some of y’all will be engaging in witch hunt, accusing writers left and right and then wondering why more and more writers take their works down and don’t share them with you ungrateful losers anymore.
“this fic looks like it was created by ai” yeah that’s because ai was trained on human-made works and it was trained to mimic human-made works.
you claim you hate ai because ai harms real artists, yet you are out there accusing and harassing artists because “their vibes just aren’t right”. at this point, you are the ones who cause more harm — to art and the writing community — than ai does.
you are the ones killing art and writing community, the community you want to “protect against ai”.
so at this point, you’re killing the community faster than ai is. good luck when the community you want to protect has no human-made work left because you accused and harassed genuine artists/writers away and the only things that are left for you to read are actual ai-generated fics.
if you think a fic is ai and if that bothers you like it does me, quietly exit the tab and avoid their future works like a normal, decent person. because with every "this fic looks ai" comment, there's always a chance of you wrongly accusing an innocent writer and further harming the writing community as a whole.
So many people DONT EVEN KNOW what AI writing looks like. I’ve seen people trying to highlight signs of ai writing and it’s just basic grammar and good writing skills (things a writer would be proficient in). Just because a write up uses em-dashes, comma, or the rule of 3, isn’t enough to label it as AI
Too many children in the comments like ‘I think authors should be able to share ko-fi links :) it’s just nice’ and ‘OP is just a cop.’ Homie, OP is trying to keep AO3 fully functional without interruption. I will report your ass, too, because I value fic artists and our freedom of expression and my audience and our shared history far more than I value the few bux you wanna make on a commission.
It is not hard to link to your Tumblr or Twitter with a vague message like, “If you’re looking for my other works or other ways of supporting me, go here: link.” I have had people buy me coffees after enjoying my fic and asking where to support me. I threw up a link to my Tumblr and people cared enough to follow it. They were fully understanding when I explained in the comments that they could not commission me and I could not link them directly to any donation platform, but they could go to xyz link to read more. And they did! Nobody has to put AO3 directly on the firing line.
Go ahead and commission independently. Just do it anywhere else except on AO3. And then don’t come crying to the community when you, personally, get a C&D from a massive corporation.
AO3 is our bullet shield. Tumblr will pull your shit down. Wattpad won’t fucking protect you. LJ and FF.net already sold our asses for one (1) corn chip. AO3 is trying to protect us, you goddamn lemmings.
If you cannot follow the rules that protect fanspaces, you do not belong in our fanspaces.
The only people who misunderstand this are doing so intentionally and maliciously. Do yourself a favor and block the infants who think this isn’t a big deal.
Please remember that this ALSO INCLUDES FANDOM CHARITY AUCTIONS.
When you post charity auction fics, DO NOT note that they are commissions in any way. You can note them as “here is my thank you gift to X for such-and-such event” but please please PLEASE do not list them as commissions.
I think a lot of younger people are seeing this as a moral panic by OP. These are NOT being laid out as moral injunctions! This is not about being good! This is about covering your own ass and keeping fandom away from larger-scale legal trouble. No one is saying “If you break the rules you’re BEING BAD!” They’re trying to tell you “breaking these rules is DANGEROUS for yourself and potentially others as well!”
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
Baffling how Ukraine gets victim blamed for…*checks notes* not wanting to get slaughtered by the thousands and having the audacity to defend itself. These people want the entire Ukranian government to deliver themselves to Putin, the entire army to surrender and disband, and Ukraine to joyfully welcome their oppressors. Okay then. These people’s logic is crazy, plus the benefit of the doubt they give to a mob boss dictator who’s been running Russia for over 20 years.
Yes. Capitulation emboldens an invader which has 0 respect for international laws or morality
And what do people think? They're invading just to spread peace and love and once Ukraine gives in they'll stop killing people? That would only be the beginning. If you really look at what russia is like, it's not some beautiful utopia. There is no free speech or independent media. People who dare to say anything contradicting the government's official position are imprisoned for long terms. Arrest, interrogation and imprisonment often include torture.
In the occupied areas of Ukraine it's even worse. Fot the most part there's an information blackout but we know what happens to people from former prisoners of war and civilian prisoners. Take a moment to listen to them.
"here's the immensely time consuming 100K word novel-length passion project I'm working on between my real life job and family! It eats up hundreds of hours of my one and only life, causes me emotional harm, and I gain basically nothing from it! Also I put it on the internet for free so anyone can read if they want. Hope you love it!" :)
Ngl im starting to think Jay Arondekar is the perfect man. He cooks. He plays DND. He's besties even with people he can't see. Has the patience of a saint. Loves his mom. Supports his wife seeing the paranormal and engages in tomfoolery on the regular. I see no flaws.
Omg hi if you're taking requests can u do one where bucket and reader are like investigating a murder or something and just make them bicker idk I'll read ur grocery list bro you can keep it annoyance to lovers like the "I just want you to stop saying odd shit" bit and then they fall in love
the way i had to cycle through multiple scenarios before landing on this so i could keep it lighthearted. hey sexy. ily mwah mwah
my masterlist over here and my silly little inbox for more requests, should you please
They're trained assassins.
Bob is not.
Yeah he does the dishes, and folds his laundry and rewatches old movies he liked better the first time. But eventually, he realizes he needs something to get him out of bed.
So he starts organizing nights.
Trivia. Gets weirdly competitive, and the tiebreaker is the name of some random model of gun from 1996.
A wine tasting that resulted in seven open bottles, no glasses, and someone using a tactical knife to open a wheel of Brie.
Potlucks, even though they don't know what to do with fifteen packets of Doritos and no real food.
And finally-- murder mystery nights.
Which is objectively deranged, because why are they coming home from their day job to cosplay it at night, but worse.
But it’s Bob. And Bob asks with that quiet, hopeful tone that’s hard to refuse. So they come. They try to stay longer than thirty minutes.
There's a body on the floor, covered in fake blood. None of the metallic smell that usually follows one-- it's something sweet. Suspiciously close to edible.
Bucky arrives late thirty minutes. Ridiculous, considering he lives in the building.
You arrive five minutes after that.
The others have already formed their teams, so he gets paired off with you. He knows why Bob has done this, no one in the tower was particularly subtle about the both of you. To their credit, he doesn't fight it.
The teams have already gotten a headstart, and he doesn't know what to do at a crime scene that he did not cause.
He also knows for a fact that neither of you have read the case file.
"Hmm," you say, kicking at the body with your toe. "Suspicious."
"What?" Bucky asks dryly.
"It appears the victim is...dead."
He stares at you. "That's the fucking game."
"I see," you hum. "As I said. Suspicious. Perhaps the murderer enjoys playing...games."
He closes his eyes. “I forgot how quiet it was when you weren't around.”
“And you hated it.”
“I cleaned the kitchen twice.”
“That’s grief, Bucky.”
He glances at you, expression unreadable. “You think you’re funny.”
“I think I’m observant.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but doesn't quite lift.
Bucky hands you a sheet of paper. “You’re the maid. You found the body.”
“No. You're the maid. You found the body."
"That's not how this works. This is not a negotiation."
Five minutes later Bucky is the maid. He found the body.
Bucky ignores you trying to lift the thing with one foot.
"Mr. Long was found by his maid, Ms. Bennett, when she came to work," he reads out dryly. "She says to the police, 'Gee''-"
And then he stops.
You raise an eyebrow. "What does she say?"
"I don't know, there's, like fifteen typos on this thing." He squints. "'Gee howdy, well I walked in and he was on the floor, cold as a slice of pie..that was left in the refrigerator'."
"Things that are famously cold." You nod. "Read it again. Put a little drawl into it. Gee howdy."
"No."
“Read it again. Commit.”
“No.” He folds up the paper. "Did you find any clues?"
"None. Where is the chalk?"
"Chalk?"
"I want to outline his body," you tell him.
"That is not a real thing that happens."
"But if we work together, we can live in a world where it does."
You settle for permanent marker. The team was not going to be happy when they see this.
Either way, he doesn't say anything when you hand the cap to him and start drawing around the dummy. He even tells you you missed a spot.
He doesn't mind that he's paired up with you. You'd showed up at midnight and slept through most of the day, so this was really the first time you were speaking since you'd come back.
Yelena and Ava breeze past on the way to the kitchen, clearly more invested. Someone mentions a footprint.
Bucky doesn't even know the murder victim's full name.
"What the fuck are you doing,” Bucky asks, squinting at your latest addition. "What’s this circle?
"I drew a basketball. He looks like he's playing."
He’s about to argue, but something stops him. Maybe it’s the way your finger traces the imaginary arc of the shot. The line of his jaw knows what that feels like. The thought of it makes him swallow just the briefest amount.
He clears his throat. "What is wrong with you."
"Look at his arm. I'm gonna draw him a basket."
"Stop it. We're supposed to be investigating."
"I already investigated. He's straight up dead, man."
''That's not--"
"RIP for real." You nod solemnly. "No chance of a come back."
"Investigate why he's here."
"Well, this is a dummy, Bucky. He's only here 'cause someone left him like this. I think we ought'a find that fool who left his mannequin out here and give him a real talking to."
He drags a palm down his face. "I don't want to be here. You're making this worse."
"Don't worry, we'll get to the bottom of this." You pat his shoulder. "What's this guy's name again?"
"I don't know. Mr Long."
"Mr So-Long." You smile wide. "Because he's dead."
He doesn’t argue. Not really. Not in the way that matters.
Bob asks on the group whether everyone's having fun. Everyone replies with various versions of 'yes'. Bob tells them there are no clues outside, and Alexei and John really have no reason to be rappelling down the side of the Avengers Tower.
Eventually, he starts reading the case notes. Finally, you abandon what you're doing and try to pick up on what's actually going on in the case.
You ignore his need for space, leaning into him to read for yourself.
“Why are you so close?” he mutters.
You don’t move. “I can’t read upside down.”
He reads the same line three times in a row. Can’t retain any of it. His brain is occupied with the way your hands are resting lightly on his wrist.
It's ten minutes to nine. Bucky's been trying to solve this on his own for a while now.
Bob, bless him, has tried to give everyone motives, but they don’t quite make sense. A missing cook. A driver who doesn’t show up until page four. A torn photograph. A coffee stain on the calendar. The date of a car accident circled in red.
You sniff the air. "San Marzano tomatoes."
"I'm pretty sure that's what the blood is made with." He continues reading from the notes. They’re sloppily written. Some of the pages are out of order. The names are inconsistent. The clues are vague.
"No," you say. "This was on purpose. This murder was at the hands of an Italian."
“There are no fuckin' Italians on the suspect list," he lies, knowing fully well he has no idea who the other suspects are, or if there are any.
"Fine. What other tomato-forward cuisines do you know?"
Bucky groans. "Let’s just say it was the maid. She poisoned him. Case closed.
"Well, actually Bucky, it's the driver. He took the fall for the crash a few years ago, got blamed for something that wasn’t really his fault. He drops Mr. Long off, follows him inside, kills him with a car key. The wound is something small. Multiple stabs, more than necessary, so it's definitely personal."
He stares at you.
He wonders if you meant the kiss you gave him before you left. He wonders if it meant anything to you. He’s been wondering that all week.
"Oh hey, you guys got it," Bob says, poking his head into the room. "Nice. I'll go tell the others you won."
"It was all Bucky. All I did was draw a chicken with his fingers."
Bucky shakes his head, but it’s with a softness you’ve seen before. Usually when you come back from a mission in one piece. When you make him laugh by accident. When he forgets, briefly, how much he isn’t supposed to want this.
"One more question, Bob," you say, spinning around. "Where was the driver from?"
“Oh, Ricci? Naples. Italian.”
"I fucking knew it."
here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!
sometimes I revisit the hellsite when a hyperfixation reappears and no surprises here, it’s Thunderbolts*. So naturally, I’ve come here to beg for help because I’m obsessed with the idea of a reader x Bucky (the grumpy x grumpy kind) whereby Bucky, Yelena and Alexei speak to each other in Russian purely to annoy them. seems like their brand of chaos, and your brand of fic 🧡
omg my angel it has been forever since we have talked. i missed u!!
here have some absolute garbage russian and nonsense writing.
word count: 800 words. i think this is the shortest thing I've ever written
warnings: swearing, longing, gyms
my masterlist over here and my silly little inbox for more requests, should you please
"How many more to go?"
"No one asked you to be here."
"Congratulations, I am. How many?"
You wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead as you pull yourself up again. Bucky's ridiculous face is, once again, too close to yours. He’s crouched like a gargoyle, scrolling through his phone while your core screams as you complete one crunch before going back down again.
"You're acting like you're important to this process," you exhale as you go back down.
"I'm keeping your form right."
"You're sitting on my feet and playing Sudoku. You wouldn’t notice if I dropped dead."
"I’d notice. I'd step over you."
Your lips quirk at the morbidity of this exchange, pulling yourself up again.
He raises an eyebrow at how close your face gets. You ignore him, drop back down.
"Are we interrupting something?" You don't need to see Yelena's face to know she's got a stupid smirk on. "I did not know crunches were a two-person exercise."
"Neither did I," you grunt.
"Back in Soviet Union," Alexei announces, "everything was two-person job. We shared everything. Socialism."
Bucky's eyebrows pull together.
"I thought you two trained in the mornings," you mutter, exhaling hard through another rep.
"Walker showed up right when we finished the milk. We left before he could tell us to replace it." Yelena shrugs before casting her attention towards Bucky. "Вы всё ещё продолжаете свои танцы друг вокруг друга?"
Are you still dancing around each other?
"Я не танцую," he retorts.
I'm not the one dancing.
"Anna Pavlova danced less than you," Alexei brushes past to head towards the weights.
"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" you mutter.
Bucky casts a sideways glance towards you, but keeps his attention on Yelena.
"Вам стоит сходить на настоящее свидание," she continues. "Ужин, цветы. Могу дать пару советов."
You should go on a real date. Dinner, flowers. I can give you some advice.
"So can I. You know, they added 'Russia's greatest love machine' in that song after they met me." Alexei uses the resistance band to tie together both the bench press bars.
"Why’s he the only one in English?" You jerk your thumb out towards him as lower onto the mat. "And what the fuck is he on about?"
"I had many lovers in my youth--"
"I don't want to know what he's on about," you interject immediately, glaring at Bucky. “Get off my feet.”
“No.” He doesn't even hesitate, before firing back at Yelena, flat as ever. "Мне не нужны советы. Я справляюсь."
I don't need advice. I'm fine.
"Да, очень романтично. Желание придушить друг друга."
Yeah, this is super romantic. Wanting to strangle each other.
"Strangling can be romantic," Alexei lifts up both the barbells with one hand, arm pin straight. "If you asked Melina--"
"Dad," Yelena groans.
"Jesus Christ, I'll go train in the fucking garden," you mumble.
"Should we clap? Should we celebrate that you're making contact with the outside world?"
"Your face is going to make contact with my foot."
"Это у тебя такой флирт?" she asks.
Is this how you flirt?
"Я слишком стар, чтобы флиртовать."
I'm too old to flirt.
"You made me lose fuckin' count--"
"You're at 465," he cuts you off, before looking at Yelena again. "Не говори ни слова."
Don't say a word.
She raises her hands, lips pulling down in amusement. "Ты светишься. Противно."
You're glowing. Disgusting.
"She is right, you glow," Alexei drops the weights with a crash. The whole room trembles for a moment..
"You’re glowing?" you ask, incredulous. "What are you, pregnant?"
Bucky doesn’t respond. Just keeps looking at his phone like it’s going to save him from this conversation.
“Move. I’m done.”
"You still owe five."
“I don’t owe you shit.” Still, you pull yourself up to painstakingly complete the misery.
"Нам уйти? вы сейчас начнёте снимать друг с друга одежду?"
Should we leave? Are you going to start taking each other's clothes off now?
"Christ alive," Bucky mumbles. "Присоединиться к этой команде было ужасной идеей."
Joining this team was a terrible idea.
"Alexei, if you drop that stupid barbell again, I'm gonna hurl it at your head," you snap, wiping sweat from your face. "Let go, I'm leaving."
"You still owe five," Bucky reminds you.
"Can you not count? I finished five minutes ago."
"No. You still owe five."
You hiss at him from the mat, "Barnes--"
"Chop chop."
You shoot up, ready to fight him.
Bucky leans in and kisses you, soft and chased with a self-satisfied, smug smile. He pries away just in time to let you drop back down on the mat.
"That's five hundred," he says, already standing. "You can do the second set on your own."
It's hard to remember what your rebuttal even was.
"Disgusting," Yelena gags, hand on her waist.
"Замолчи," you snap.
Shut up.
here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!
also if you want u to know when i post fics, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3
Summary : The team thinks Bucky has a crush on the tower’s interior designer. They don’t know that they’re already married.
Pairing : New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Interior designer!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Secret wife trope. Tower fic! Secret-ish baby. Cursing, not-too-detailed descriptions of sex, pregnancy, (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 6.7k
Requested by : two anons! Based on this and this.
Note : I combined two requests, I hope that’s alright, anons! Enjoy!
Bucky only stayed at The Watchtower three days a week.
Officially, those days were for debriefings, strategy syncs, mission prep, and what Alexei affectionately called team bonding.
The rest of the week, he goes off-grid and minimal contact, calling it rest and recuperation.
He spent those days outside the city, tucked away in a modest, two-story house in the suburbs.
The walls were painted in earthy tones. The porch creaked when it rained. The neighbours didn’t ask questions. But most importantly, it was where you, the love of his life, resided full time.
It was home.
Bucky had closed on the house exactly nine months and fourteen days ago. A week later, he’d married you under a willow tree in the backyard with no fanfare, only Sam, Joaquin, and Isaiah Bradley as guests, and a ring you both picked out from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Sam had joked that it must have been the best day of his overextended, complicated life.
He was right.
Still, not a single member of his newly assembled team had a clue.
They knew Bucky Barnes, the leader of the New Avengers, war-hardened and famously chronically single. They knew the efficient, don’t-ask-me-about-my-weekends version of him. They did not know that the same man kissed his wife’s temple every morning before she left for work, took out the trash without being asked, and spent his evenings slow dancing with you in the kitchen to whatever jazz record was spinning on the old turntable.
That part of him was private.
He didn’t keep you a secret out of shame — Bucky showed how much he loved you in the ways that mattered. But with many of his old enemies still out there, keeping you out of the spotlight was non-negotiable.
It was especially necessary now that the New Avengers were under public scrutiny, the media hounding them with every move, and Val running ops like a government-sponsored reality show.
But, of course, what he least expected happened.
When Val asked Mel to source a top-tier interior designer for the Watchtower’s massive renovation, Bucky didn’t say anything.
He didn’t pull any strings. He didn’t say a word.
But of course, Mel found your firm. It was one of the best in town, after all.
Of course, all he could do was stare blankly when Mel casually dropped your name in a team meeting two weeks later. You, who’d been growing your design firm from the ground up, known for clean lines and warm spaces and zero tolerance for pretentious decor.
And when you told Bucky that you’d accepted the Watchtower job, he’d smiled weakly and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
Which led to this moment.
—
Your first day on the job was a Monday morning.
You stepped into the lobby of the newly renamed Watchtower, hard hat hooked on your hip, leather-bound notebook under one arm, and your chewed up pencil behind your ear.
You, as planned, acted completely unfamiliar with the man you’d kissed goodbye at 7 a.m. over toast.
You approached the cluster of Avengers who’d been haphazardly gathered for your arrival — Ava, John, Yelena, Bob, Alexei, and Bucky. Your husband leaned against a column, arms folded, feigning indifference while silently praying his face didn’t give away his precious little secret.
But then your eyes met.
For one fleeting moment, your smile brightened. But you covered it up and offered him a hand like you hadn’t fallen asleep his bare chest fourteen hours ago, and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m your interior designer.”
Bucky took your hand.
The handshake lasted two seconds too long.
“James Barnes,” he said. “Pleasure.”
Ava raised an eyebrow.
You let go of his hand, nodded politely, and turned to the others to introduce yourself.
Your voice was steady, your posture perfect, but Bucky noticed the way you tapped your thumb against the spine of your notebook — the tiniest nervous habit. He kissed that hand every night.
When you walked off to start your tour, Ava elbowed Bucky in the ribs.
“She is too pretty. If you don’t ask her out, I will.”
“M’ not into her,” Bucky said. It was the worst lie he’d told in years.
“C’mon man,” John chuckled. “That looked like love at first right.”
Bucky just shrugged and turned away, pretending to be interested in a support beam.
—
Six Weeks Later
You were everywhere.
Literally everywhere inside the Watchtower.
You were in hallways, stairwells, and repurposed labs. You were under floorboards to check for old wiring. You were balancing precariously on scaffolding with paint samples in one hand and a clipboard in the other. You had a team, sure, but you were the kind of interior designer who believed that breathing the same dust as your contractors was the only way to truly understand your art.
Within a month, you turned a gutted superhero facility into your battlefield.
And you made it look good.
You had turned bare concrete into well thought out sketches, made a temporary lounge out of broken furniture and vintage rugs, and wrestled the tower’s unmaintained lighting grid into semi-functional compliance. You worked long hours. You cursed openly at bad insulation. You drank your coffee black and your water in gallons, and somewhere along the way, the tower became a passion project, your baby.
And the New Avengers grew fond of you.
They tried to be subtle about it, watching you from doorways or pausing in their sparring sessions whenever you passed through to say hi.
You’d wave a friendly hi back, before going back to being all-business.
At this point, you and Bucky had practiced your we-just-met act to an Oscar-worthy level. You faked polite smiles, formal greetings, and total lack of familiarity, even when you showered together the night before.
But sometimes, it slipped through the cracks.
You can help but steal glances at each other — each one lasting just a little too long. His hand would find your lower back when he leaned over your desk to study a blueprint, fingertips brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your shirt hem. Your voice dropped half an octave whenever you addressed him in front of others, slipping in sergeant under your breath like it wasn’t a private reference from your bedroom.
Sometimes, you’d pass him in the hallway and murmur things quiet enough only he could hear. A reminder of what you’d do to him the moment he got home. Or what he’d done to you the last time he snuck back to the house for the night. You’d say it just loud enough to leave him frozen in place for a second — then he’d look like he needed to punch a wall or take a very cold shower to stay professional.
You made it impossible to concentrate.
So Bucky, for all his practiced stoicism and control, was coming undone.
Which was probably why the team started to notice.
Or, more accurately, why John Walker lost his goddamn mind one Tuesday afternoon.
The makeshift common room — still mid-renovation — was still half-furnished, but they made it work. Yelena was scrolling through her phone while Bob napped on a deflated air mattress. Ava cleaned her knives at the dining table that had mismatched chairs. Alexei was rearranging the fridge after someone messed up his system.
Bucky stood near the large window, arms folded, pretending to be interested in the HVAC schematics you were showing to one of your contractors across the room.
You laughed at something the guy said, and Bucky’s eyes twitched in jealousy.
That was all it took.
John groaned loud enough to echo off the half-installed acoustic panels. Then, on his last straw, he flopped onto the couch dramatically.
“If you like her, Barnes, just ask her out already. Jesus,” John said, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve been eye-fucking her across the hall for a month.”
Bucky just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“She’s out of my league,” he said coolly. It was a textbook deflection. “Besides, she’s not even my type.”
Yelena immediately snorted. “Liar.”
Ava didn’t look up from her knives. “Liar.”
Even Bob, barely conscious, mumbled. “Liarrrr.”
Alexei only chuckled.
“What is wrong with you?!” John sat up, “You’re literally, like—what? A hundred and ten years old? You can’t still be doing the whole ‘girls don’t like me’ routine.”
Bucky gave a half-shrug, still not looking away from where you were, now climbing a ladder with a pencil behind your ear.
“She’s here to work,” he said. “I respect that.”
“Ah,” Alexei scoffed. “Is that why you follow her around like Roomba?”
Bucky had no answer to that.
—
One Afternoon
Today had been a long day
It was dusty. It was loud. Contractors bickered, blueprints got smudged, and Bucky had looked unreasonably good doing absolutely nothing — just standing around in that damn new uniform with the red star on his right arm.
You hadn’t had more than a couple hours alone where you weren’t sleeping or eating— not at home, and especially not in the Tower, when at least one other team member would be hovering like a nosy, overgrown child.
So when you saw Bucky slipping into the elevator alone, you called out for him.
“Mr. Barnes,” you half-shouted to get his attention, jogging across the hall. “Hold the door.”
He pressed the button with his metal hand, glancing up with a fond smile. “Didn’t know we were doing last names now,” he said, just above a whisper.
“Would you rather I call you Sergeant?” you replied quietly as you slipped inside, brushing past him just enough to make it intentional.
The doors slid shut.
And then, just as the elevator began its slow descent, you heard a mechanical in the belly of the Watchtower. The lights above flickered once—then again—before cutting out entirely.
A single red emergency light buzzed to life.
You stumbled slightly, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm instinctively.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Power’s off,” he confirmed, chuckling when you jumped, kissing your temple to let you know that it was going to be okay, that the elevator was ventilated well enough for you to survive a long time in there.
You slapped the emergency call button, and…. Nothing. Not even a buzz.
You blinked up at the ceiling like divine intervention might come through the grates.
“Bucky,” you pouted, clutching his arm a little tighter, “do something.”
“I am doing something,” he said as he crouched down and nudged at the panel, making no real effort. “It's just not working.”
“Well, pry the door open or—use your metal arm or something!”
He shot you a dry look over his shoulder. “Can’t. This thing was built to withstand the hulk.”
You watched him stand and lean back against the wall like he was settling in. Like… he didn’t mind this.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you sighed, “I’ve got to meet the people installing wallpaper in ten minutes.”
Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes maddeningly calm. “Could be worse,” he offered with a shrug.
“Bucky,” you warned, eyes narrowing.
“What?” he replied, too innocently, too calmly.
“We’re technically both on the clock,” you reminded him.
He shrugged. “We’re also stuck. Sounds like PTO to me.”
You rolled your eyes, but can’t help the smile on the corners of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”
That crooked grin formed on his face. “You’re tellin’ me you haven’t missed me, doll?”
“Don’t,” you said, pointing a finger to his chest.
“Don’t what?”
“That voice. That look. You're gonna get us in trouble.”
He pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He was not touching you, but he was near enough that your heart began its traitorous dance, even after all this time. “We’ve barely touched each other. Last time was what— four days ago?”
“Four days is not that long,” you said.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It used to be four hours.”
You swallowed hard, but he was not done yet.
“Used to be I couldn’t walk past you in our house without stopping to touch you.”
You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.
“Used to be I’d wake up with your thighs already wrapped around my face,” his voice dropped an octave lower, “And now I’m lucky if I get a quick kiss before you run off to yell at plumbers.”
“I did give you a kiss this morning,” you looked up at him.
“Not the kind I meant,” he said, eyes glued to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
You choked on a laugh, shoving at his chest weakly. “That’s very inappropriate, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’m your husband.” He bit your earlobe gently. “And I’m tired of pretending we don’t wake up in the same bed.”
“We’ve got… responsibilities.” Your fingers were already in his hair. “People are counting on us.”
“Let them wait,” he muttered, kissing you slow and deep now, mouth moving with that sinful confidence that made your knees buckle. “You’ve been killing me all week, walking around this place like you don’t belong to me.”
“I am yours,” you whispered against his lips, heat coiling in your belly. “But the cameras—”
“Power’s off.” He reminded, hand sliding up your thigh, curling behind your knee and hiking your leg around his hip. “You need this. I know you do.”
“You’re cocky.”
“I’m right,” he said, kissing you again. This time you kissed him back harder.
Your body gave in before your words did. It always did with him.
And as his fingers slipped past the lace of your underwear and his mouth returned to your neck, you forgot entirely about the elevator, the job, the rules.
You weren’t the Watchtower’s interior designer anymore.
You were just his wife.
And he was very, very good at reminding you why.
Neither of you noticed the faint red light in the ceiling blink back to life. Didn’t notice the tiny lens in the far corner of the elevator was still functional.
You had no idea Yelena had rigged a backup battery into the surveillance system.
And you definitely didn’t know the power outage wasn’t an accident.
It was a setup.
—
Later that afternoon
The new Avengers gathered in the security room like kids about to witness an R-rated movie.
And in a way… they were.
Yelena had the footage queued up. She sat with arms folded, boots propped up on the console, a smug grin across her face.
This was her idea, after all— playing matchmaker as a favour to Bucky.
“It’s visual-only,” she said, almost too casually. “No audio. You know—normal CCTV stuff. But we don’t need sound to read body language.”
She hit play.
The plan was simple: trap Bucky Barnes and that absurdly hot interior designer in the Watchtower elevator to see if he finally made a move.
“Ten bucks says he doesn’t even talk to her,” Ava declared, leaning against the wall.
“I say he kisses her,” Bob offered gently, still half-asleep in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Just a little one. He’s always so tense, it would be nice to see him… be sweet.”
John had brought popcorn like it was a movie premiere. “I want to believe he asked her out,” he said.
“Today is the day,” Alexei nodded in agreement, “ I can feel it.”
The screen flickered to life.
Bucky stepped into the elevator first, holding the door for you.
The doors closed.
Nothing out of the ordinary at first. It looked like normal conversation.
Then the elevator stopped.
You pressed the emergency call button. Nothing.
Bucky tried the panel, giving up too quickly.
Yelena’s grin widened. “Showtime.”
And then, Bucky stepped closer, whispering something into your ears.
“Classic,” John said, leaning in. “Here we go. Here comes the kiss on the cheek.”
The kiss landed on your lips instead.
It was not a peck. To everyone’s surprise, it was hungry.
The room went deathly silent.
Ava’s arms slowly uncrossed. “Okay….”
Bob’s mouth parted. “Oh…”
Then— then came the second kiss.
It was longer.
Your hands in his hair. His metal arm was up… your skirt?
Your back hit the elevator wall.
John sat forward slowly. “Wait… wait.”
Then, you climbed him.
It got very explicit very quickly.
John’s popcorn slid from his lap, forgotten.
Alexei was blinking like he’d witnessed a cult ritual.
Ava whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Bob clutched the arms of his chair. “That’s— that’s not him asking her out on a date.”
“Is the—” Alexei squinted, his voice dry, “—is the camera shaking?”
“No,” Ava said hoarsely. “That’s the elevator shaking.”
“Fuck,” John gasped. “We should— we should stop.”
Yelena stared at the screen, frozen. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Alexei held up a trembling finger. “He has not taken her to dinner. There was no courtship. There was no honour.”
Ava turned away from the monitor. “Turn it off. Turn it off!”
Yelena did.
The room plunged into an eerie silence.
Bob was still cross-legged on the floor. “I… I think there was a round two. Like… halfway through. I think I counted it. Different positions. Less vertical.”
They were all pale now.
Yelena stood up like she’d survived a car crash. “We are never speaking of this.”
“Delete the footage,” Ava added. “Burn it. Hack the cloud. Scrub the backups.”
“Gone,” Yelena said grimly. “It’s already gone.”
Alexei placed his mug down. “He has not even taken her out on date yet,” he repeated, horrified.
John slumped back into his chair, stunned “I’ll never look at elevators the same way.”
No one—not one of them—suspected marriage. No one suspected long-time commitment.
Not even a little.
They thought they’d witnessed a slip. A one-time break in Barnes’ solitude, a rare show of his desire.
They had no idea he fucked you like that at home every other day.
They just thought Bucky Barnes had the most soul-shattering game any man had ever possessed.
And not a single one of them ever got in that elevator without wincing ever again.
—
Six Weeks Later
It started out like any other off-day in the suburbs.
The early morning was quiet, with pale light spilling across the hardwood floors, the distant hum of a lawn mower down the street, and the smell of Bucky’s burnt-but-endearing attempt at breakfast wafting in from the kitchen.
It was supposed to be peaceful.
But you were in the bathroom, staring at the positive pregnancy test with your hands trembling and your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.
Pregnant.
Three times, all different brands.
It wasn’t planned, not really. You have been talking about it, and even said you’d give it a go by the end of the year.
Hell, you were on even the pill. But the last couple months had been a blur— long hours at the tower and stress-induced forgetfulness.
Somewhere in the chaos of overtime and rushing out the door with a protein bar instead of breakfast, you must’ve slipped up. Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe that was enough.
You barely heard your own footsteps as you tiptoed down the hallway in a fog, still holding one of the tests like it might disappear if you blinked. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, humming under his breath, shirtless in his gray sweatpants, a bowl of strawberries in front of him with his dog tags reflecting in the morning sun.
He turned when he heard you come in, and his smile immediately faltered.
He could tell by the look on your face that something was… off.
“Sweetheart?” His brow furrowed as he stepped toward you, eyes looking over as if scanning for wounds. “Are you okay?”
You tried to say something, but nothing came out. You just looked at him with wide eyes, parted lips, and the test clenched tightly in your hand.
His hands gently closed around your arms.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Breathe, doll. Tell me what’s going on. Did something happen?”
You shook your head, lip trembling. “No. Nothing like that. I just… I…”
He ducked his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Look at me,” he said, less demanding but more gentle. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me.”
Your breath hitched. You looked down, uncurled your fingers, and held out the test.
Bucky looked at it.
Then up at you.
“…What is this?” he asked, almost cautiously. Like he needed confirmation.
You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked before it even came out. “I think I’m pregnant.”
He blinked twice. “You’re—”
You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I know. I was on the pill. I swear I was. But with everything going on at the tower and those back-to-back all-nighters and fuck, James, I must’ve messed up, I must’ve missed one or two—”
“Wait. Wait—wait,” he said suddenly. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, like he needed the whole picture to understand. “You’re serious?”
You nodded again. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t joke about this.”
He was completely still, like the words were sinking into him bit by bit.
And then, to your surprise, he let out a shaky breath, laughed a little, and ran a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re pregnant.”
You looked at him nervously, heart pounding. “I—I mean, it’s early. Like really early. Just a few weeks, I think. We don’t have to freak out. We can talk about it. Think about it. We can—”
But he cut you off, stepping forward again and cupping your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. His eyes were glistening.
“Hey,” he said gently. “I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out. I’m just—holy shit, baby. I— you’re growing a little version of us in there. We’re doing this... if you… if you want this, too.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your arms wrapping around him instinctively.
“We’re doing this,” you whispered back, like saying it out loud made it more real. “I… I do want this.”
He kissed the top of your head, your temple, your cheek. “We were headed here anyway. Maybe I didn’t know it’d happen now, but…” He leaned back to look at you, eyes full of wonder. “I love you so much.”
You sniffled, laughing through it. “I was so scared.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said, “Never with me.”
There was a long moment where the two of you just held each other, breathing in the warmth of the moment. When…
“So, uh. What do we tell the team?”
You chuckled. “About what? The baby or the fact that we’re married?”
He winced. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Bucky wanted to share his joy, he really did.
But he still had enemies. The kind who would use anything, anyone, to get to him.
And he would rather die than see your name — and his baby’s— end up on one of their lists.
“You still want to keep it quiet?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at your stomach, his teeth clenching.
“I don’t want anyone knowing if it puts you in danger,” he said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me. I just want you safe. Our family safe.”
You nodded. “Okay. So... in two or three months— the tower renovations’ll be done by then. I can just wear baggy clothes.”
He gave you a wary look. “You already wear baggy clothes.”
You shrugged. “I’ll wear bigger ones.”
Surely, this was a foolproof plan, right?
—
It was successful for all of two weeks. You played your part, showed up to the tower, exchanged the usual small talk with the team, and pretended everything was normal, all while avoiding harmful construction materials and focusing on furnishing.
Then one morning, you looked pale coming out of the toilet, wiping acid from the corner of your mouth with tissue. Bob looked over, eyebrows raised in concern. You waved him off with a smile.
“Fuck morning sickness,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.
And that was it. You didn’t even think twice. You were too focused on the nausea, the spinning room, the unpleasant taste in your mouth. You didn’t realise you’d said it.
Bob didn’t clock it right away either. You’d already left the room by the time the words caught up with him. He was halfway through his coffee, reading a book, when—
He froze. His eyes widened.
“Wait…”
Morning sickness?
—
Bob didn’t say anything right away.
He sat there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d stood.
Morning sickness, his brain repeated again, louder now.
He stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a closed-door meeting in Conference Room 7.
Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John filed in, curious and worried—it wasn’t often that Bob called a we-need-to-talk-right-now meeting that didn’t involve a breach or a fire drill.
Bob stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, unreadable.
“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly.
Everyone blinked.
“…Who?” Ava asked, tilting her head.
Bob stared at her. “Bucky’s little elevator secret.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow. “How… How do you know?”
“She….” Bob started. “She said something about morning sickness.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh,” said Alexei, thoughtfully.
“...Oh,” Ava echoed.
Yelena’s eyes widened. “OH?”
John straightened up in his chair. “Hold on. Do you think—” He looked around the room, dropping his voice to a whisper, “—do you think Bucky could be the dad?”
They all looked at each other. The memory hit them at once like a suppressed group hallucination.
No one’s talked about it since.
Not out of respect, but out of sheer trauma suppression and the fact that, frankly, they weren’t paid enough to bring it up.
“I mean,” Ava said slowly, “Did anyone see him with a condom?”
“Not that I can remember,” Yelena shuddered, brow furrowed. “But I wasn’t exactly memorising it.”
“Elevator baby,” Alexei whispered, stunned.
Bob just nodded grimly.
Then John, who’d been thinking too hard, looked up. “Do you think Bucky knows?”
The room went completely silent.
Ava blinked. “Shit.”
Yelena exhaled through her nose. “He’s either going to marry her in a panic or pass out.”
John rubbed his temples. “Do we… do we tell him?”
Bob looked down nervously. “Better question—who’s going to tell him?”
Everyone looked at each other.
No one volunteered.
So they did it together.
—
They confronted Bucky two hours later. In the gym, of all places.
He was mid-rep when they approached—shirt damp with sweat, and music blaring in his ears. His brows furrowed in concentration as he finished his set and racked the barbell with a clang.
That’s when he noticed them.
Five fully-grown adults in a semicircle, watching him. Staring, like it was going to be a goddamn intervention.
He tilted his head. “...who did you kill and where did you bury the body?”
Bob cleared his throat, stepping forward like a nervous HR rep. “Umm, that’s not why we’re here.”
Bucky pulled out one earbud. “Then what’s going on?”
“We need to talk.”
That phrase never meant anything good, and they all knew it. Ava shifted her weight from foot to foot like she had somewhere more pleasant to be (a landmine field, perhaps). John had his arms crossed and was chewing the inside of his cheek. Alexei was trying to look fatherly and failing spectacularly. And Yelena—oh, Yelena—was vibrating with the kind of energy that suggested she either had bad news or gossip so juicy it came with a side of fries.
Bucky glanced at them, suspicious. “Okay… what is this? Am I getting voted off the team?”
Yelena stepped forward, and just… spat it out. “She’s pregnant.”
That landed like a punch to the solar plexus. His brain buffered.
Oh shit. Oh shit.
They knew. They’d figured it out.
How?
He licked his lips, then attempted to play dumb. “….Who?”
Ava folded her arms. “We have a feeling,” she started, unimpressed, “you might be able to figure it out. Considering you had some… fun… in the elevator a couple months ago.”
Bucky’s eyes twitched.” I—what? You’re saying—how do you even know about that?”
Yelena raised a hand, almost sheepishly. “We, uh… we might’ve set up the elevator failure.”
John immediately smacked the back of her shoulder. “You. Not we. That was your idea.”
“I said might’ve!” she hissed.
“What we’re saying,” Alexei interjected, rubbing a hand down his face like a weary dad at a PTA meeting, “is that there is chance you are going to be dad.”
Bucky tried to laugh. It came out like a goose being strangled. “I’m not ready to move on from the elevator camera. That’s a massive violation of privacy. I—what kind of sick—”
“You did it in public,” Ava interrupted coldly.
“And you’re not denying it,” Bob added.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky snapped, pointing wildly, “you kept it? You still have the tape? Can I see it?”
Everyone groaned in unison.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You might have gotten a hook up pregnant, and the first thing you care about is your sex tape? Seriously?”
Bucky didn’t respond, which said a lot.
Bob said plainly, “But we’re pretty sure you didn’t use protection.”
“She was on the pill!” Bucky snapped.
“You still don’t do hookups bare, Bucky!” Ava exclaimed, voice rising.
“She hadn’t had sex with anyone else in years!”
“Anyone… else?” John asked, skeptical.
Bucky opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And shut up.
Bucky groaned, dragging his hands down his face like he was trying to scrape the stress off his skin.
Then, finally, with a voice so quiet it barely made it through the hum of fluorescent lights, he finally said, “She’s…my wife.”
A beat passed with silence.
Then Ava shrieked, “I’m sorry—WHAT?!”
“When?!” John thundered.
“About a year ago,” Bucky admitted. “We kept it a secret. It wasn’t safe for her. I didn’t want anyone coming after her because of me.”
Alexei frowned, tone softer now. “And now…”
“Now she’s having my baby,” Bucky said. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I don’t know how to protect her from this. From all of this.”
“Fuck,” John let out a low whistle. “Is it… is it the elevator baby?”
“We did the math,” Bucky turned beet red, “there is a… pretty good chance that’s the case.”
“Elevator baby,” Yelena echoed, eyes wide.
She sounded almost proud.
Bucky looked at each of them— serious now. “You can’t tell anyone,” he warned, “She’s… she’s everything to me. If this gets out—if she’s hurt, if someone uses her to get to me—I wouldn’t— couldn’t— live with myself.”
And just like that, gone was the teasing.
They stood there, in a loose circle around him, the lights humming overhead, the scent of sweat in the air. A line crossed, and secrets spilled open. This was a line where their friendship was tested—and affirmed.
John, finally, clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Congrats, man. You’re gonna be a dad.”
“Elevator dad,” Yelena added.
“Don’t,” Bucky warned, but he was smiling, just a little.
—
The shift was subtle at first.
Alexei started carrying things for you.
You’d walk into a room with a stack of sample boards or fabric swatches for a renovation pitch, and before you could even blink, he’d be at your side, snatching half of them away and saying, “You should not be lifting this.”
You tilted your head the first time. “I… I’m okay, Alexei.”
He just stared back, deadpan. “Does not mean you should.” And then walked away before you could argue.
Then there was Ava, who started checking the air quality constantly.
“Gotta keep the air pure,” she’d say, making sure your workstation was well-ventilated from paint fumes.
You started to get suspicious after the third can of air purifier she smuggled into the conference room.
And then came John, who strolled past your desk one morning with a coffee in one hand and a brochure in the other. He stopped like he just happened to remember something.
“Oh hey,” he said, waving the paper around. “That new baby store down the street? Massive sale. Car seats, little shoes, those bib things shaped like bandanas? You know, the cool ones. Just… figured I’d pass it along. Y’know. In case… anyone.”
You squinted. “Anyone?”
He coughed. “Just in case anyone… likes sales.”
Right.
It wasn’t until Yelena hugged you, that the alarm bells started getting harder to ignore.
She pulled away, uncharacteristically gentle, and said, “You’re good at taking care of things.”
“…Okay,” you said cautiously, “Are you dying?”
She just blinked. “No. I just think you are doing great.” She paused. “And you should not wear heels. They’re bad for your ankles.”
That was it.
You came home that night, dumped your bag by the door, and found Bucky on the couch eating mac and cheese he probably stole from the tower.
He looked up, beaming. “Hey, doll. You okay?”
You squinted at him. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He tilted his head. “About what?”
You flopped next to him, sighing. “Yelena hugged me today.”
His eyes widened. “…Oh.”
“And told me I’m good at taking care of things.”
He was dead silent.
“John is talking about baby boutiques to me. Ava keeps purifying the air. And I’m pretty sure Bob gave me vitamin water.”
Bucky looked down.
You gave him a pointed look. “So, I’m just gonna ask: Did you tell them?”
He winced. His whole face did the oh-no-don’t-be-mad-at-me scrunch.
“Umm…” he said.
“Oh my god.”
“I—I didn’t tell them, technically,” he started, clearly floundering. “They figured it out! Bob overheard something, and then there was a meeting, and I got cornered at the gym and they were all standing in a circle like some kind of intervention and they were like ‘we know,’ and I panicked and I didn’t want to lie and—”
“Bucky.”
He stopped, biting his lip.
“I’m not mad,” you said, cutting him off before the ramble could spiral into an apology monologue. “I’m… relieved.”
His brow furrowed. “You are?”
You nodded. “Do you know how exhausting it is trying to hide a whole human and pretend I’m not in love with you?”
“I just wanted you to be safe.” He looked down, a little guilty. “I thought if they didn’t know, there’d be less risk.”
“I know,” you murmured, reaching over to take his hand. “But honey… they’re not strangers. They’re your people. Our people, now.”
He smiled, fingers threading through yours. “Yelena did threaten to murder anyone who so much as looked at you wrong.”
“See?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “That’s the kind of prenatal care I’m talking about.”
He chuckled, pulling you close, one hand resting gently against your stomach. “We’ll still keep it quiet outside the tower. For safety.”
“Of course,” you said. “But at least I don’t have to hide there.”
Then Bucky said, “Also… Bob wants to throw you a secret baby shower. In the hangar. With… themed cupcakes.”
—
Eight Months Later
Jamie was six weeks old the first time you brought him to the Watchtower.
He was bundled up in a little blue onesie with a cartoon white wolf on the chest, swaddled like a burrito in a cotton blanket, and blissfully asleep in your arms.
The 87th floor had been converted for the three of you— a secure residential wing with baby gates and blackout curtains and a surprisingly tasteful wallpaper Bucky picked himself. You were here to check it out, and also introduce your baby to the team.
Most days, you would stay at the house in the suburbs, where birds chirped and neighbors waved and no one could hear Bucky singing lullabies off-key at 2 a.m. But it was nice to know you had a home in the Watchtower.
You barely stepped in the common room when the team got up.
“Is that him?” Ava whispered like she was approaching royalty.
“Don’t crowd the baby,” Bucky said, holding out an arm protectively.
John peered over Ava’s shoulder. “He looks like a tiny Bucky. But like, angrier. Is that even possible?”
Jamie yawned.
Yelena, unusually soft-voiced, leaned in “Look at him. So small. So squishy. Like a baby potato with many opinions.”
“He does look judgmental,” Bob offered.
“He is judgmental,” you smiled.
—
There were a couple more visits after that before your first official night at the tower.
They’d been asking for weeks to hold him now.
Every visit, every mission debrief, every team meeting that you attended with Jamie snoozing in a carrier strapped to your chest, someone would inevitably ask:
“Can I hold him?”
The answer had always been not yet.
Not until he had more of an immune system than a fruit fly.
Especially not until Bob stopped referring to his hands as “clean-ish.”
But today, Jamie was twelve weeks old.
Today was the day.
You warned them ahead of time, sending them a group text. Bucky enforced it like a drill sergeant, passing non-alcohol hand sanitiser around like communion.
The baby was clean. The adults were clean. The air smelled faintly of lemon.
Yelena was first, practically vibrating as she took Jamie into her arms like a sacred artifact.
“Bozhe moi,” she whispered, eyes wide.
“He’s real,” Bob said, as Jamie curled his arm around his finger, “we can touch him.”
Then John took a turn, cradling Jamie like he was made of glass. Bucky, perhaps knowing he had some experience and was trying to make amends with his own son, trusted him most. “He’s so… light.“
Eventually, one by one, everyone got their turn.
And then… Alexei.
He stepped forward quietly, hands extended, palms open and ready. There was a certain fondness in his eyes.
You gently handed Jamie over, and Alexei took him with a grace that didn’t match his usual bull-in-a-china-shop aesthetic. He rocked him slightly and began saying something soft in Russian. It sounded like a lullaby.
Jamie adorably blinked up at him.
And then, with the seriousness of a priest delivering a sermon, Alexei slowly walked across the room… and stopped in front of the elevator.
“Little Jamie,” he said in a soothing voice, still swaying, “this, my sweet little cherub, is where you were conceived.”
“Dad!” Yelena whisper-shouted, her hands in the air. “Stop!”
“I’m just telling him the truth!” Alexei protested.
“He’s a baby!” Ava barked.
“He needs context!”
“HE NEEDS A NAP!” John insisted.
Alexei looked down at Jamie, who stared back, completely unbothered.
“I think he gets it,” Alexei said, beaming.
Jamie sneezed.
Bucky buried his face in your shoulder. “I can’t believe we let him hold the baby.”
You, already laughing, said, “At least he didn’t point out the exact panel of the wall.”
Alexei turned around, lifting Jamie like Simba. “And over here, by button 13, that’s where your father’s ass was—”
“OH MY GOD,” Yelena wailed, launching a pillow at him.
Bob hastily caught it. “We shouldn’t throw things when the baby is airborne.”
John held out his arms. “Give him back before you scare him with a detailed retelling.”
Alexei sighed, but passed Jamie over. “You are going to be great warrior like your father, Jamie.”
You settled onto the couch beside Bucky, your body relaxing as you leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then let his lips linger in your hair. He never failed to remind you that you were safe. That Jamie was safe.
Your eyes drifted across the room— your strange, chaotic, beautiful little makeshift family in a room that was a labour of your love. Bob was wiping down a clean countertop for the third time. Ava and Yelena were mid-argument about the correct way to swaddle a baby, neither remotely qualified but equally committed.
Jamie, unfazed by the commotion, cooed contentedly in John’s arms, his tiny fingers reaching for the man’s bead as Alexei kept talking to him in russian.
Your heart felt like it might burst.
He had your nose, Bucky’s eyes, and all the love in the world.
In the background, Alexei’s voice rose again, brimming with mischief. “Next time, I’ll show him the armoury.”
“NO!” came the instant chorus from everyone in the room.
You couldn’t help it, so you laughed.
Jamie was loved. Fiercely, ridiculously loved.
And there wasn’t a person in this room who wouldn’t burn the world down for him.
John Walker is a well-written character and you're ready for this conversation
// Thunderbolts SPOILERS
I went in to watch Thunderbolts before I checked out TFATWS and was under impression Walker's some kinda insane dude with anger issues by the way everyone treated him (including fandom) and how surprised I got when I actually watched his story unfold and realised...
..he's a saint compared to the rest of Thunderbolts lol.
Don't get me wrong, he definitely has sins, but compared to this particular group of individuals he's nothing😂.
He's a soldier, got a title of Captain America from the government, and tried his best to live up to VERY HIGH expectations (the same ones we later see Sam himself struggling from btw). The problem is that John's a soldier who can fight well and not a peacekeeper. Growing more and more frustrated with how he fails to do this very honoured job he ends up being caught up in being ridiculously human. And together with super-serum complications (I suspect it amplified his emotional problems because he WAS NOT behaving like this before taking it, even Lemar says he's always been good in battles and made right decisions before) and grief John let his emotions get control over him.
You DO know he killed this guy because he was strieken with grief over his best friend Lemar dying, right? It's important to me that you know that.
Let's be real, John is a soldier and admits to doing some bad stuff in Afganistan to get these 3 badges of honour. The only reason he suffered the consequences he did is because it was public and people had expectations of him. If he was a regular soldier and killed 'a terrorist' he would even get another reward.
The fight between Walker and Sam & Bucky was clearly his mental breakdown as guilt and grief consumed him. And it seems like the only way he knows how to handle his emotions is to turn them into anger. Which is quite common for men btw.
Is John Walker a good person? Not exactly. Does it make him an interesting, complex and realistic character? Hell yeah.
The thing is, we see him choosing to do the right thing aka let go of Karli and save people in the same show even before Thunderbolts.
In Thunderbolts tho we see him over and over choosing to save people even if it's some random assasins team. Shit, he even launches himself to shield Bucky from bullets even when Bucky would be fine to block them with his metal arm. The thing that I noticed in Thunderbolts is how he starts using the shield to protect others and not as a weapon how it was in TFATWS.
The other thing that separates him from most of Thunderbolts team is that he's not an assasin in its sense, but a soldier who does what he does from patriotic standpoint. It doesn't exuse or justify his actions btw I'm very anti-military, but it gives him more depth than just being a killer.
In the end of the day he's stuck in the same limbo of trying to show his worth and seeking redemption for his sins just like other misfits of Thunderbolts.
He'd definitely use some work on how to handle his emotions in a healthy way and not just resolve to anger every time, but I genuinely don't understand how is he hated SO MUCH in the fandom.
Isn't it like the whole point of releases of this phase to show that people can't be perfect and if they are doing their best it's enough?
I'm not a John Walker apologist or excuser, but a secret third thing of an enjoyer of morally complicated characters.
My reason for not liking him is petty af and I realise that. I also realise he’s gonna end up having a redemption and it’s gonna be gooooood (but imma still ride the petty train as long as I can lol)
The Wild Robot is obviously fucking incredible but what i dont see a lot of people talking about is the parallel of Roz and Brightbill finding out about their families. Brightbill's siblings were killed in their eggs before they could hatch, Roz's identical models were destroyed before they could turn on. both families torn apart by pure coincidence, leaving one sole survivor, with no knowledge of what their species is meant to do or how they're supposed to act. completely isolated
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