Current Muse: Bucky Barnes

Just your average multifandom fan. 18+

[mutifandomkid]

Masterlist

Happy Anniversary Series

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part Four

Part Five

Epilogue

Ghost Among Men Series

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Drabbles

Long Work Day

[thatgirlmendo]

A Witness To A Becoming Masterlist

Summary: This is how monsters are made….and how someone learns to love one anyway.

You knew him before the radio show. Long before Hell, long before he became dangerous.

To you, he was always just, Alastor. And maybe that was the problem. Because by the time you realized what he was becoming, you were already in too deep.

The story of how you fall in love with a monster only to follow him in his decent to Hell.

Pairing: Human Alastor/Fem Reader

Notes: Sorry I’m back so soon I just can’t stop 🤣

Warnings: Plan for this to get pretty dark… but for now just some fun with my new loves check Ao3 for updated warnings and MDNI 🫶🏽

Current Word Count: 52.3k

Chapter: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty One, Twenty Two

[notherpuppet]

Alastor I love u so much

DO NOT REPOST

[thatgirlmendo]

A Witness To A Becoming Masterlist

Summary: This is how monsters are made….and how someone learns to love one anyway.

You knew him before the radio show. Long before Hell, long before he became dangerous.

To you, he was always just, Alastor. And maybe that was the problem. Because by the time you realized what he was becoming, you were already in too deep.

The story of how you fall in love with a monster only to follow him in his decent to Hell.

Pairing: Human Alastor/Fem Reader

Notes: Sorry I’m back so soon I just can’t stop 🤣

Warnings: Plan for this to get pretty dark… but for now just some fun with my new loves check Ao3 for updated warnings and MDNI 🫶🏽

Current Word Count: 39.3k

Chapter: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen…

[harveystan]

HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES, THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU... AND I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count 4.2 k

Note I have been thinking about this idea and wemm, what is Bucky Barnes without a bit of angst? I am sorry, they're so in love and are each other's anchor but sometimes... things happen but I swear they're gonna be okay... maybe.

The thing about Bucky Barnes was that he remembered too much. That was the problem everyone expected. The seventy years of ice and fire, the ghost of a face on a train, the cold whisper of a voice that wasn’t his own telling him who he was supposed to be. The weight of it was a physical thing, a granite slab on his chest that made the simple act of drawing breath a conscious effort on the bad days.

You had known about that weight from the start. You’d seen it in the way he’d sometimes stare at a steaming cup of coffee, his flesh hand frozen halfway to the handle, his eyes seeing not the chipped ceramic but the snows of the Alps. You’d learned to navigate those moments with a quiet that was louder than any words, a gentle press of your hand to the small of his back, a low hum of a song you knew he’d liked from a time before. You were patient. You were a shoreline, and he was a battered ship, and you let him come to rest against you in his own time.

But what neither of you had anticipated, what the files in Wakanda and the gentle questions from Dr. Raynor hadn’t fully prepared you for, was the forgetting.

It wasn’t the big, dramatic erasures of his past. It was the small things. The tiny, silverfish moments of the life you were painstakingly building together that would sometimes slip through the cracks of his miraculously repaired but still irrevocably damaged mind.

The first time it happened, you’d been together for eight months. He’d walked into the kitchen, a threadbare grey henley clinging to his shoulders, his hair still damp from the shower, and he’d opened the refrigerator. He’d stood there for a long moment, the cold air ghosting over his face, before pulling out a jar of pickles. Not just any pickles—the brand of spicy bread-and-butter pickles that you had spent three weeks searching for after he’d mentioned, in a rare moment of unguarded nostalgia, that his Ma used to make something like them.

He held the jar up, turning it over in his metal hand, a faint line appearing between his brows. “Hey,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. “Since when do we have these?”

You looked up from the stove where you were scrambling eggs, a spatula frozen mid-air. Your heart gave a strange, lurching stumble. “Since last Tuesday, love,” you said, keeping your voice light, your eyes searching his face. “We went to that farmer’s market in Park Slope, remember? You said they were the closest you’d found to your mom’s.”

He stared at the jar for another beat, then at you. The confusion in his eyes was not the deep, haunted fog of a PTSD episode. It was… blank. A tiny, pristine patch of white where a memory should have been. “Park Slope?” he echoed, the words tentative.

You set the spatula down, wiping your hands on your jeans. “Yeah,” you said, moving to stand beside him. You didn’t touch him, not yet, just leaned a shoulder against the refrigerator. “You told me about the time you and Steve tried to make her recipe and nearly burned the whole apartment down.”

He looked from your face back to the jar. For a terrifying second, the blankness remained, a void that made your stomach clench. Then, slowly, something flickered in his eyes. A spark, then a glow. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound that was still too rare. “Right,” he said, the word a quiet exhalation. “The fire department came. Mrs. O’Malley from downstairs was convinced we were running a bootleg operation.” He put the jar back on the shelf and closed the fridge door, turning to face you. He didn’t apologize. You’d agreed early on; No apologies for the scars the world had carved into him. Instead, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his flesh fingers lingering on the curve of it. “Scrambled eggs?” he asked, his voice soft, the question a gentle redirection, a way of saying I’m back.

You leaned into his touch for a second, letting the solid warmth of him reassure the frantic beat of your heart. “With the good cheese.” you confirmed, and went back to the stove, your movements deliberate.

That was the pattern. It wasn’t a deluge; it was a slow, persistent drip. A leak in the foundation of his present.

A month later, you were on the couch, a documentary about deep-sea creatures playing on the TV. He was sprawled out, his head in your lap, your fingers absently carding through his hair, which was getting long enough to curl at the ends. You loved this, these quiet evenings where the world outside your apartment ceased to exist. He was relaxed, a rare and precious state, his vibranium arm a cool, heavy weight across your thighs, his flesh hand resting on your knee, thumb tracing lazy circles on your jeans.

“Look at that,” you murmured, as a bioluminescent jellyfish bloomed across the screen, a cascade of otherworldly light in the abyssal dark. “It’s like a tiny galaxy.”

He hummed in agreement, his eyes half-lidded. “Steve would’ve hated this,” he said, a hint of old affection in his voice. “Too quiet. He’d be itching to go fight it.”

You smiled. “Not everything needs to be fought, Buck.”

“Tell that to him,” he muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.

A comfortable silence settled over you, broken only by the narrator’s low voice and the crackle of the sea. Your fingers continued their path through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear, the strong line of his jaw. You felt the exact moment it happened. The thumb on your knee stopped its circling. His body, which had been loose-limbed and heavy, went taut, just for a second.

He sat up slowly, his movements careful, as if navigating a room in the dark. He looked at the TV, then around the living room—at the framed print of a French market you’d hung, at the well-worn copy of The Hobbit on the coffee table he’d been rereading, at the soft throw blanket you’d bought because he was always cold.

He looked at you.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice was different. It wasn’t panicked, but it was… cautious. As if he was testing the ground. “What are we watching?”

You felt the familiar lurch in your chest, but you’d learned to hide it, to smooth it over with a calm you’d had to cultivate. “Deep-sea documentary,” you said, keeping your voice as even as the ocean the narrator was describing. “The one about the Mariana Trench.”

He nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. He looked from your face to the TV and back again. He lifted his metal hand, looking at it as if it might provide answers. “Right,” he said, but it was hollow. He didn’t remember.

You didn’t reach for him. You’d learned that, too. Sometimes, touch felt like a trap when his mind was playing tricks on him. “You picked it,” you said, a gentle prompt. “You said you wanted to see if they’d finally found anything weirder than a Hydra science division.”

His gaze sharpened on you, a flicker of the old Bucky—the one with the sharp wit and the quick grin—cutting through the fog. “That’s a low bar,” he said, the ghost of a sardonic edge to his voice. He looked at the screen again, where a frilled shark was gliding through the inky water, its prehistoric form eerie and magnificent. “I… I remember the shark,” he said slowly, the words coming with effort, like he was pulling them up from a deep well. “The one with the… the frilly teeth.”

You nodded, a small smile on your face, your heart aching. “You said it looked like something that would’ve given Steve nightmares.”

A real laugh then, short and rusty, but real. He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture exhausted. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I did.” He leaned back against the couch, not quite returning to his previous position, but settling his shoulder against yours. He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s gone,” he said, the admission a whisper. “I was watching it. The jellyfish. The pretty ones that look like stars. And then… it just… wasn’t there anymore.”

You turned your head, your cheek almost brushing his arm. You could feel the tension still humming through him, a low-voltage current of frustration and fear. “It came back,” you said. “The shark. The joke about Steve.”

“It did,” he agreed, his jaw tight. He turned his head to look at you, and in the dim light of the TV, he looked younger, and more lost than you’d ever seen him. “But what if next time it doesn’t?”

It was the question that hung between you, unspoken, every time. The fear that one day, the blank spaces wouldn’t just be about pickles and documentaries. That he’d look at you and see a stranger. That the life you’d so carefully woven together would unravel in his mind, thread by thread.

You didn’t give him platitudes. You’d never lied to him. “Then we’ll build it again,” you said simply. “We’re good at that.”

He stared at you for a long, breathless moment. Then, slowly, the tension in his jaw eased. He reached for your hand, his flesh fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing tight. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. He just pulled your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat over the steady, sturdy beat of his heart, and turned his attention back to the screen, where the trench was giving way to a coral reef, a riot of color and life in the sunlit shallows.

The worst one, the one that carved a new worry-line beside your mouth, happened on a Sunday.

It was a good day. The best kind. You’d woken up late, tangled in the sheets, the morning sun painting golden stripes across the bedroom floor. He’d made breakfast—actual pancakes, from scratch, a recipe he said his sister Rebecca used to make—and the apartment had smelled of vanilla and maple syrup. You’d eaten on the small balcony, even though it was October and the air was crisp, huddled together in a thick blanket, sharing a mug of coffee. He’d been laughing, really laughing, at some story you were telling about your own disastrous attempt to impress a high school crush with homemade pasta, his smile wide and unburdened, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

It was in the afternoon that it slipped.

You were cleaning up. A mundane, domestic task. You were at the sink, washing the pancake-mottled mixing bowl, humming a song that had been stuck in your head all week. He was beside you, drying a plate with a dish towel, the easy rhythm of your bodies moving in the small space a choreography born of months of proximity.

He was telling you about a new training protocol Sam had been developing, something about aerial combat maneuvers that sounded, in his words, "like a recipe for a spectacularly painful face-plant".

You laughed, rinsing the bowl. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, well, ‘knowing’ and ‘doing’ are two very different things when a vibranium wing pack is involved,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He set the plate in the cabinet, his movements easy.

You handed him the now-clean bowl, and as he took it, his fingers brushed yours. A casual, everyday touch. His hand paused on the bowl. He didn’t take it.

You looked up, expecting to see him lost in another memory, a distant look in his eyes. But his gaze wasn’t distant. It was focused entirely on you, but with an intensity that was new, unsettling. He was looking at your face as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, questioning. He put the bowl down on the counter without looking. His flesh hand came up, hovering just by your cheek, not quite touching. “You’ve got… there’s flour, honey.” He gestured vaguely. “On your… here.” His fingertip finally made contact, brushing gently over the apple of your cheek.

You smiled, leaning into the touch. “I know. You’re the one who flicked it at me, remember? When I said the batter was too runny?”

He blinked. His hand dropped back to his side. The flicker of confusion was there, the blank patch spreading across his features like a stain. He looked from your face to the bowl, to the batter-splattered counter, to the sun streaming in from the balcony where you’d been huddled together not two hours ago. It was all there, the evidence of your shared morning, but his eyes said it didn’t compute.

“We… made pancakes?” he asked, the question small, uncertain.

Your stomach dropped. This was different. This wasn’t a detail from a week ago. This was just couple hours ago. A memory still warm, still fragrant with maple syrup, and it was dissolving in his mind.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice steady, though your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the dish towel. “You made your sister Rebecca’s recipe. You said she used to make them on Sundays when your parents were at church.”

He stared at you, a war playing out behind his eyes. You could see him reaching, grasping for the thread of it. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his temple. He looked at his own hands, the flesh one and the metal one, as if they might hold the answer.

“Rebecca,” he repeated, the name grounding him, a rock in the shifting sands. “Becca.” His gaze softened, a memory of the memory taking hold. “My Becks, she—she would always put too many chocolate chips in mine. Ma would get mad at the mess.”

“You put chocolate chips in mine this morning,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. You took a step closer, closing the small distance between you. You placed your hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling the rapid, anxious beat. “And then you flicked flour at me.”

He closed his eyes. His hand came up to cover yours, pressing it harder against his chest. He stood there for a long moment, just breathing, his forehead dipping to rest against yours. You could feel the fine tremor running through him, the sheer force of will it was taking for him to hold onto the present moment.

“I’m sorry,” he finally rasped, the words you’d told him he never had to say.

“Don’t,” you said, your own voice thick. “What did we say?”

“No apologies,” he recited, the words automatic, but his voice was strained, cracking at the edges. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was one of raw, unvarnished terror. “It’s getting worse.”

“It’s not getting worse,” you countered, though a cold tendril of fear coiled in your own gut. “It’s the same. It’s just… it’s a good day, Buck. A really good day. Your brain is…” you searched for the right word, “…relaxed. Sometimes the holes are bigger when you’re relaxed.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “A great system. I have to be on guard against happiness.”

You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs stroking the sharp line of his cheekbones. “No,” you said firmly. “You don’t. Because I’m here. And I’ll remember for both of us.”

He looked at you for a long, agonizing moment, the fear slowly receding from his eyes, replaced by something deeper, something that looked like gratitude and love and a bone-deep exhaustion all mixed together. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm.

“The pancakes were good,” he said, his voice hoarse but steadier now. “Becca’s recipe. I remember… I remember they were good.”

You smiled, and it was watery, but it was real. “They were perfect.”

He pulled you into his arms then, a full-body embrace, wrapping himself around you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of shifting sand. You held him back just as tightly, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace to a steady, grounding rhythm.

It became your secret. Yours alone. He didn’t tell Sam, who would look at him with that earnest, worried frown and start talking about support groups and neurology specialists. He didn’t tell Steve, who was on the moon or in another dimension or whatever it was that retired super-soldiers did, and who would drop everything to come back and try to fix it with a stubborn optimism that Bucky no longer had the energy for. He didn’t tell the Wakandans, who would see it as a flaw in their programming, a bug to be fixed, and would whisk him away to a sterile lab.

He told only you.

And you held it for him. You held the memories of the Saturday mornings and the spontaneous walks in the park and the inside jokes that were born and died in the span of a single conversation. You became the archivist of your life together.

You kept a journal. Not a secret one, but one you left on the coffee table, its cover worn, its pages filled with your neat handwriting. You’d never told him about it, but you knew he’d seen it. He’d never said anything, but you’d seen the way his eyes would linger on it sometimes, a mix of curiosity and something like relief.

It was a safety net. A map back.

October 14th: Tried to make Becca’s pancakes. Bucky flicked flour at me. I retaliated with maple syrup. The kitchen is a disaster zone. Worth it.

October 21st: Walked to the pier. Bucky fed the seagulls even though I told him not to. He says they’re “veterans of the sky.” One of them stole his hat.

November 5th: Movie night. He picked 'Mean Girls' just because. He laughed at all the right parts. He held my hand the whole time. He said Regina Georgehas nothing on him. I said I know.

November 18th: Found him standing in front of the open fridge again, staring at the pickles. He asked if we’d always had them. I said yes. I told him the story about the farmer’s market again, and about Steve and the fire department. He listened like it was the first time he’d ever heard it. When I finished, he said, “You have a good memory.” I said, “I have to. One of us does.” He didn’t laugh. He just pulled me into a hug and held on for a long, long time.

Some nights, he’d find you writing in it. He’d lean against the doorframe of the living room, arms crossed over his chest, watching the pen move across the page. He never asked what you were writing. He didn’t need to.

One night, he walked over and sat on the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. He was quiet for a long moment, the weight of him a familiar, comforting presence. Then, without a word, he reached for the journal.

You let him take it, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest.

He didn’t open it. He just held it in his hands, running his flesh thumb over the worn cover, feeling the impressions your pen had left on the pages beneath. He stared at it for a long, silent minute, the lamplight catching the blue of his eyes, making them look almost translucent.

“I’m scared,” he said, his voice so low it was almost lost in the quiet hum of the apartment. “That one day I’ll look at you and I won’t just forget the pancakes or the pickles or the damn jellyfish.” He finally looked up, meeting your eyes. “I’m scared I’ll forget… this. Us. What it feels like to… to be here. With you.”

Your throat tightened. You’d had this fear too, of course you had, but hearing him say it, hearing the raw, unguarded terror in his voice, made it real in a way you’d been fighting to keep at bay.

You reached out, taking the journal from his hands and setting it aside on the coffee table. Then you took his face in your hands, the same way you had in the kitchen that Sunday, forcing him to look at you.

“Then I’ll remind you,” you said, your voice fierce despite the tears you could feel pricking at your eyes. “Every single day. I’ll tell you about the first time you let me touch your metal arm. I’ll tell you about the way you look when you laugh at your own jokes, even when they’re not funny. I’ll tell you about the night you woke up screaming and I held you for three hours and you told me about Steve, about falling, about all of it, and then you fell asleep with your head in my lap and I never moved, not once, because I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“I’ll tell you,” you continued, your voice breaking, “about how you make pancakes on Sundays and flick flour at me. About how you think seagulls are veterans of the sky. About how you hold my hand when we watch old movies. I’ll tell you until my voice gives out, Buck. I’ll tell you until you remember, or I’ll tell you until it becomes a new memory, and then I’ll tell you again. I’m not going anywhere.”

He made a sound then, something between a sob and a laugh, and he pulled you into him, burying his face in your hair. His arms wrapped around you, the metal arm cool through your shirt, the flesh arm burning hot, and he held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair, the words muffled but unmistakable. “I don’t want to forget that I love you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears finally falling, soaking into his shirt. “You won’t,” you said, and you willed it to be true with every fiber of your being. “Because I’ll be here to remind you. Every day. As many times as you need.”

He held you tighter, and for a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant wail of a siren from the street below, and the steady, synchronizing rhythm of your breathing.

Eventually, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet, but there was something in his face that hadn’t been there before. A loosening. A letting go. He looked at you—really looked—and a small, tremulous smile touched his lips.

“You have flour on your cheek,” he said, his voice rough.

You let out a startled laugh, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “It’s not flour, it’s—“

“I know,” he said softly. He reached up, his flesh hand cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing away a tear. “I’m just… I’m making a new memory.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at him, at the man who had been broken and rebuilt and broken again, who had more reasons than anyone to give up, and you saw him choosing, in this moment, to hold on. To you. To this. To the life you were building in the spaces between the seconds he lost.

You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his palm. “That’s a good one,” you whispered. “A really good one.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, and for a moment, the world outside the small circle of lamplight ceased to exist. There was no Hydra, no Winter Soldier, no blank spaces or lost memories. There was only him, and you, and the quiet, radical act of staying.

“Tell me another one,” he murmured, his eyes falling closed. “From the journal. The one about the seagull.”

You smiled, shifting closer, letting your body curve into his. Your fingers found his, intertwining, and you began to speak, your voice a low, steady current in the quiet room.

“October 21st,” you said, and you could feel him settle against you, the tension draining from his shoulders, his breath evening out. “Walked to the pier. Bucky fed the seagulls even though I told him not to…”

And as you spoke the memory back into existence, weaving it into the air between you with the patient, practiced ease of someone who had become fluent in the language of remembering, you felt him squeeze your hand.

He was listening. He was holding on.

And for now, for tonight, that was enough.

[millenniallust4death]

I’m paying to force seven thousand strangers to see a photo of my late husband having fun with his dog. Tumblr Blaze is totally worth it. XD

[millenniallust4death]

Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️

[xn3city]

Reblog to have your dashboard be visited by the spirit of joy that death can end but not erase.

[leavescrown]

Love that this is well beyond 7000 people now and still going

[millenniallust4death]

@leavescrown Exactly! It’s a beautiful gift. Martin and Bosco out there travelling around the Tumblr community, continually making new friends.

[millenniallust4death]

@sseanettles

#hello again martin and bosco!! sending you boys round for another go :)

Reading your tag made me laugh out loud. It’s like two old friends unexpectedly stopped by your porch for a quick visit. XD

[petermorwood]

I’ll always reblog Martin and Bosco when they splash across my dash, because of Reasons.

What’s loved, lives.

[mutifandomkid]

Ghost Among Men

Part Four

Pairings: Buckyxcontractkillerreader

Been a hot minute since I've added to this fic, hope this is alright, just using this chapter to get me back into writing. :)

Warnings: Not really any that I can think of besides mentions of reader being drugged in last chapter. Steve Rodgers, Tony Stark.

Word Count 1K

By the time you woke, you were already in the medical unit of the avengers tower, on the fifty-seventh floor. Bucky was nowhere to be seen, neither was Tony or Steve. You were alone in the room, surrounded by medical equipment. You had cords going underneath your medical gown, resting above your heart. An IV cord was inserted in your arm, and a pulse reader on your finger. Your vitals read on the screen next to the heart monitor.

The room smelled of chemicals, and it was cold. The bed was uncomfortable and stiff, the sheets clean by rough and textured. Everything in the room was white save for the monitors, which were varying shades of grey. Through the window to your left, was a lifeless, grey cloudy sky. Some rain fell, but not enough to soak the ground, just a measly boring drizzle. You could hear the thunder booming, yet no lighting was seen.

A nurse walked in, blonde hair, red lips, and relaxed eyeshadow. “Good morning, Y/n. I see you’ve finally come back to the land of the living.” She smiled, greeting you.

Your brow furrowed in confusion, and you attempted to speak, only a breathless whisper escaped your throat. You coughed, and she handed you a glass of water, which you sniff before taking a small sip.

“My name is Nurse Jessica, you’re probably wondering how long you’ve been out for,” The nurse continued, not waiting for a clear response. “Not long, only a few hours. The drug you ingested was a mix of two different types of nervous system depressants. Rohypnol and GHB, both of which are big uses in date rape drugs.” She explained.

You continued to sip the water, staring at her as she spoke. She seemed knowledgable, telling you all of this information, but you already knew where you fucked up, you didn’t need her to explain that. “Where’s Bucky?” You croaked out.

“Mr. Barnes is fine,” She answered.

“Is he here?”

“I'm afraid not, he left after dropping you off.”

You don’t know why you felt my chest deflate, or why you felt disappointed. You was a bitch to him, and you hated each other anyway.

“Where’s Steve?” You asked her.

“He just left to get some coffee, I imagine he’ll be back momentarily.” She answered, double checking my vitals on the screen and then excusing herself from the room.

Steve walked in a few minutes later, nearly dropping his coffee when he saw you awake in the bed. He sat down on the seat next to the bed.

“Hi,” You croaked out, sipping the water some more.

“Hey,” He smiled, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want to get the hell out of here.” You mumbled.

Steve chuckled, “You haven’t even been in here a full twenty-four hours.”

“That's too long,” You stated, coughing some more and Steve assisted you in drinking some more. You pushed it away after a sip. “What happened after I was drugged?”

“Y/n, you haven’t even been up for a full hour-.” Steve protested, but you abruptly cut him off.

“Steve,” You stated firmly.

Steve sighed, and gave you a quick rundown of what happened, and then ended the story with Bucky leaving you in the medical unit.

“So where is he now?” You found yourself asking.

Steve shrugged, a frown on his lips. “I don’t know. He mentioned something about me being your boyfriend before he left.” Steve chuckled. “I never pegged Bucky for the jealous type.”

“He’s not jealous of you, and you’re not my boyfriend.” You mumbled. “Why’d he leave?’

“I don’t know, Y/n, he just left.” Steve answered.

“How long ago?”

Steve thought for a moment, “Probably like an hour after he brought you.”

“And he didn’t say anything else?”

“Nope.”

You were discharged from the hospital a few hours later. They’d originally wanted to keep you for forty-eight hours, but ended up letting you out around the thirty-six hour mark, courtesy of Steve charming the nurses.

You walked into the common room of the avengers campus, the place looking exactly the same. Clean, the 96’ TV still hung on the wall, the lights still casting the room like it would in a sports bar. The only difference was the curtains, in which for once they were closed instead of open, the sunlight hidden. You trudged your way down the hall, turning left at the end and entering your room. The lights were off, lit by the small amount of sunlight that peeked out over the curtain rod. You flipped on the lightswitch, setting your small hospital bag down by the door as you did so. Your room looked the same.

Tony knocked on the doorway of you bedroom, leaning on it when you turned to face him

“Hey, deadshot.” He greeted. “How you feelin’?”

“Good, I suppose.” You answered.

He nodded and walked into the room, closing the door behind him. “Good news and bad news, which one do you want first?”

“Bad.” You answered, unpacking what little items you had in your medical bag.

“I’m removing you from any upcoming missions. I know I can’t keep you from your…contracts, but you're off for the avengers.” Tony explained.

“You’re kidding? Just because I was drugged?” You asked, glaring at him over your shoulder.

Tony sighed. “Its temporary, just until I know we’ve successfully wiped your face off the internet so the bozos don’t tempt you with a good time.” Tony muttered.

“If i wanted that I would’ve done it myself.” You snapped.

“It’s safer for the avengers if our enemies don’t know you work with us.” Tony shot back. “You know better than to argue when Fury makes the decision.”

“You’re the avengers.” You deadpanned, when Tony didn’t look amused you stood down. “Yeah, yeah fine whatever.” You muttered underneath your breath, going back to putting away your belongings.

“On a brighter note, when we assign you back on missions, you’ll be solo again.” Tony said. “Barnes asked to be transferred after he dropped you off in Medbay.”

________

Tags:

@greatenthusiattidalwave @sebbymybaby21 @vicmc624 @cinnamon-bun47 @capswife @440mxs-wife @supersoldiers1xt @missvelvetsstuff @bonnyclydecat @marajade1974 @caity1995 @buckitostan @httpswilloww @cjand10 @valckenaux

[mutifandomkid]

Crazy to think ive been gone for a hot minute. guess who has her own computer now so i can actually continue fanfics :D

[lzbth-deactivated20150219]

LOOK HOW MANY FLYERS HAVE BEEN STUck on tHIS LAMPOST?? germans are crazy

[moritatt]

there is no lamp post its pure flyer

[clairewolf1992-blog]

You could carbon date this to the ice age

[monkeychewtoy]

peeling back layers until I reveal martin luther’s 95 theses

[professionalchaoticdumbass]

im gonna fuck it

[strange-and-stupid]

And here we have the 4 most common types of tumblr users in their natural habitat

[twerkforambrose]

Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes The Thunderbolts*

[itzzkaylaaa]

It’s been a year since the Cannes Festival, seeing this ray of sunshine.

God, I love the long hair era. Who knew this was when they were filming the Thunderbolts* movie?

I miss his hair, so ignore me simping over these photos. My man. So handsome.

[buckyalpine]

High on meds Bucky who keeps howling about how you put bee bum juice in his tea.

"Bucky, it's just honey-

"BEE. BUM. JUICE"

You arched a brow at the prominent pout that stayed plastered on Bucky's face as he sat swaddled in a blanket on the couch with his arms crossed against his chest.

"You always like honey in your tea Buck, it's good for you, it'll help your sore throat-

"She's putting bee bum juice in my tea!" Bucky shrieked as Steve walked by, refusing to take a sip of what you'd made for him countless times before.

"Bee bum juice...?" Steve's face scrunched while his best friend huffed, still deeply offended at the tea spoon of sweetness you stirred into his drink.

"Honey. I put honey in his tea" You said in exasperation, "He's on antibiotics for a sore throat. Of all things to take him down, this-" You motined to the bundle of blankets containing 1 super soldier inside, "this is what does it"

"Here, let me try" Steve took the cup from you and sat beside Bucky, putting it on the table when Bucky shuffled away from him, wracking his brain over what he could eat or drink in his current state.

"Okay, how about some chicken soup-

"BOILED BIRD WATER"

"Buck, you love chicken soup, it's your fav-

"BOILED. BIRD. WATER"

"Fuck"

[heartpeacenquiet]

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. this user loves the night sky 　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

[iraot]

Your media consumption is your responsibility. If you need someone to hand hold you while reading fanfiction to tell you whats right and wrong then you're not mature of enough to be here.

[mutifandomkid]

Ghost Among Men

Part Three

Pairings: Buckyxcontractkillerreader

Warnings: Angst, fighting, physical burns, arguments, human auctions (brief, not much detail), reader gets drugged, manipulation, creepy dudes, mission with Bucky, death, Bucky kills people, exfiltration, Hawkeye, big gala, think that's it?

Please tell me if there's more warnings.

Word Count: 6.5k

By the time Bucky woke, you were nowhere to be found. He slowly sat up from the bench, how did you manage to leave the deck of the jet without waking him? He surveyed the empty deck, your bench had already been put back up, and it was like you were never there to begin with. Where the hell could you have gone in this tiny jet, and he wouldn’t have known?

Bucky got up off his bench, folding it back into the wall and then walking the deck towards the cockpit. It was there he found you, headset on, speaking softly into the mic as you flipped through the controls. He visibly sneered, how the hell did he not hear you? How were you so quiet? 

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes.” You said, not sparing him a glance as you flipped a few more controls and then typed into the command console quickly. “I’d suggest you take a seat, I’ll be landing this bird soon.”

Bucky grumbled underneath his breath before taking a seat in the co-pilot's seat. Looking out the cockpit window, he could see a private airport, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Where are we going?” He asked you, glancing over at you. 

You didn’t miss as he chewed his lip. “Have to put the bird down so we’re not obvious.” You answered as if it was common sense, which in a sense, it was.

“Well yeah,” He grumbled back sarcastically. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s one of my private airports.” You answered.

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Yours?” 

“Tony isn’t the only rich one you know.” You answered, nearing the runway. “Clients always manage to pay the right price for my…services.” 

Bucky’s eyes squinted at you in suspicion. “Exactly how many clients do you have?” 

“Classified.” You clipped, landing the jet then pulling it into a hangar. “Let’s go.” You said after you flipped off the controls and disappeared into the back of the jet, just behind the deck into the storage compartments. 

Bucky followed silently watching as you entered the storage compartment and started grabbing the few bags both of you had brought. He caught his easily when you threw it at him, picking up your own and walking out of the jet. Again, Bucky followed behind you silently. 

A large man stood at the edge of the hangar, dressed in black, about 6’ tall, young, maybe early twenties. Bucky watched him warily as you approached him. 

“Kliment.” You said, smiling as you greeted the man. “Nice to see you once again.” 

“Miss Y/n.” He greeted with a nod, his accent distinctly Russian. 

Bucky noticed how the man, Kilment, eyed him, seemingly sizing up the super soldier. Bucky scowled in response, noting how Kliment held his left hand in his pocket. Possible weapon, and the way that Kliment held himself, he was sore in his right knee. Easy target. 

“At ease, both of you.” You said, merely glancing at the two men as you continued walking. Bucky bristled with annoyance at your command, but noted how Kliment immediately relaxed at your command. Bucky again eyed you suspiciously, just how powerful were you?

“Let the men know that the Winter Soldier is no threat here, unless I specifically state otherwise.” You told Kliment, who nodded and walked away with the order. Bucky bristled with anger and followed you outside the hangar.

“I’m not the winter soldier anymore, you know that.” He snapped, following you into what seemed like a private armory. He swiftly took in the new surroundings before turning back to you, seething.

“I’m aware, but it's best if they don’t know that.” You answered, grabbing a few knife holsters and the matching blades. 

“Oh? And why is that, hm?” Bucky responded sarcastically. 

“Yes, well I’d rather not have them finding out about your…free agency,” You said, grabbing a few small guns and depositing them onto your person in various places. “Don’t feel like dealing with the real winter soldier while we're on this mission.” 

“The words don’t work on me anymore.” Bucky snarled. “So who cares if they know or not?” 

“I do.” You replied curtly.

“Quit playing fucking games with me, Ghost.” Bucky snapped, grabbing you by the collar of your t-shirt and yanking you to him, up close and personal. “Who the hell are you? Really?” 

You looked at him as if you were bored. 

“I asked you a question.” He snapped, and when he still received no response, he sneered and shoved you away from him, letting go of your collar. You caught your footing easily, going back to the previous task of stocking yourself up on weapons. 

“You know, I don’t understand you.” Bucky retorted. “One minute you’re talkative and you won’t fucking shut up, but then when I actually want answers, you’re silent. So what’s your game here?” 

“I don’t have a game.” You answered. “Just a mission that I intend on getting done so we can go back to hating each other and ignoring each other’s presence.” 

“You’re excruciating.” He growled.

“Yes, well I try.” You answered, grabbing your last gun and shoving it into a holster tucked underneath your arm. 

You had at least nine weapons on you that he knew of, Bucky lost count after that. He scowled at you, then left the armory, and you followed him out this time. 

Outside of the armory room, and back outside there was a blacked out mazda, sleek enough to show speed, but common enough to hide the wealth. Bucky noted the clever thinking regarding your choice of car as you got into the driver’s seat. He threw his bag into the back seat and slipped into the passenger’s seat without a word, and stayed quiet as you drove out of the private airport and got onto the main roads. 

The drive to the safehouse wasn’t long, Bucky silent the whole time. Simply watching you from his peripheral. He didn’t say a word when you turned on the radio, Motley Crue playing through the speakers. Didn’t say a word when you turned up the volume to drown out the awkward silence either. The man was silent and still, like a stone statue in an art museum. 

Bucky eyes the safehouse, seeing it was a large mansion, and he scowled. “Doesn’t seem like a very ‘safe’ house.” He muttered. 

“Courtesy of Tony.” You admitted quietly, “If I had it my way, we’d be staying somewhere less…obvious.” 

Bucky hummed curtly  in response, waiting till you pulled into the driveway of the mansion, then parking in the spacious garage. He got out of the car first, not bothering to look back and check if you got out okay when he opened the door to the back seat, grabbed his bag, and left the garage, entering the kitchen. 

You sighed, putting the car in park before shutting off the engine and getting out, grabbing your bag from the back seat as well, and following behind him a ways into the mansion. Inside the building was white and spacious. The windows were large, there were a few complimentary dashes of silver, like the ones that aligned along with the glass railings on the staircases. The art decor that lined the walls was black and white, matching the almost completely white interior of the house. 

Bucky watched you from a few rooms down the hall, seeing as you gawked at the interior. He had done the same previously, just made it less obvious. It was clear to Bucky that you had never been here before. He turned away when you turned to walk down the hall, in his direction. He would never admit it, but despite how cruel your words had been earlier, and how annoyingly mysterious you proceeded to be, he did find your curiosity to be almost…cute. 

You walked up stairs, Bucky following you at a distance in the mansion, he watched as you disappeared into the farthest bedroom down the hall on the right of the main staircase, Bucky going down the hallway on the left of the staircase, making his way to the farthest bedroom down the hall. 

Neither of you saw each other until later that night, when you had wandered into the kitchen around 3 am, getting a cup of coffee after stressing over the gala you and Bucky would be attending later that day. You hadn’t gotten more than 3 hours of sleep, and had finally given up, hence starting the coffee pot that early in the morning.

Bucky had sat on the couch in the living room. He didn’t say a word when you’d passed through the room on your way to the kitchen, nor had you said a word to him. Both of you just glancing at each other, the brief eye contact serving the prior tension from your earlier exchange that day. At this point you were just tired, but Bucky still held that painful anger in his eyes, softer than before. 

You rubbed your temples, trying to push off the headache you could feel brewing behind your skin. Bucky silently made his way to the kitchen, curious as to what you were doing awake. He stared at you from the doorway, his stance cautious, muscles coiled as if ready to fight, or flee even. He watched as you searched the cabinets, then grabbed a white mug, placing it on the black and white marbled countertop. You leaned over the counter top, elbows resting on the surface, head in your hands, hair tousled as your fingers sunk into it. 

The frown never left Bucky’s face, but he finally spoke, his voice spooking you in the still silence of the empty mansion. “Everything okay?” Even with the frown, he angered and hurt eyes still held the smallest hint of concern, before flicking away from your gaze.

You sighed softly before straightening to answer his question. “Yeah, just going over the plan for tomorrow, er, later tonight.” The coffee machine beeped softly, and you turned to grab the pot. 

“For the gala?” Bucky asked quietly.

“Yeah,” You answered, grabbing your mug and pouring the coffee, only missing the mug entirely, and scalding your hand with the hot coffee. “Shit!” 

Bucky moved instantly, grabbing the pot of coffee and the mug from your hands and setting it aside, before grabbing you gently by the arm, far gentler than you expected, and running cold water from the sink onto the red skin on your hand. “You need to be more careful.” He murmured softly, turning to grab a towel and clean up the spilled coffee. 

You said nothing, just watched quietly as he wiped down the counter and the floor, then walked back over, placing the dirtied towel on the side of the sink, and examined your hand. “You’re lucky it wasn’t any hotter,” He abruptly cut himself off, but you still caught it, even if he did try to make it subtle.

“Thank you.” You finally managed to whisper, his hands still holding yours gently as he examined the slightly burned skin. It was then you felt bad for being so rude to him earlier, so inconsiderate. You felt the apology at the back of your throat, but held it back. 

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered under his breath. 

His hands were a stark contrast from each other, one warm and soft with calluses on his skin, the other cold, with small dips and slants from the intricate workings of the metal. You would be lying if you said the mixture of his eyes examining your skin and the contrast of his hands didn’t take your breath away. Your eyes slowly lifted from his hands to look at his face. 

The soft curve of the frown in his lip, the softness around the corners of his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow, the small hint of concern in his blue eyes. The scruff along his jaw, the way his lips parted just slightly before pressing into a firm line. “You’ll be fine by tomorrow, пальцы с маслом.” The words as they feel from his lips, so soft, so gentle, and the russian phrase…you had no idea what it meant, but you didn’t want him to stop saying it anytime soon. 

His eyes finally lifted to meet your gaze, and you darted your gaze down to your scalded hand. “You think so?” Your voice was a little higher than usual, breathier. You silently cursed yourself and prayed that your cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. 

“Yeah.” He answered, finally letting go of your hand. You bit your tongue to keep the disappointed whimper from leaving your lips. “Go get some rest, Y/n.” He said softly. “Still have about,” He checked the clock on the wall. “16 hours before you need to start getting ready.”

You glanced at the clock, clearing your throat as you did so. “Uh, yeah, yeah.” You said, still slightly flustered. You stood there for a moment, and he made no move to shoo you away either, so you finally turned to walk out of the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway. “Um, Bucky?” You said, debating on turning fully around, you glanced over your shoulder, he was standing there, but it didn’t seem like he was listening. 

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch earlier.” You said quietly, positive he wasn’t listening. “Next time you have questions I’ll answer them the best I can.” You left the room, retreating back to your bedroom down the hallway to the right, the furthest room down the hall.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was listening, and his anger dissipated with your soft apology. Granted, it was small, quiet, but Bucky didn’t care. All he seemed to care about was the fact that you had acknowledged that your words had hurt him, and you apologized for it. Maybe you weren’t so bad?

______

You found yourself, 17 hours later, doing the finishing touches on your makeup. It was a simplistic look, natural and it blended with your skin. You did a quick gloss to your lip before sliding on the thigh highs, holding them up with a lacy garter belt, the material black and soft. After slipping on the thigh highs and garter belt, you grabbed the dress that Tony had sent in a few days before your arrival.

It was a simple black silk, long and flowy. The dress had a cross halter top, leaving a little diamond on the vertebral rib of your torso. The dress cascaded down your legs, a high slit up your right leg, stopping just below the garter belt. The middle of the dress was accentuated with various strips of silk hugging closely to your body, creating that hourglass figure effortlessly. You slipped on the shoes Tony bought to match with it. The louboutin, Kate styled, 100 mm pumps, with the black leather, and the red sole. You let your hair fall out of the heatless curlers, you did a brief brush through the locks, your long hair cascading down your shoulders and framing your face. 

You walked out of your bedroom, and made your way down the hall. Bucky was already at the bottom of the staircase, having called out your name a few moments prior. At the sound of your heels, Bucky turned to see you walking down the stairs. He was dressed in a black suit, with a black dress shirt, and a matching black tie. His hair slicked back, showing off the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He wore white gloves, masking his mental hand.His lips parted slightly, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of you walking down the stairs. 

When you reached the bottom of the steps, he swallowed and cleared his throat. “You clean up well.” He muttered, his eyes still raking over your body.

“Don’t look too bad yourself, Barnes.” You replied, taking in his appearance. The way he was looking at you, the way he looked in the suit with his hair slightly slicked back, it definitely did something, and you could only hope he didn’t see it on your face. He pulled two rings out of his pocket, slipping one onto your left ring finger, and slipping the other one his left ring finger. 

He gestured to the garage door, in which you walked in front of him and into the garage, walking towards one of Tony’s Bugattis. The car was grey, and definitely had that rich look. Bucky walked ahead of you, going over to the driver’s side and slipping into the vehicle. Leaving you get your door. You slipped into the car, grabbing the discrete earbuds, and tiny cameras on pins. Bucky started the car, and you handed him an ear piece and one of the pins. 

“What’s this?” He asked, taking them and putting the ear piece into his ear and pinning the pin onto the lapel of his jacket. 

“Tony designed them for me, earbuds are for if we get separated, or we need to communicate with the rest of the team.” You explained as Bucky started driving to Mr. ZInc’s mansion for the ball. “The pins have cameras that will send the feed it captures to the compound, where Tony and Steve will be looking it over.” 

“Have it all planned out, dollface?” Bucky asked, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it, and he tensed immediately and tried to play it off as he continued driving and turned down another street.

“Dollface?” You laughed, using the teasing to hide the blush on your cheeks. “Thought you only used that for your girls.” 

Bucky bristled. “I don’t have any girls.” 

“Please,” You said sarcastically. “You’re telling me a guy like you doesn’t have girls chasing after you 24/7?” 

“No,” He snapped. “Nobody wants the Winter Soldier,” he said, his voice softer, vulnerable. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t,” You started softly, but he interrupted you before you could finish.

“It’s fine, I get it a lot.” 

“I- you do?” 

“Yeah.” He responded,his voice terse. It was then you realized he had already closed the door, his walls back up.

The rest of the car ride to the mansion was spent in silence. When we got there, Bucky shut off the car and stepped out, tossing one of the valets the keys, and rounding to my door, grabbing it and opening it for you, holding out his hand for you to grab. You placed your hand in his, and let him help you out of the car, instantly linking your arm with his as you walked into the casino. 

The tense atmosphere that he had just moments ago in the car had melted away, and both of you acted like a newlywed couple in the honeymoon stage. Your hands were interlinked, your arms around his one arm, he was confident as he walked. 

“Name?” The man, assumedly a guard, at the private section of the mansion asked. 

“Dean Smith,” Bucky answered confidently. “And this is my lovely wife, Katy Smith.” He smiled as if he was the happiest man in the world.

The guard nodded, and stepped aside, letting you two through and into where the main party was. You hung onto Bucky’s arm as he walked among the crowd, smiling politely and greeting people when necessary. It was almost like what had just happened between the two of you in the car never happened. He was all smiles, friendly, hell too friendly for Bucky. ‘Props to him for being a good actor’, You thought to yourself.

As soon as you entered the room, you were already surveying the crowds, counting the cameras, possible escape routes, and all the people who were on your possible targets list assigned by SHIELD. Bucky seemed to be doing the same thing as you, just as subtle. That's when he finally leaned down to whisper into your ear. From an outside perspective, it looked just as it should’ve. A husband whispering into his wife’s ear, making her smile and respond with a tilt of her head, eye meeting with her husband’s.

“How many of these people are on your target’s list?” He whispered softly. 

“Almost every single one of them.” You answered, tilting your head up and smiling fondly at him. 

He smiled back, his eyes soft and warm, if you didn’t know he was angry with you, you might’ve believed him. “Find our main four, yet?” He whispered back, placing a hand underneath your chin, so you had to look at him. 

The action made you blush, ‘Damn him.’ You thought to yourself before speaking. “All except for Mr. Zinc.” You answered. 

“Good girl.” He praised, sliding his hand from your chin to the curve of your jaw. You blushed harder, and he ducked his head so he could whisper into your ear. “Just want you to know, I hate everything about this.” He whispered.

Your smile almost dropped, almost. Instead, you forced out a giggle. “Believe me, I feel the same.” You answered him with a sweet whisper and a nip to his earlobe. 

He physically tensed, a reaction that could easily be played off as lust. “Don’t ever do that, you hear me?” He snapped in your ear, his hand tightening on your jaw as a silent warning. Another thing that could just be seen as a form of lust, a kink, if you will, to the outside perspective.

“Just playing the part, Dean.” You answered innocently. 

“Well knock it off. You know my boundaries, Katy.” He snapped back, his whispers tense in your ear. 

“Okay, I’m sorry.” You answered. “I’ll lay off a bit.” 

Bucky didn’t respond as he pulled away, his gaze flickering over yours for a minute before darting in another direction. “I’m going to go get us some drinks, darling.” He said softly, holding your hand until you were out of his reach and letting his hand fall away from yours. 

‘Curse him for being able to play his part so well.’ You found yourself thinking, as you blushed and nodded. ‘And curse his stupid nicknames.’ 

Bucky walked off into the direction of the drinks, but it wasn’t five seconds before you realized he was currently in pursuit of one of the four. You watched from afar as he engaged in conversation with the woman, flirting shamelessly with her, all smiles and polite touches on her shoulders or arms. You found yourself bristling with jealousy, but before you could think about it, someone approached you. 

‘Fuck me.’ You thought to yourself. Of course it was the one man you couldn’t find earlier, and this would cause plans to change. Bucky would have to interview the other two targets himself, and you would have to keep Mr. Zinc occupied until then. That was, if Mr. Zinc didn’t take you to the back immediately after meeting you. As your mind calculated what to do next, Mr. Zinc’s hand was already outstretched, and his smile was warm. It would have been a kind and comforting gesture had you not known the man for the monster he was. 

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Mr. Zinc greeted. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you, my dear. My name is Dominic Zinc, but a pretty thing like yourself can call me Dom, if you’d like. And you are?” 

You placed your hand in his, smiling politely as you spoke. “Katy Smith.” 

He brought your hand up to his lips and kissed the back of your knuckles. It was slobbery and wet, and it took everything in you not to gag. “I take it that a beautiful lady such as yourself didn’t come alone? After all, only married invitations were allowed into this gala.” Mr. Zinc continued, smiling. It was clear to you he was trying to single you out, see if you truly had brought company. Either way you’d be giving him some type of information. 

Your eyes quickly searched around for Bucky, finding him talking to target number two, a man in the back corner. “Yes,” You answered, then gracefully pointing out where Bucky was. “My husband, Dean Smith, he's quite the social butterfly, can never stay in one place for long.” You chuckled politely. 

“I see,” Dominic mused, smiling, but the lack of wrinkles and the pull of his skin at the corner of his mouth told you he was dissatisfied with what he saw. “You have quite the partner. I take it he doesn’t mind you mingling around with other men all alone?” 

You smiled politely, though you wanted to punch him square in the jaw as hard as you could. “What makes you say that, Mr. Zinc?” 

“Please, call me Dom, if not then Dominic, at the least.” He said, waving you off and smiling. “I just know if I had a beautiful thing such as yourself as my wife, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you, much less let you around to mingle with other men all alone.” 

You let out a polite, quiet chuckle. “Dominic, please. I can assure you, my husband and I trust each other to mingle with others in the crowd.” You said, trying to place at least some sort of boundary.

“Now, correct me if I’m mistaken, but I do believe that I saw you growing jealous as your husband spoke with Ms. Craven.” Dominic said, his eyes trained on you. 

Your eye twitched, and he caught it before you could school your expression back into a polite, charming act. 

“So I was right,” Demonic mused, smirking as if he had won something. “Darling, would you like to come with me?” 

You widened your eyes in an innocent act, your lips parted as you looked at him. “Where would we be going?” 

“Just downstairs, to the real party.” Dominic smiled, charming as ever. You glanced back over at Bucky, who was now on the third target, another woman. “I can assure you, we’ll be back before your husband can miss you, which by the looks of it, won’t be for a while.” Dominic pressed, his hand running up the back of your lower spine. 

“Dominic, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave without him.” You said, your voice soft, innocent. 

“He won’t even notice you’re gone, my dear. Look at him,” Dominic stood behind you, close enough you could feel the heat from his body. It rose the hairs on the back of your neck. Dominic gently put his hand underneath your jaw and tilted your chin in the direction of Bucky, who was still mingling with target number three. “He’s entranced by her, we’ll only be gone a moment.”

“Only gone for a moment?” You asked, stalling a little longer, your gaze trained on Bucky.

“We’ll be back before you know it, my dear.” Dominic said, whispering it into your ear. 

Bucky had been watching your every move, the way you let Mr. Zinc touch you, the way you spoke with him, how you seemed to be captivated by the enemy. It made him clench his jaw, his hands twitching, but when he saw you turning to leave the room with the man, his hands curled into tight fists.

 ‘Where the hell is she going?.’ Bucky thought to himself as he excused himself and slowly moved through the room. He followed at a distance, his movements inconspicuous as he moved through the crowd. ‘I knew she’d eventually be leaving with him, but this was earlier than expected.’ 

As Bucky followed behind you and Mr. Zinc at a distance, it became apparent to him that you weren’t going to one of the back rooms upstairs like you had planned, but instead you were headed farther down into the mansion. The downstairs part of the mansion hadn’t been on the blue prints you had shown him on the jet. 

He watched as Mr. Zinc handed you a drink, and he prayed that you wouldn’t drink it. 

“A little jump start for the real party, my dear.” Mr. Zinc smiled at you, and it made Bucky bristle in disgust. 

“Dominic, this really isn’t necessary.” You smiled politely, opting to just hold the drink in your hand.

“Nonsense my dear, your husband was flirting with another woman, remember? Not just one, but two, we saw him do it both times. Now you get to go to a real party, with real people who care about you.” Mr. Zinc smiled. “Bottoms up, my dear.” Mr. Zinc lifted the glass you held in your hand to your lips, gently pushing up the bottom of the glass until the liquid was gone. “Very nice, my dear. Now then, shall we?” He held out his arm, in which you laced your arm with his and he led you downstairs. 

Bucky cursed to himself quietly as he watched the situation. ‘Fuck.’ He thought as he followed behind. It was likely that the drink had been laced with something, and as beautiful as you looked tonight, it wouldn’t surprise him if you were the first one to be put onto Zinc’s list. Just as he was about to follow you downstairs, a man stepped in front of the entrance. 

“Not authorized.” He briskly spoke, crossing his arms and blocking Bucky’s path. 

“I was just going to retrieve my wife, I saw her walk down here a moment ago.” Bucky explained politely.

“I can assure you, your wife is fine, and will be back momentarily.” The man said.

Bucky stood straighter, trying to instill some sort of fear into the man. “I would like to see my wife, thank you.” He snapped.

“And you will momentarily,” The man eerily smiled, and Bucky bristled at it. “The show will start shortly, I won’t ask you to return to the main gala again, sir.” 

Bucky sneered at the man, but opted to return to the main gala. He would have to trust that you could handle yourself until he could find a way to get to you that wouldn’t cause a scene. When Bucky returned to the main gala, the lights dimmed repeatedly, and he followed the crowd into another room. A crowd that was once full of both men and women, and was now just men. His brow furrowed, and he wondered what had happened to the rest of the women who had arrived with their partners. 

He followed the crowd into the next room over, the doors closing behind the last few people in the crowd. The room was windowless, with plain white walls, and there was a roped off area in the middle of the room, the men crowding around it to get a spot at the front. The room smelled of sterile chemicals, and almost reminded Bucky of a medical unit.

“Gentlemen!” A voice was heard from the left side of the room. Dominic Zinc. “A pleasure having you all here today! I do appreciate you all bringing along your guest, as they will make wonderful centerpieces, wouldn’t you agree?” A series of laughs was heard around the room at the question, and Bucky smiled, if only to keep his cover. ‘The fuck does he mean, ‘centerpieces?’ Bucky thought to himself.

The floor to the roped off area in the room parted, and slid back, a platform underneath revealing the women that had attended the gala with partners. ‘What kind of sick game is this?’ Bucky thought to himself. On the platform were five unconscious women, laying there still in their gowns and all dolled up as they were previously. 

Bucky drowned out the noise as they started the bidding. His heart ached for those women, but right now, you were his partner, you were his mission, and he needed to find you before you ended up on that stage. His eyes searched the room, looking for some sort of out. The only way in and out, he realized, was the door he came out of. 

Steeling himself, he walked over to the door, another guard was by it. “Sir?” The guard asked, quirking a brow in suspicion. 

“My apologies,” Bucky replied smoothly. “It seems I’ve forgotten my wallet in the men’s room.” 

The man nodded, but didn’t budge. “You can retrieve it once the bidding has commenced.” 

Bucky withheld the urge to stab this man. “Please sir, it contains the cash I’ve brought for the bidding.” 

“You can retrieve it once the auction has finished.” The man repeated. 

Bucky bristled, and clenched his fist. He needed to find you, and he was running out of time, they had just moved onto the second girl. “How many times am I going to have to ask you to move so I can go take a shit in peace?” He snapped.

The guard chuckled, “Why didn’t you just say so?” And he stepped aside, opening the door for Bucky to walk through. 

Bucky stepped through the hallway and into the next room, where he was previously and made his way to the staircase he went to follow you down previously. The same guard was still there. Bucky paid no mind to him, moving along the shadows of the dim hallway and silencing the man, then hiding the body into a crook in the hallway, away from lights. The door you had been led down held a padlock on it, he snatched it with his metal arm and yanked, the padlock snapping from the force, and he quickly disposed of the lock and chains on the door and made his way down the stairs. 

The stairway grew dimmer as he moved, then was light with red  lighting the deeper down he got. His eyes easily adjusted, and what he found disgusted him. The women who had attended, all drugged and unconscious. He searched through the women, his heart aching at the sight of them. He finally saw you, slumped down against a wall, then getting hoisted up by another guard, who was carrying you to one of the empty platforms. 

Bucky drew his gun, the silencer already on, and fired, the bullet landing in the guard's head, making him collapse to the floor. It was seconds as Bucky saw four more guards, a bullet making its mark in each of their skulls. He quickly made his way over to you, snatching your body, and feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but there. He gazed down at your face. ‘God, she looks so peaceful, unaware of the danger she’s in.’ He scooped you up into his arms, cradling you to his chest as he quickly moved back to the stairwell, minding the other unconscious women on the floor. 

“Steve, I know you’re listening, you little shit, I need a team out here, now.” Bucky said into the comms. “Y/n’s unconscious, and I have at least thirty other women in the same state. There's an auction going on upstairs.” 

“Already heading towards your location.” Steve answered. “Did you take out Zinc?” 

“Negative.” Bucky answered, his focus solely on leaving the basement. 

“We can’t infiltrate until then.” Steve answered. “Logistics don’t add up.” 

“The fuck you mean logistics, Rodgers? There’s at least thirty unconscious women down here.” Bucky snapped into the comms. 

“Sooner you do your job, iceman, the sooner we can do ours.” Tony said into the comms. 

Bucky muttered something underneath his breath, still carrying you in his arms as he made his way to the top of the staircase. He peeked his head out of the door and then slipped out of the stairwell, and back into the shadows. He was listening to the surroundings as he moved, he was quick, it wouldn’t belong till they found the bodies downstairs. 

“Bucky?” You mumbled, your head lulling to the side and into the crook of his neck. 

Bucky’s ears perked up at the sound of your voice. “Hey, dollface.” He said softly, still moving quickly till he found himself upstairs and melted further into the shadows. “How drugged do you feel, on a scale of one to ten?’ 

“Mmm,” You hummed in response. Bucky nodded as he found a nook in the wall, one that you were small enough to hide in. 

“Take that as a nine? Eight?” He asked, bending you down to nestle you into the nook. 

“Eleven.” You mumbled, settling against the crook of the wall. 

“Considering you answered my question coherently, I’m going to mark it as a seven.” Bucky muttered, his voice gentle. “Stay here, don’t move, and don’t you dare get caught, you understand me?”

“Nope.” You slurred. Bucky moved your arms into the nook, and then moved your dress to cover your skin. 

“I’ll be back soon.” He mumbled, his hand lingering on your cheek, his eyes concerned before he turned and left you in the shadows. 

Bucky moved with practiced clandestine, his movements silent and meticulous. He moved along the walls in the shadows until he emerged from what looked like the men’s room, and walked back to the room where the auction was being held. The guard stood there waiting for him, opening the door for Bucky. 

Bucky stood back in his previous spot, looking around at the unconscious women before looking back at the crowd of men, and finally his eyes landed on Mr. Zinc, who now had three other people he had extracted information from earlier. Four shots, clear line.

Bucky took another look around the room, ten guards, two on each side of the room, another by the door, and the last standing with Zinc. Bucky tilted his head slightly as he looked around at the crowd again, it was almost impossible to tell who was armed and who wasn’t, after all they didn’t check Bucky or you when you first arrived at the gala. It was likely that those who were armed would target Bucky as soon as he started the spree. 

‘This is going to be a bloodbath.’ Bucky thought to himself, moving positions in the crowd to see if he could get any closer to Zinc, though it just looked like he was moving up the crowd to get another look at the women. Bucky’s eyes flicked around the room till he saw a flicker of dark movement high in the rafters of the room. 

“Keep staring and you’ll give up my position, Barnes.” The voice crackled through the comms. 

‘Barton.’ Bucky thought, and turned his gaze away from the shadowed area, and turned back to Zinc. 

Bucky’s gaze swept through the room once more before he pulled a gun, and fired four shots. Zinc, Craven, the two others he’d talked to all fell to the floor, bleeding profusely. As soon as the bodies fell to the floor, multiple shield agents infiltrated through the front door, Hawkeye blowing a hole through the eastside wall, Shield agents flooding the room from there as well. 

Bucky moved, taking out guards that stood in his way with knives and his fist, practically throwing them to the side. He finally got out of the room, and quickly made his way back to you. You were unconscious once again, and he scooped you up into his arms. “I have Ghost, exfiltrating now.” Bucky said into the comms, then left the manion, found the car, and drove you back to the mansion. 

Tags:

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[fanficaddict4]

106 year old men to be exact…

[sebastianstaan]

“I was like ‘the audience is going to see it’s me,’ so I was determined to do as much of [the action scenes] as I could, to the point where I was a pain in the ass to them – but I didn’t care, because I can sit here and tell you that I’ve done 90 percent of those fight scenes. I was even on the motorcycle.” - Sebastian Stan on his fight scenes in Civil War

[starfly-nicole]

i love seeing all these 😍🤩

[mutifandomkid]

I’m always so mesmerized, these are so cool.