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A young woman asked,

“Yeah, I’m just here to see my husband.” With the way the woman looked at you, with her eyes wide and lips turned down, you knew what was coming.

“That’s a nice try, honey. But Mr Barnes is busy.”

“Ma’am, seriously. James is my husband—”

The woman was stepping closer, sharp in her heels. “I don’t know why so many women think they can get to him. He’s a busy man.”

“Many women?” You stuttered, confused and increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”

You took one final step over, swinging the door open and stepping into your husband’s office, knowing that if you waited a second longer, things would get messy. Bucky looked up immediately, dropping the pen in his hand when he caught sight of the scene.

“Mr Barnes, I’m so sorry; I tried to stop her—” the woman cried, placing her hand on her chest. You did not like the way she looked at your husband one bit.

“Stop her?” Bucky asked, standing up from his desk. His eyes scanned over you, noticing every single detail. The way you leaned all of your weight on your healthy ankle, or your wet hair, or the way you shivered, or simply how miserable you looked.

“This is my wife.” His tone was more like an angry boss and less like the tender husband you knew. “Always let her in. Always.”

The woman nodded awkwardly and scurried out of the door. Bucky waited until she had left and was far away enough. His head turned back to you. There was this thing that Bucky always did with his face when he was concerned about you, his brows would knit and his eyes would widen.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, curling his fingers around your arms. “What happened?”

You did not waste a second before jumping into his arms. Your face rested on his chest, right next to that blue tie of his that you loved to take off him. His arms embraced you, and one of his hands traced your back.

Bucky held you like that until he felt the tension start to leave your body. He pressed a warm kiss to your head before he pulled away. He held your gaze until you spoke.

“I just had the worst day ever,” you began, holding onto him tighter. “My car stopped like three times on my way to Pilates, and then I stepped on a loose tile and hurt my ankle—and then the fucking elevator was out of order, so I had to walk the stairs all the way to our apartment, with the grocery bags, mind you. And then I spilt water—and I think I might get my period soon, and I just feel, so, so terrible.”

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand ran up and down your arms. At that moment, he needed you to relax before he could begin to unpack what was bothering you so much to be able to help you. “You said you hurt your ankle? Here,” he carefully led you to his office couch, allowing you to use him as an aid to sit down. “I’ll take a look, alright?”

You nodded, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face. With a carefulness that was solely reserved for you, Bucky removed your boot. He placed it on the floor and grabbed your ankle with one hand. Trying hard not to make the injury worse, he slipped your sock.

“It’s a little swollen,” he confirmed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “That loose tile and I will have a chat.”

You almost laughed. “Not the time, James.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised his free hand in mock surrender before going back to your leg to trace small circles on your thigh. “How about you rest here for a while, hm? I can have Natasha bring you some tea; I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to see you.”

“James, honey, are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? You don’t have to drop your entire schedule just because I’m having a bad day—and for stupid reasons at that.”

He sighed, sitting on the couch next to you and draping one of his arms on the headrest behind you. “It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to have a bad day, and you’re more than allowed to reach out to me when you do. What kind of terrible husband would I be if I shut you away? And as for my schedule, that’s the great thing about being the boss: I get to plan my own week. It’s not the end of the world if I delay some tasks to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at you told you everything you needed to know. He meant it. He always did.

“I still need to pick Rebecca up…”

“I’ll drive you, or we can have Steve and Sam pick her up—you know she loves her uncles.”

You nodded with a growing smile. “That she does.” You shifted closer on the couch, resting your head on Bucky’s chest. His arm wrapped around you, and he kissed your head. “Thank you.”

“Always. Don’t ever doubt it.”

Taglist: @balladofareader @viqwxcs @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka @wonwoosthetic @hiraethmae @cluvsya @sra7riddle-malfoy @canisusmajor @its-in-the-woods @nicolebarnes @lotsa-juicy-shit @faiszt @wildflowersandvibranium @wickedfun9 @heathericious @shellsbae00 @unadulteratedbeardpeanut @pearlsvie @sassandscribbles @thecrimsonfog @thegirlwhowaited5everok @kittens4kitty @vampsan @illumoria @mrscelebrini @ribeiroteresa97 @hardpaperbagelthing @classicsandfantasy @lovedcoast @my-drvidess @highhopes1008 @mc_1982 @itzpixiebabe @j3susforlif3

[daystarpoet]

husband's rescue ☆ b. barnes

Masterlist — I do not consent to my work being re-uploaded, translated or fed into AI. Taglist

Pairings: CEO!Bucky Barnes x wife!reader.

Tags: fluff, comfort. Husband!Bucky. Dad!Bucky x mom!reader. 1.6k words.

Warnings: cursing, kissing. Mild injuries. Bucky's employee has a crush on him. Possible spelling and grammar mistakes.

Synopsis: The worst bad days are the ones that start up feeling as though they will be the best day ever. When your perfect day takes many turns for the worse, you turn to your husband, Bucky, who will always be there for you.

A/N: Greatly inspired by me having the worst day ever last Thursday after having the best morning ever. Guess how many of reader's misfortunes were inspired by my own day.

Your morning had been entirely pleasant. Bucky’s arm had still been snuggly wrapped around your waist, fingers digging into your flesh when you woke up. It was a rare occurrence. Usually, Bucky would wake up at least one hour before you did.

He was busy, and he worked hard—you would never be able to resent him for that. That, however, did not mean that you didn’t absolutely love those mornings in which you got to see his blue eyes open for the first time in the day.

“Mornin’…” he mumbled, his voice still a complete rasp.

“Good morning,” you had smiled back, giving in when he pulled you closer.

Bucky placed three sleepy kisses on your cheekbone and one over your lips. You breathed in deeply; there was something deeply distinct about how your bedroom smelt in the mornings. It was your body wash mixed with Bucky’s shampoo, with a hint of something that was simply him—a scent you would have recognised everywhere and that never failed to make your stomach feel light.

Little Rebecca had behaved even more so than she usually did. She was a pleasure to raise, that was for sure. Polite and always smiling. She had yawned and curled her tiny hands into fists around your shirt as you carried her to the bathroom.

When you dropped her off at daycare, she didn’t fuss one bit. She waved brightly and yelled, “Goodbye, Mommy!” while trying to balance four different colourful blocks on her hands.

The outlook for the day was ideal, which meant you were more than bummed when things started going wrong.

On your way to Pilates, your car stopped three different times. Three different occasions in which you had to awkwardly signal to the cars behind you to drive around because the engine had decided not to start after you had stopped at the red light. You swallowed the insults and turned on some music.

The next blow came in the middle of the street. You hurried, balancing your weight in those brown leather boots you had bought the week prior. New York was as busy as ever; time waited for no one, and you were not about to be left behind. It was a short walk from your work to the grocery store, and if you hurried, you would be able to catch that perfect time right before the store got flooded with customers.

Turns out, the street said, 'Not today.' One wrong step and a loose tile later, and you were clutching your poor ankle. “Dammit—” You winced in pain as you stopped walking. Your foot had twisted into some uncomfortable position, surprised by how the hard floor had dipped when the tile moved.

You took a deep breath; you could push through it.

The pain only worsened when you returned home to find the elevator to be ‘out of order’. That was five stories with a handful of grocery bags and an injured foot.

You unlocked the door to your apartment with arms aching and out of breath. You dragged your feet to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Some water would fix it, you were certain. You reached out into your tote bag, only to find a huge, wet mess. The water bottle had the lid separated enough from the actual bottle to allow quite a few drops of water to spill.

“God fucking dammit!” You cursed out in exasperation. You covered your face with your hands, already feeling the tears behind your eyes, which only made you feel worse. Were you seriously going to cry because of a bad day?

That was the last stroke.

With whatever strength you had left within you, you threw the soaking wet tote bag on the clothesline before making your final choice: you were fed up, and you were going to visit your husband.

In that moment, there was nothing that you needed as much as a kiss, a hug, and reassurance that everything would be okay from one of the people you loved most in the world.

Your car was left in the parking lot. There was no way you would risk it again. You took the subway instead. In the short path between the subway station and Bucky's work, the grey clouds in the sky began their slow but steady downpour.

You had brought no umbrella.

By the time you crossed the main entrance to Bucky’s office building, you were barely holding it together. The rain had got enough water in your hair and clothes to make it uncomfortable. The workers at the front desk paid no mind; they were used to you. The problem came later on, when you were about to knock on Bucky’s door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A young woman asked,

“Yeah, I’m just here to see my husband.” With the way the woman looked at you, with her eyes wide and lips turned down, you knew what was coming.

“That’s a nice try, honey. But Mr Barnes is busy.”

“Ma’am, seriously. James is my husband—”

The woman was stepping closer, sharp in her heels. “I don’t know why so many women think they can get to him. He’s a busy man.”

“Many women?” You stuttered, confused and increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”

You took one final step over, swinging the door open and stepping into your husband’s office, knowing that if you waited a second longer, things would get messy. Bucky looked up immediately, dropping the pen in his hand when he caught sight of the scene.

“Mr Barnes, I’m so sorry; I tried to stop her—” the woman cried, placing her hand on her chest. You did not like the way she looked at your husband one bit.

“Stop her?” Bucky asked, standing up from his desk. His eyes scanned over you, noticing every single detail. The way you leaned all of your weight on your healthy ankle, or your wet hair, or the way you shivered, or simply how miserable you looked.

“This is my wife.” His tone was more like an angry boss and less like the tender husband you knew. “Always let her in. Always.”

The woman nodded awkwardly and scurried out of the door. Bucky waited until she had left and was far away enough. His head turned back to you. There was this thing that Bucky always did with his face when he was concerned about you, his brows would knit and his eyes would widen.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, curling his fingers around your arms. “What happened?”

You did not waste a second before jumping into his arms. Your face rested on his chest, right next to that blue tie of his that you loved to take off him. His arms embraced you, and one of his hands traced your back.

Bucky held you like that until he felt the tension start to leave your body. He pressed a warm kiss to your head before he pulled away. He held your gaze until you spoke.

“I just had the worst day ever,” you began, holding onto him tighter. “My car stopped like three times on my way to Pilates, and then I stepped on a loose tile and hurt my ankle—and then the fucking elevator was out of order, so I had to walk the stairs all the way to our apartment, with the grocery bags, mind you. And then I spilt water—and I think I might get my period soon, and I just feel, so, so terrible.”

“Hey, shhh, sweetheart,” Bucky’s hand ran up and down your arms. At that moment, he needed you to relax before he could begin to unpack what was bothering you so much to be able to help you. “You said you hurt your ankle? Here,” he carefully led you to his office couch, allowing you to use him as an aid to sit down. “I’ll take a look, alright?”

You nodded, pushing the wet strands of hair away from your face. With a carefulness that was solely reserved for you, Bucky removed your boot. He placed it on the floor and grabbed your ankle with one hand. Trying hard not to make the injury worse, he slipped your sock.

“It’s a little swollen,” he confirmed, and for a moment, he looked almost offended. “That loose tile and I will have a chat.”

You almost laughed. “Not the time, James.”

“Alright, alright,” he raised his free hand in mock surrender before going back to your leg to trace small circles on your thigh. “How about you rest here for a while, hm? I can have Natasha bring you some tea; I’m sure she’ll be more than glad to see you.”

“James, honey, are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? You don’t have to drop your entire schedule just because I’m having a bad day—and for stupid reasons at that.”

He sighed, sitting on the couch next to you and draping one of his arms on the headrest behind you. “It’s not stupid. You’re allowed to have a bad day, and you’re more than allowed to reach out to me when you do. What kind of terrible husband would I be if I shut you away? And as for my schedule, that’s the great thing about being the boss: I get to plan my own week. It’s not the end of the world if I delay some tasks to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

The tone of his voice and the way he looked at you told you everything you needed to know. He meant it. He always did.

“I still need to pick Rebecca up…”

“I’ll drive you, or we can have Steve and Sam pick her up—you know she loves her uncles.”

You nodded with a growing smile. “That she does.” You shifted closer on the couch, resting your head on Bucky’s chest. His arm wrapped around you, and he kissed your head. “Thank you.”

“Always. Don’t ever doubt it.”

Taglist: @balladofareader @viqwxcs @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka @wonwoosthetic @hiraethmae @cluvsya @sra7riddle-malfoy @canisusmajor @its-in-the-woods @nicolebarnes @lotsa-juicy-shit @faiszt @wildflowersandvibranium @wickedfun9 @heathericious @shellsbae00 @unadulteratedbeardpeanut @pearlsvie @sassandscribbles @thecrimsonfog @thegirlwhowaited5everok @kittens4kitty @vampsan @illumoria @mrscelebrini @ribeiroteresa97 @hardpaperbagelthing @classicsandfantasy @lovedcoast @my-drvidess @highhopes1008 @mc_1982 @itzpixiebabe @j3susforlif3

[daystarpoet]

drumm roll!!!! this weekend's fic. ceo!husband!bucky x reader. more info below the cut

[daystarpoet]

officially declaring myself as a harvey dent girl, send all ur fics my way, pretty please!

[daystarpoet]

have u seen this bb?!?

inhaling those inhaler edits

[bodeckerhedron]

SEBASTIAN STAN as CHRIS BECK

➤• THE MARTIAN (2015) DIR. RIDLEY SCOTT

[chaseslittlewiatch]

SEBASTIAN STAN as CARTER BAIZEN

in GOSSIP GIRL (2008)

[elegantdeerbaran]

look at my doctors dawg i am such a fucking lesbian