WRITING + ENGAGEMENT STATUS: hiatus ~ longer than planned but I’ll be back soon <3
Most recent work: Need (Loki x reader)
Hey, I'm JJ (she/her)
I write Marvel reader-insert fics. Some fluff, lots of angst, some hurt/comfort, lots of tickle fluff.
MINORS DNI: None of my writing contains smut, but does often contain steamy moments and romantic and/or implied sexual relationships between the reader and adult-aged characters. My reader!characters are never intended to present as a minor, and I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.
My inbox is always open - I’d love for you to say hello
re: prompts: i have a big backlog and don't write in order ~ you are welcome to send ideas, but i cannot guarantee I'll commit to writing them <3
That’s all, folks. Masterpost is below the cut.
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JJ’S MIXTAPE || a collection of drabbles inspired by my followers’ favourite songs 🎵
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LOKI x READER TICKLE FICS (separate masterpost)
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MATT MURDOCK x READER
Off the Record (Part 1/3) - As much as he hates to admit it, Matt Murdock needs your help to prove his client’s innocence.
Off the Record (Part 2/3) - Desperate to help Murdock prove a beloved humanitarian is a criminal and a fraud, you step into the snake pit.
Off the Record (Part 3/3) - The clock is running out and the leads are going cold. Determined to expose the truth, you, Nelson, Murdock, and Daredevil hatch a dangerous plan.
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MOON KNIGHT x READER
Finishing the Job - When Marc and Steven feel incapable of keeping you safe, a surprisingly willing hero emerges.
Outlaw - Marc is coping with his circumstances, then you show up and threaten to unravel everything.
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BUCKY x READER (tickle fics)
Self-Defence - You ask Bucky to teach you a few moves to defend yourself. Like the good boyfriend he is, he obliges.
Peace - Bucky finds peace with you, and reasons to stay.
Pulling Punches - Bucky refuses to fight against you with his full strength, and you’re determined to make him see the error of his ways.
Real Pain - Accepting a position within Nick Fury’s new agency lands you the coveted role of Bucky Barnes’ partner in justice.
Predictable - Brood, glare, grunt, repeat. You could set your watch by Bucky’s moods, but don’t tell him that.
Crying Wolf - Bucky is isolating himself. Steve tells you not to treat him any differently - just be yourself. Now, thanks to Loki, that might come with some consequences.
At Ease - "You’d never laughed like this before. Not in front of someone. Not without feeling like it was going to cost you something. But with him, like this, you felt… safe. And that was the kicker. You felt safe because of him. And he could let his guard down because you felt safe."
A You and Me Thing - Bucky loves seeing you laugh. But he doesn't love seeing other people tickle you.
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PETER PARKER x READER (tickle fics)
The Perfect Alibi - Your friends won’t get off your back about getting onto to dating scene. One night, the perfect solution accidentally crawls through your window.
Abili Drabbles - a limited series of drabbles following on from The Perfect Alibi.
hi lovely people, I’ve been gone a lot longer than planned due to some very unexpected out-of-the-blue things that happened while I was taking a small break —
in short: big dramatic family breakdown and several resulting mental health crises including my own, i don’t want to share details but I’d like to share that i am well-supported and loved by bf, and am beginning to have some hope again
i started returning to writing a month or two ago and have some things I’m looking forward to sharing when the time is right
Thank you for your kind messages and your patience and for all the lovely comments left on my fics and in my inbox during my absence. I really did cry (like—a lot) reading them. Good crying 💜
hi lovely friends, im going to take some time away from tumblr 💜
im okay, nothing’s gone wrong on this site, I’m loving being here again and chatting with you all, and im not planning to be away for more than a month or two. there are some abundantly lovely messages in my inbox and if I haven’t responded yet please know i will when I return — i simply need some time to tend to some things in my life
it find it far too easy to spend too much time on tumblr/writing fics because this is a wonderful and encouraging place, but im neglecting my responsibilities in life - i think in part because they don’t make me feel the same warm community and happiness i experience on here. so i need to step back to recalibrate
The training built fast. Warmups became drills. Sprints became intervals. He timed your splits, critiqued your posture, barked "push through" every time you slowed down when you didn't need to. You discovered whole new layers of muscle ache, and a buzzing under your skin that stayed long after the run ended.
But something about it felt good. And real. Like you were carving out some control in a world that was constantly spiralling.
Sam didn't ever give you the out someone else might. He didn't treat you like you were fragile. He pushed you. Challenged you. Told you when you were full of shit and capable of more.
And sometimes, he adjusted your form.
His hand ghosted over your hip once, warm and grounded as he straightened your alignment mid-drill. Just a flash of contact - his voice low in your ear: "Engage your core. Right there. Feel that?"
You had. Unfortunately.
It was... nothing. Professional. Helpful.
But it still made your skin prickle to just think about it.
He was annoyingly good at the whole coaching thing. He motivated without nagging, teased without discouraging. And he was always just there, steady as hell, jogging backwards at times just to prove he was barely trying.
"I still hate running," you panted after your third sprint interval one morning.
He grinned without turning. "You'll feel different when the endorphins hit."
"Endorphins are lying sons of bitches."
"You’ll be thanking them when you get that runner’s high."
"Runner’s high," you wheezed, "is a myth propagated by liars who want me to suffer."
He let out a low, easy laugh, and you hated that it made your chest flutter slightly under the sweat-soaked fabric of your shirt.
"You know, you get really dramatic when you’re tired. Maybe we'll add some caffeine before these session so I don't keep copping all this sass."
You shot him a look. "What are you, my coach or my handler?"
"Depends. Do you need handling?"
He said it smooth. Too smooth.
You slowed just half a step, catching the flicker of a grin tugging at his mouth. You cursed under your breath and pushed harder on the next lap just to prove something - though you weren't sure what.
synopsis: You and Loki have an understanding about what it means when you touch each other: sex, not intimacy. Heat, not warmth. Contact, but certainly not comfort. So when the lines are crossed, you both fight to keep them from blurring into something complicated.
based on this ask/prompt <3
pairing: Loki x reader (no pronouns used, but Loki calls reader "witch" once)
wc: ~4600
content warnings: MINORS DNI. fwb/casual sex, no explicit smut but sex is heavily alluded to (the door is closed but the walls are thin if you catch my drift), swearing, reader has anxiety & shame surrounding it, anxiety-driven compulsive behaviour (skin-picking), teasing/dirty talk, some very gentle tickling
Everyone is exhausted. A little too spent for ego. So the briefing is quiet, Hill actually getting through her points without wisecracks from the cheap seats.
Everyone else around the table dons a loose posture, listening as she drones through the aftermath - what went wrong, what almost went worse, how they’ll prevent it next time - but everyone just wants the feeling of hot carbs and clean sheets.
But you're not really there. You can’t hear a word of it. Shoulders too stiff, brow too tense, and your hands won’t stop moving.
Your fingers twist in opposite directions, knuckles pressing to discolouration, then released again. The skin along your palm stings faintly from earlier, from where you’d rubbed too hard in the washroom, trying to feel something that would ground you.
You don’t realize you’re doing it again now, subconsciously tearing at the callused line of your thumb with a ragged fingernail - until a moon-pale hand quietly places itself over yours beneath the table.
Your stomach turns, and you glance sideways a little too obviously.
But Loki doesn't look at you. His gaze is still on the debrief, his eyes unreadable and distant, but his fingers - they lace gently through yours, easing your hands apart with care that feels... foreign.
It's so different than the touch you’re used to with him.
His thumb brushes over your raw skin with an idle softness. Your breath catches. This is very different than the touch you’re used to with him; those late-hour slips into each others’ rooms, the desperate clash of breath when it’s been a while, the slow smirking gravity when it’s only been a day or two.
But it’s never tender. Never… this.
But you don’t pull away.
Instead, you let your fingers explore his. Smooth. Strong. Faintly scarred. His hand is warming from contact. You trace the tendons, the groove of his knuckles. The slight ridge of a scar at the base of his index finger.
And he lets you. He never flinches. He just stays still while your anxious fingers map him, committing his shape to your quiet collection.
You don’t say anything when the meeting ends, and neither does he. His hand leaves yours before you both stand, but even then… it’s a slow release. Like he’s giving you the choice to hold on. To keep him there.
You almost do.
An unlocked door means the other is welcome. And when you approach Loki's room later that night, the faint light beside the door handle is green.
You don’t knock when you slip inside his suite. You never do.
And he never tells you to.
The door clicks shut, you flick the thumb-turn to lock it, and the hallway air vanishes - replaced by the warm, earthy scent of wood and silk and leather and magic that clings to the inside of Loki’s space.
The lights are low - just one bedside lamp, dimmed amber - no fire in the hearth tonight. His boots are by the door, his overcloak draped over a crushed velvet armchair. The walls sparkle with the flicker of half-burned candles dripping wax onto a polished stone dish. This room always looks like he's halfway between a battlefield and a throne.
He’s already in bed, propped against the headboard, a book in hand. Loose black pants, half-done button up shirt on top. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He closes the book slowly, methodically, and sets it against his thigh, his gaze lingering on you, quiet but intense. The weight of it pressing hot against your skin.
You've showered. Cleaned the grime. Slipped into some shorts and a black tank that's slightly too short but not quite cropped. Your face is set with that look he knows well: hunger, that just barely hides how tightly you’re wound.
It’s never been spoken aloud - whatever this is. But the rules were understood early: no expectations, no confessions, no strings. Just stolen hours, harsh kisses, heated minutes or hours, controlled withdrawal. Never staying the whole night unless your legs were too tired to walk. Never touching unless it was about sex. There’d been words exchanged, yes, whispered filth and teasing and his unfair way with words, but never anything soft. Never anything real.
Loki watches you cross the room, and he doesn’t say anything.
He just extends a hand. An invitation. A command.
You slide into his lap with a breath that’s more exhale than greeting, your knees straddling either side of his thighs as you settle against him. The Compound is smooth walls and echoing cold, and the heat of his body is a relief - your loosen a little purely from the contact.
Your hands find his shoulders. His grip comes to your waist like a habit.
Not wasting time, you lean in, brush your lips over his throat, then murmur low against his pulse, "What are you reading?"
His hand flexes on your waist. "A reminder," he murmurs, "that even mortal novels can have... some semblance of value."
You smirk faintly, "God forbid." Then your mouth is on his neck, trailing heat in slow kisses, your hips shifting just enough to pull his breath from his lungs. Your hands begin to explore - shoulders, nape, then lower. Familiar territory. But when you lean back and reach for the buttons of his shirt, Loki catches your wrists.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.
Then: "Your hands."
You glance down. The skin is still raw. Sore in places you hadn’t even noticed. Embarrassment flares in your chest, but you sniff a nervous breath and try to brush it off. "Yeah. New soap’s shit."
He doesn't buy it.
His thumbs run over the raw patches gently. You feel the hum of his magic as he mutters something under his breath - just enough to soothe the irritation, seal the skin. You inhale slowly. The sting fades. But you don’t look at him. You’re afraid of what might be in his eyes.
Loki tilts his head. "Why do you do this?"
Your eyes lift to meet his, caught. "It’s not on purpose."
"Fidgeting?" he asks.
You nod. "Yeah. Or- nerves. Habit, I guess. Happens before I notice."
He raises a brow. "Don't you mortals have some... soft hand-held object for this sort of thing?"
You let out a soft snort of laughter through your nose. "You mean a stress ball? Not really a good look for a trained operative."
"I disagree," he argues.
"Doesn’t matter. I don’t want or need people asking questions. Besides-" You reach up and run a slow finger along a button of his shirt, voice dipping, "-skin feels better. It’s warm. Real."
He doesn’t move. He just watches you, and you can feel him thinking. Calculating. Then, when your hands find each other again, tugging faintly against where they rest between you, he takes them. Gently. Firm.
"Use mine," he says.
You blink. "What?"
He nods once, unwavering. "If you need something to calm yourself, use my skin."
There’s heat in your stomach now, different from earlier. Something less urgent. Something deeper.
You scoff lightly, trying to shake it off. "What, like this?" You start to slide your fingers down, teasing, toward the waistband of his pants, but he catches your hands again.
He clicks his tongue, eyes half-lidded with amusement, and murmurs, "Always so eager to misbehave."
But he sees it. That flicker of unease still in your gaze. The way your hands keep twitching - moving, restless, desperate for contact, for anchor, but to not be seen reaching for it.
So he shifts, slightly, pulling you closer on his lap, and he slips your hands up beneath the hem of his shirt. Onto his stomach.
The heat is immediate. His skin is warm, firm, alive under your palms.
Your breath catches.
"I said," he repeats softly, "use mine."
He presses your palms flat, and then gives you his trust - that you'll stay put - and he slides his hands over to your hips to rest there.
"Calm yourself."
The low timbre of his voice washes over you - it's that tone he uses when he's telling you what to do, and you're letting him, and you're listening, obeying - and it sends heat to your lower belly. But he doesn’t move further. Doesn’t press. Just lets you decide, in the silence, whether to explore him.
Tentatively, your thumbs stroke lightly along the lines of his abdomen, tracing the edges of muscle, the dip above his navel. You watch your hands move beneath the fabric. You can’t really see anything, but the feel of him - the steady rise and fall of his breath, the twitch of muscle when your fingers brush too close to the edge - it's grounding. Soothing. Real.
Your shoulders start to drop. You hadn't even realised they were so tight. So close to your ears.
Your lips part, about to say something - an apology, maybe, or a joke to defuse the moment - but he moves and gently guides your hands again. Up. Sideways. You follow. You trace. He watches you.
When the backs of your nails graze faintly along his ribs, his skin twitches. You blink. Your eyes lift to meet his. There’s a softness in his gaze. Curious, and patient.
But you see the edge there, too. The tension.
You draw a new pattern along his side. He twitches again. Involuntarily. The reaction makes your mouth quirk.
"Are you... ticklish?" you murmur.
Loki exhales through his nose. "Unfortunately."
You lift a brow. "You’re letting me tickle you?"
His voice is low. Unamused. "I’ll stop you if I must."
You start to reply - a teasing line already forming - but before the words make it out, your fingers brush a spot near the side of his ribcage and he lets out the tiniest, breathiest laugh.
You freeze.
He narrows his eyes. "Don’t start."
You shut your mouth, biting the inside of your lip to hold back your tease, and you keep going - gently, reverently - tracing the shape of him, letting the feel of his skin against your fingertips calm the anxiety still moving through your chest. And he lets you. Head leaned back against the headboard, breath steady but slow, his hands back on your hips.
Eventually, one of them slides up your back, warm and strong, not demanding - just there. Anchoring you.
And for the first time when you're alone and touching him, you don’t try to take it further.
Neither does he.
And it becomes a pattern. Routine. Ritual.
At first, it’s only when you’re anxious.
You don’t always mean to seek him out. Sometimes your hands just won’t stop moving - clenching, scraping, curling tight into fists - and you find yourself at his door before you realise you’ve crossed the Compound. Sometimes it’s after missions. Sometimes it’s after meetings. Sometimes it’s for no reason at all except that something in you buzzes, and nothing else seems to work.
You never have to explain.
When you open Loki's door and he sees it in your eyes. In your shoulders. He’s always quiet, always already holding out a hand.
The first time after that night, you kiss him like you want to go further - but he catches your wrists again. And this time, he doesn’t tease. He guides your hands under his shirt and murmurs, "Is this what you need?"
You hesitate. Then nod.
You don’t fuck that night. You don’t even kiss again. You just press your palms to his stomach while he sits there against the headboard, and let your fingers move lightly until your breathing evens. He watches you, saying nothing, one hand resting loose on your thigh.
The next time, he doesn’t wait for you to reach. As soon as he sees the tremor in your fingers, he lays beside you, pulls you in, guides your hands to his stomach, his ribs, the line where soft skin tightens over bone. "This," he says simply. "Only this."
You want to kiss him. You want to distract yourself the way you always have - through sex, through heat, through that physical power that lets you forget how small you sometimes feel. But if you're anxious, he stops you. Every time.
He says it quietly, kindly, but firmly enough that it holds.
And when you’re not anxious, it’s sex. Messy, hungry, clever sex. The kind you can’t stop thinking about for hours after. And he's infuriatingly good at it - at drawing heat from you with just a look, just a bite to your lower lip, just the sound of his voice at your ear when he says something filthy and chases the path of his words with his tongue. There’s magic, sometimes. Sometimes he lets you pin him. Sometimes, he holds your wrists above your head until your legs shake and you're gasp his name against his throat. It’s always good.
But you begin to learn the new rhythm:
Touch, when you’re restless. Pleasure, when you’re not.
He never mixes the two.
If your hands twitch, if your voice trembles, if you hesitate when you undress - he slows everything. Pulls you close. Presses your palms flat against him and murmurs, "Just this."
Sometimes it’s his abdomen again. Sometimes just one side. Sometimes you find yourself curled into him, tracing the angle of his collarbone or the curve of his neck. You learn his body like terrain, and he never stops you. Even when your hands drift over ticklish places. Even when he squirms.
He’s ticklish, yes - but never pushes you away. He lets you feel everything. Even that. Even his softness.
You come to crave the way he breathes through it. It's tight at first, then soft. You learn the way he ducks his head, tries not to laugh, but his mouth tugs at the corners. He doesn’t suppress that around you either. Not anymore.
One night, you’re both beneath the covers, facing each other.
You hadn’t meant to stay. You’d planned to slip away after. But his arm had found your waist and you hadn’t moved. Now your legs are tangled, and his chest is bare, and your hand is idly brushing against the edge of his hip.
Neither of you speaks.
Your fingers trace slow, deliberate patterns just under the hem of his pants, not teasing - just moving. You follow the ridge of his hip bone, up, around, back down. He’s warm. Solid. A heartbeat you can feel against your fingertips.
He’s watching you. You know he is. But you don’t look.
Instead, you smile - quietly, to yourself - when you feel him tense. Just slightly. Not because he’s aroused, but because he’s trying not to laugh.
You press a little harder.
Loki buries his face in the space between your neck and your shoulder, half a groan, half a breathless sound that almost counts as a laugh. His shoulders twitch.
Your grin widens. You keep going.
Your finger drags lazily around the line of his hip again. You feel his mouth part against your neck.
"Witch," he mutters low.
You smile, light and slow.
But then - just before he can shift and grab your hand - you move. Slip your fingers up his side and brush your thumb along the ridges of his ribs.
He laughs. Properly this time. A stifled, breathy sound into your neck, full of surprise and restraint. His hand flinches at your back like he’s going to retaliate, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he exhales. It sounds like he might say something, but he doesn't.
So you just let your thumb circle there again, lighter now, feeling the way his body reacts before he can control it. His twitch. His grin against your pulse. His held, stuttering breath.
The feeling of him not fighting you. Not fighting at all.
And it grounds you more than anything else.
You ease your hand away after a moment. Let your fingers trace lazy paths over his lower back instead. You feel him settle again. His breathing slows.
Then his arm curls more tightly around you, pressing your bodies close. Not possessive, not commanding. Just there.
You press your nose under his jaw and whisper, "Thank you. For this."
Loki doesn’t answer right away. But he brushes his knuckles along your spine.
A moment later, you feel his lips at your hairline, and a wordless exhale that might’ve been something like always.
Weeks pass.
And it works - whatever this strange, tender ritual of yours has become. The grounding touch. The feel of his skin under your hands. The way he offers it like a gift, like a secret only you’re allowed to hold. It helps.
You stop rubbing your hands raw.
You stop waking with that buzz in your bones that only pressure and contact could tame.
You still come to him, often. But for something else.
For the other things. The late nights. The laughter. The sex.
Stealing away to each other’s rooms when it’s late and the halls are quiet.
You’ve kept that part of the rhythm, and it’s never less than what it was it's still good, still charged, still searing in a way you both chase with teeth and laughter. Some nights he’s rough with it, hungry, biting your neck and pinning your wrists with sharp fingers. Other nights it’s slower, more deliberate, his magic curling around your ankles while he draws you open inch by inch, whispering things into your mouth that make your knees weak for days after.
And you always leave when the air cools. So does he.
That’s the rule.
It’s been almost two months since your hands needed to glide against his ribs to steady your breath. You haven’t brought it up. And neither has he.
Until tonight.
You’re both already in his room. You’d kissed him the moment the door clicked shut behind you - lazy, heated, with the kind of tension that had been building all day. He was still dressed in one of those soft, half-buttoned shirts you liked to tear off his shoulders, and he looked every inch the pleasure you wanted.
You think that’s what this will be. What it always is. What you both agreed to without really ever saying the words.
But as you're moving towards the bed with his lips on your neck, he slows. Stills. He pulls back, steps past you toward the bar cart by the dresser.
It doesn't phase you. He always offers a drink unless you're both too feral to consider it.
He pours. Amber liquor, smooth and dark. Two glasses. His shoulders shift with each motion, strong and elegant and familiar.
"I take it you’re here to be properly humbled."
You hum as you walk slowly past his bed, fingers brushing the edge of his blankets. "Something like that."
But then - without turning - he says, "Have you learned how to deceive me?"
You tilt your head. "Hmm?"
He turns, holding out the glass to you. You take it, brows lifted. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes are steady.
"You’ve seemed better," he says. "No trembling hands. No sleepless pacing outside my door. I haven’t had to pry your fingers open in weeks."
Your subconscious works faster than your thoughts. His tone. His stance. That look in his eye; this... this is delicate.
"And... you think I'm hiding my stress. From you."
He lifts the glass to his lips, faintly lifting one brow, "I'm not sure." He takes a sip. Still watching.
You lean back slightly, inspecting him over the rim of your drink as you lift it. Shrug with one shoulder. "I've been good. Haven’t really needed... just that." A beat. Then, lightly, "Which means it probably worked."
You take a sip. He watches your throat dip as you swallow.
He’s quieter than usual. You see something shift behind his eyes. He’s trying to keep it casual, but his voice is a touch too careful when he says, "Well, perhaps it would be wise to preempt your need. Rather than wait for the fallout."
Your eyes narrow a little. You know him too well. You do. You see it now - that flicker of vulnerability underneath the dry amusement.
Your mouth curls. Slow and satisfied and with an edge of endearment. No taunting.
"You miss it."
Loki scoffs softly, eyes flashing. He opens his mouth, probably to deflect - but before the words can form, you step forward and say again, quiet but sure:
"You miss it."
He gives you a look. A classic Loki look - arched brow, faintly offended, the kind that used to hold bite. But there’s no venom in it now. He takes another drink instead of answering, drains the glass, then turns away under the pretence of pouring another.
But his hands are too still. Too deliberate.
You follow him, stepping forward, placing your glass down beside his. Then you reach out. Slide your hands under his shirt, up his back. Skin to skin.
He tenses.
Your fingers move slow and steady, tracing the hard lines in his shoulders.
"You can ask for this too, you know."
He swallows. You feel it.
His voice is low, rough. "You're here for a reason."
"Mmm." Your hands keep moving, up towards the place his neck and shoulders meet.
He holds his ground. "And I intend to ensure you are thoroughly well-fu-"
His breath catches when your nails graze down the length of his back, one hand either side of his spine.
You let out another small hum, hands dipping lower - one trailing along his back, the other skimming around his waist. Slow. Soft.
"You’re tense," you murmur.
He shifts, barely, and says with a tighter edge, "Yes. I'm thinking of some very clever new ways to make you beg. Perhaps I'll-"
But before he can finish, before the rising insecurity in him has the chance to retreat into that mask of sex and heat and pleasure, your voice cuts in.
"-Loki, I... I know there's a line," you say, your body now pressed lightly against his back. "We haven't talked about it. But it's there. Between sex and... this."
Your hands keep moving. One traces the space around his navel, light as a whisper. The other follows the ridges of his abdomen, brushing over the firm shape of him.
"But," you breathe, "maybe that line doesn’t need to stay so sharp. Maybe it can blur, and that can be okay. Maybe... it doesn’t have to be complicated."
Loki’s head dips forward slightly. His hands clench on the edge of the dresser.
Your lips brush his upper back, and you whisper:
"Maybe it's all just need."
His whole body twitches when your fingers graze a more sensitive spot along his ribs. That familiar, involuntary reaction.
He lets out a slow breath, like it’s burning him not to move.
"Come to the bed," you ask. "Let me do this." Your fingers curl more deliberately now, tracing lazy patterns across his stomach. "And then you can make me beg. After."
Loki lifts his head. His weight shifts beneath your hands as he turns. Eyes searching yours - perhaps looking for mockery, for game, for an angle. But there's none. Just steadiness. Sincerity. Heat. Just your hands on him, slow and sure.
Something melts behind his eyes. Something gives.
You drag your hand up, and press your palm gently to the centre of his chest.
Then you nod once, subtle, and step back. Taking his hand.
He lets you lead him to the bed.
The room feels quieter now. He sinks onto the edge of the mattress like he’s unsure if this is indulgence or mistake. You kneel around him slowly, carefully, straddling his thighs but not pressing. You don’t reach for his shirt yet. You don’t kiss him. You just take your place in his lap and lift your hands to his sides like you've always done. Reminding him that this is normal between you.
You feel his breath hitch. You see his eyes darken.
He doesn’t stop you.
Your fingers slide under his shirt and up his torso, the pads of your thumbs catching the dips between his ribs. He twitches. Just slightly.
"This okay?" you murmur, watching him.
His gaze finds yours again. Steady. Blue and glowing. "Yes."
You press your lips together, holding that, and start to move again - slow, reverent, your fingers gliding in soft, grounding lines across his stomach, his ribs, his hips. You let your nails trace, sometimes circling, sometimes brushing just firm enough to make him tense. You explore every inch of him without taking more. Without making it about anything but this:
Your hands.
His skin.
Your quiet need.
His quieter one.
At first, he holds still. Then his breath deepens.
Little by little, his muscles loosen. His jaw unclenches. His hands - once white-knuckled at his thighs - relax enough to slide to your waist.
And when you find the edge of his ribs - that spot - you see it.
The twitch. The shift. The quick suck of breath.
You press there again. Delicate. He laughs.
Low. Quiet. Half-ashamed.
You grin. "I love this little spot."
He glares at you, but it’s hollow. There’s a flush in his cheeks now, a breathless lift to his chest. You keep moving - one hand around his side, one along his hip, the drag of your fingertips making him shift again.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he mutters, voice hoarse.
You kiss just under his jaw, lips curled in a private smile. "Hmm."
He breathes another laugh - but then you shift your weight, catch that same spot again with the edge of your nail, and he moves.
And in the next instant, the air crackles.
Faster than you can yelp, you’re on your back. Wrists crossed and pinned above your head in one of his hands. The God of Mischief looms above you, panting faintly, the corner of his mouth curved.
His hand dives to your side, fingers dancing with practiced cruelty. "I’ve let this go on for far too long without-"
He pauses. Because all you've reacted with is a underwhelming little wriggle. Barely anything.
You grin up at him. A twitch. A sniffling giggle. No more.
He frowns.
Tries again - a precise, ruthless attack against your ribcage, something that would've decimated the average person. But you? You just shift a little underneath him, and your grin remains the same: smug, knowing, so fucking pleased.
He stills, releases your wrists and sits back over your hips, hovering his hands over your abdomen as if he's unsure what he's touching. His eyes scan across your half-clothed torso.
"What," he starts flatly, "is this witchcraft."
You laugh then, and shrug as best you can with your hands still resting above your head. "Sorry. Not really ticklish."
His eyes snap up to yours. He stares. "That’s a lie."
"It’s not a lie."
"It is. It must be."
You laugh again at fierce denial in his voice. "Sorry. You’re the squirmy one here, Your Highness."
His eyes flash.
"Oh, you think so?"
You try to smirk, but you're too amused to look cocky.
Loki's eyes narrow, something darker slithering in behind them as he leans in close. His body shifts above yours, expression melting into something smouldering. And he smirks. Slowly.
Lifts a brow. "I think... you forget who's touching you, pet."
You feel the press of his waist sliding down your hips.
"And that there are many other ways to wring some squirms and whimpers from you."
You open your mouth to tease back, but he’s already moving - down, sliding lower, and your breath catches. Your fingers thread through his inky black hair as you giggle once, delighted, anticipatory...
...and then the sound changes.
Your amusement stutters into something else. Something deeper. Something after.
The line between comfort and pleasure blurs into nothingness.
And the world, and all its worries, fades away with it.
pairing (romantic): MCU Bucky Barnes x reader (no pronouns used)
synopsis: Bucky loves seeing you laugh. But he doesn't love seeing other people tickle you.
words: ~4200
cw: tickling, swearing, kinda possessive!Bucky, protective!Bucky, Bucky verbally teases a lot. minors DNI (adult-aged character x reader).
note: thank you anon ~ for your beautiful headcannon message that sparked inspiration so profoundly unavoidable that i had to write this immediately <3
The Compound had its own rhythm.
Loud in the morning, chaotic by lunch. By late afternoon, it often softened into something unsettlingly domestic. But you'd grown used to the ebb and flow, the dynamics of it; the occasional crash from the training floor, the laugh from the living room, the bickering in the kitchen. The lives being lived loudly.
Somewhere in all that noise, Bucky Barnes had found you.
And you had found him.
Or, perhaps - you finally allowed yourselves to notice each other.
That’s how it felt, you thought: like a slow reveal, something waiting under the surface for permission to come up for air.
It wasn’t anything dramatic at first. Just looks across the gym. Passing comments in debriefs that made you laugh - followed by the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that looked like it had to breach surface tension just to show itself.
Then it was a brush of your arms when you passed him a mug in the kitchen. A sharp, quiet joke that made him laugh that rough, rusty sound that always seemed to surprise even him, and nudge your arm with his own.
And now... you were something. Not exactly official. Not exactly casual. You weren’t sleeping in his bed every night - but when you were on the couch and he came in, he gravitated toward you like it was gravity.
He flirted - oh, how he flirted - and he was persistence. Present. Available. In a roomful of people, always choosing you.
And today, for the most part, had been like any other over the past several weeks and months.
Until Thor got a little handsy.
It was stupid, really. Some documentary on TV you were only half-watching, some awe-filled comment from Thor, some sly smirk and snappy retort from you, a pillow hitting your shoulder with force, an even-more-violent pillow missile whacking against his head, then a hand around your ankle - yanking you onto your back - and a reminder that he is an older brother.
Two massive hands struck - tickling with quick and careful squeezes beside your hips, and your reaction was instantaneous; you burst into laughter, trying to jerk sideways, trying to kick against his thigh for leverage to escape.
"No fair!" You squeaked, sniffling between laughter and jerking again when one hand slid down to grab at the muscle above your kneecap. "THOR!" You wanted to argue that his unwarranted attack was a violation of Earth's unilateral peace agreement with Asgard, but the words were garbled in laughter until Thor allowed you squirm your way off the couch, and land in a heap on the floor. "Ow," you whined, but didn't really mean it.
Thor chuckled and turned up the volume of the documentary, a smug smile on his face at his victory. You glowered, no malice behind it, and stood, straightening your clothes.
Across the room, you felt his stare before you saw it. Your smile softened as your gaze flicked past Thor’s shoulder - locking with storm-blue eyes that had gone a shade colder.
Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable - but his jaw was tight. Not angry, exactly. But something darker simmered beneath the surface.
You could feel the weight of it. The shift in him.
You brushed your hands on your leggings, crossing the room toward Bucky, and you clocked Sam watching the exchange with a lifted brow - but he, wisely, said nothing.
Bucky didn’t move when you reached him.
He uncrossed his arms slowly as you approached, but his expression didn’t change.
You stopped just in front of him, close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Hey."
His gaze flicked over your face, and you felt his eyes settle briefly on your mouth before he glanced away.
"Hey," he said shortly.
You cocked your head. "You alright?"
"Yeah," he said. Clipped. Too fast.
You paused, sighed through your nose. Then, you stepped in closer and leaned your shoulder into his chest, folding your arms as if settling in for comfort, but also calling his bluff. You didn’t push, didn’t ask again. You just settled, letting your body speak trust, even if he wasn’t ready to.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Then, with a long exhale, he dipped his head and kissed the side of yours.
It was slow. Lingering. Just behind your ear.
Not performative. Not light.
Claiming.
Your breath caught - just a little.
And when he pulled back, you could feel the heat of his stare trailing down your cheek, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was low.
"Didn’t know you were so ticklish."
You smiled, soft, eyes half-lidded now, aware of how close your mouth was to his. "You've never tried."
His lips curved - barely. "Maybe I should."
A pause. His fingers skimmed the hem of your sweatshirt, almost idly - but you weren’t fooled. His touch was precise. Curious. Possessive in the way he wasn’t quite letting himself show.
"What's wrong, Buck."
"I just…" he started, then stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes didn't leave him. He studied your face a moment. Then: "It’s stupid."
"Try me."
Another pause. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. "I like being the one makin' you laugh."
Your brows rose in question. In steady challenge.
"I don't mean..." you could see his breath trapped high up in his chest, "not that I've got a problem with you laughing with other people - that's not what I'm saying - but... that feels different." His eyes held yours. "Tickling feels personal." His voice dropped lower. "Intimate."
Your chest ached. Not in a bad way.
Softly. Warmly.
Gods, you adored this man.
He used the silence to wince at his own words, tick his jaw, shake his head, start to over-explain. "Shit. I'm not sayin' any of this right. The last thing I want is for you to feel... controlled or-"
"No, I get it," You smiled gently, leaning a little further into him. "You'd just... prefer if tickling was a you thing."
He tilted his head, eyes not wavering, a small grateful tug at the corner of his lips. "A you and me thing," he clarified.
You smiled, gave a single nod, and slipped your fingers through his metal hand, warm and easy, and you tipped your face up to his. "That's fine by me, Sergeant." You placed a quick kiss on the curve of his jaw. Then whispered: "and just you know for sure... it's a perfectly reasonable ask."
And that earned you a real smile. Small. Lopsided. Relieved, and real.
And even better - it reached his eyes.
You gave a flirtatious little smile and added, "especially since we're 'goin' steady' - isn't that how you said it?"
"Shut up," he murmured, hooking an arm around your shoulders to pull you back in. "Punk," he whispered in that playful way of his, but then smoothed a hand down the centre of your back, and placed a kiss on the top of your head.
Time continued as it usually did - long days, short weeks, even shorter months, and you’d mostly forgotten about that day in the lounge.
New rhythms were forming.
You and Bucky weren’t exactly a textbook couple - you still had separate suites, separate closets, and more trauma between you than one relationship should reasonably have - but fuck, you were good together.
Especially those quiet moments. In the in-between.
The evenings where he let you play with his hair with a distracted hum, or the mornings where he pressed his face into your shoulder, refusing to get up until you whispered something filthy just to make him chuckle.
He was still healing, and it wasn’t linear. Some days were heavier than others. Some nights he held you like he was trying to tether himself to reality. And some days, you gave him space because you knew he needed to figure it out in his own head first.
This day had started like any other.
You’d laced up your boots and headed to the gym. Steve was there, you decided to spar. Bucky came in just after you started, watching with a proud spark and approving nod of your form. Your fierceness.
You were halfway through a round when Steve really got the better of you, and your back hit the mat with a breathless OOF. Steve’s hand planted against your sternum, keeping you down.
You winced. "Jeez, Rogers. Doesn't the serum have an expiration date or something?"
He lifted a brow. "Not that I'm aware of. Guess you'll just have to do better."
You rolled your eyes and muttered something snarky about brittle old-man hips coming for him, and before you could react - Steve’s fingers dug in where they were planted, hitting several ticklish spots on the front of your ribcage.
Your squeak echoed through the gym.
"Shit!" you gasped, laughter bubbling up as you squirmed, curling in on yourself as his hand continued the onslaught for a few torturous seconds. "Cut it out," you wheezed, swatting as he finally pulled his hand away and you started to re-compose yourself.
He smiled and held out a hand. "C'mon. One more round."
You narrowed your eyes playfully, but took his help. "Clean this time."
He nodded once. "Scout's honour."
But as you moved back into your stance to reset the drill, your attention flicked - automatically, instinctively - to the space where Bucky had been standing earlier.
It was empty. And the doors were sliding shut.
You showered and dressed for the rest of the day before seeking Bucky out, deciding to check his room first. You didn’t knock right away - just rested your knuckles against the door and waited a beat. Long enough to hear the subtle sound of a page turning inside.
Then you knocked. In the same rhythm you always did.
"It's open," came Bucky’s voice. A little too calm.
You entered, seeing him freshly showered, legs stretched out on the mattress in front of him, a few pillows between his spine and the headboard, paperback in hand. His hair was messily-tied, loose strands half-dried and curling against his temples.
"Hey," you said softly, closing the door behind you.
He glanced up. His face warmed slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"Hey."
He looked back at his book.
You flexed your hands and crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed beside him. Not crowding. Just sitting there, quietly, letting the moment settle around you both.
After some silence, you spoke. "I'm... hoping you’re not upset at me for what happened in the gym today."
Bucky didn’t look up again. "I’m not upset at you."
You studied his profile. The tension in his jaw. The way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours.
"But you are upset."
He closed the book. Sighed. Scrubbed a hand down his face, voice low. "I'm not mad. I don’t blame you for anything. I just..."
"Didn’t like it," you finished gently.
He didn’t answer.
You pressed, voice soft but pointed. "It was Steve, Buck. And I didn't start it."
"I know. I know, it's-"
"Look... I know we agreed tickling would be and you and me thing, but it feels like you just want it off the table completely. I mean, you've never even tried. And if it's something you don't like, that's okay, you just need to-"
His laugh was dry. "What I don't like is wondering if I'd accidentally crack one of your ribs."
Your lips parted.
There it was. The vulnerability behind the sarcasm.
The muscle in his jaw flexed as he looked away. His shoulders had gone stiff, like he was bracing for battle. But a fight wasn’t coming.
You turned your body more fully toward him, knees bending to tuck under you beside his hip. You reached out, fingers curling lightly around his thigh.
"Buck."
He still didn't meet your eye, held up the metal hand with a little shake of his head. "It’s not exactly the most delicate tool in the shed."
You let a beat pass. Then slid your hand over his thigh more firmly - gentle, slow, grounding. "That doesn’t mean it would hurt me." You traced your fingers lightly over the seam of his sweats. "It's never hurt me before, has it?"
He gave a long exhale through his nose and closed his eyes. "'m sorry," he tilted his head back against the headboard. Your thumb brushed his thigh.
"I get where you're coming from. I do. And I don't wanna push you to do things you're not comfortable with, but I... I like a little roughhousing," a wry chuckle burst through your lips. Bucky's neck went upright again, eyes opening and finally finding yours. "I know we're not kids - I know who we are, I know what we do - but we can still... play. That's part of being human. Part of being together. We're supposed to have a little fun."
He let out another breath, and his eyes narrowed. Head tilted. It was an effort - you could see that; he was consciously trying to change his mood. And it was working. You could feel the shift. The warmth seeping back into his eyes.
He let his voice drop to that flirty tease he knew worked wonders against your composure. "Sounds like you're begging for a tickle fight."
You bit back a smile. "No - that’d be boring."
He lifted a brow. "Boring."
You shrugged one shoulder innocently. "It's not really fun to fight when I know I'd win."
His expression twitched. "Y'know, you can be a brat sometimes."
You smirked, whispered. "You’re just mad cause I’m better at it than you."
He blinked. "At what, exactly?"
You lunged at him.
Your hands landed at his ribs, fingers jabbing quickly, finding flesh over muscle - and Bucky jerked, letting out a startled sound that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff.
"Oh-ho," he said, voice dropping an octave. "Okay. That's it."
Before you could react further, his book hit the nightstand, and he twisted, grabbing you around the waist and hauling you over his thighs onto the centre of the bed.
You giggled and scrambled as you landed half-tangled in your own limbs, and Bucky followed. This was a chase. A mess of skin and clothes and laughter, your bodies rolling awkwardly across the mattress, twisting and dodging while he made exaggerated grabs for your sides.
You caught his wrist once, tried to twist, and he used the opening to finally get his fingers against your ribs - eliciting a squeal you barely bit back.
"Oh, sweetheart..." he chuckled, triumphant. "You’re doomed."
"Just you wait," you wheezed, pulling your leg away just as he made a grab for your ankle.
He grinned, ducking your flailing elbow. "You asked for this." His right hand slipped under your hoodie, fingers finding the edge of your hip.
"Wait!" You arched immediately, hands pushing against his wrist, laughter bubbling from your throat, wild and breathless.
"Oh, that’s a good spot," he murmured, delighting in the discovery. "I'm makin' a mental note of this one." He dug in again, making you kick your legs uselessly against the bedspread.
You shoved at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-wrestling. "You call this a tickle fight? This- ugh! This is weak!"
"Weak?"
He went for your ribs this time. You shrieked again, dissolving into laughter, twisting and squirming on the bed as his hands chased you across the mattress.
"Bucky! Wait- okay- let's reset!"
"We haven’t even started."
It turned into a tangle. A full-body scuffle - your limbs thrashing against his as he followed you wherever you rolled, one hand darting in to squeeze the side of your knee, another digging into your waist, drawing all sorts of laughter and flustered sounds from you. He broke your defences with each passing second.
He loved the sound of it all. Loved seeing you lose your cool. Your cheeks warmed, eyes gleaming as you tried to scramble up the bed.
"You're all talk, you know that?" he said, catching your ankle and dragging you back down with one hand. "All mouth."
"You love my mouth." You countered, twisting, trying to push up on your elbows.
"You’re not getting away that easy." He chuckled, catching the place above your knee and yanking you more fully into his reach. You landed on your side with your back to him, and couldn't get away before his arm hooked low around your stomach.
He pressed his thumb against your hip and you bucked, laughing uncontrollably as your hands tried to pry his free. He was laughing too now - the kind of warm, dark sound that made your stomach flip. And you were caught. Really caught. With every passing ticklish second, you lost more fine motor control, more tension seeped out of you, more fight evaporated.
Your mouth though... that kept going.
Kinda.
It tried.
"You- I- I swear I’m gonna-"
"Tell me," he leaned in, smiled against your ear. "Tell me what you're gonna do."
You craned your neck to look at him, giggling, breathless, still defiant. "Careful, old man. You’re sounding winded."
Bucky stilled.
Smiled and- oh, fuck. Not just smiled.
It was that rare grin. Full, and boyish, and wicked.
And suddenly you were flat on your back, his weight braced over you, knees straddling your hips. Your wrists were pulled against your chest, caught tightly between the two of you in one of his hands.
Your breath hitched.
He hadn't been letting you win...
But he had been letting you fight.
And it looked like you'd just lost that privilege.
"Repeat that?" he said, voice husky with mock offence.
You smirked, opened your mouth to do so-
You gasped at the cold as his metal hand slipped under your hoodie. Before you could protest the icy temperature, he dug in.
Right beside your hip, just on the side of your stomach. The spot you didn't even know was there to be found. But he pressed in fast, little circles, cold metal fingers expertly tormenting the exact right place to send you into chaos.
You threw your head back and laughed, deep and loud and hearty, unable to do anything else.
Bucky kept grinning, delighted, wisps of his hair falling forward as he leaned in close, not letting you escape any part of his attention.
"Mmm," he hummed, smug. "There's the goldmine."
He picked up his pace and you started squealing, legs kicking the bed as you bucked under him, laughter tearing out of your throat.
"I'm gonna die-" you gasped.
"No no. You’ll live. I'll make sure of it," he chuckled, hand still tormenting, switching up his rhythm just enough to keep you on edge. "... I'll make sure you feel every second of this."
You were shrieking now, helpless, because any movement sent you right back into him, his hands, his body, his laughter. The cold of his fingers under your shirt.
His touch stayed with you, devilish and steady and clawing at the softest part of your belly. And his grin only widened, his lips ducking to your neck. "You like my metal hand now, sweetheart?" he cooed, lips and stubble grazing the sensitive skin below your ear.
You arched between the bed and his body, crying out in a half-sob of laughter. "NO- NO- not my nnn- not there-!"
"You still wanna tell me what you're gonna do?"
"Oka- OKAY! You proved your point! You WIN!"
Blessedly - he stopped, watching as the air flooded your lungs, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed a brief kiss to the side of your neck.
His metal hand stayed on your skin but slid to rest on your waist, idle and strong and now docile.
And you? You were completely undone, breathless, runner's high, chest rising fast under his hand still holding your wrists. And your dazed eyes met his.
His face had softened. That teasing glow still lingered behind his smile - but now it came with something gentler. Something warm.
"Y'alright?" he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking to your lips for a brief second.
You took in a big breath. "I think my lungs collapsed."
He snorted. "Yeah. You're fine."
You tried to glare, but there was no sharpness behind it, only relief. Only fun. Only something heating up a little more. So you slipped one hand out of his hold, and hooked a finger around the chain poking out just above the side of his collar.
Thin metal slid against itself, and fabric. Your eyes locked on the shape of it beneath his shirt.
You pulled, gently, and watched the shape move. Up, towards his collar. More chain free. Then, his dog tags peaked out. Tipped free.
They tinked softly as they landed in your open palm.
Then your eyes flicked back up to his, winding the chain once more around your finger. Insistent.
He let you pull him down to meet you.
And he let you kiss him senseless.
And after all that... all of this really became a thing. A part of your rhythm, threading itself into your days like muscle memory.
Because it wasn’t just tickling. Or roughhousing. It was you.
Your laugh. Your joy.
The way he coaxed it free.
The sound of it.
The way your body shook against him when it hit, wild and unrestrained and helpless. The way your smile went crooked when you tried to talk through it. The way you always fought back and never won. The way you let him have that side of you.
All of it. He loved it.
And he got very good at it.
One time, you were curled up on the couch watching something dumb, your legs draped across his lap, tank top riding up slightly from how you'd twisted onto your side. You were deep into some half-witty analysis about the movie when Bucky’s hand slid, slowly and deliberately, beneath the hem of your top.
You barely registered the motion - just a subtle movement along your back, near your ribs, his thumb brushing soft skin.
Then he pinched right under your shoulder blade, and your whole spine jolted like you’d been shocked.
"Hey!"
He smirked, leaned back like the smug bastard he was, and repeated the quick, precise motion.
You tried to grab his hand, but he caught your wrist, chuckling low as you tried to twist away - only for him to push his hand in deeper, fingertips seeking that little pocket just under your back ribs.
"You didn’t tell me about this one," he murmured, with the gall to feign offence.
"I didn’t know!" you wheezed, giggling helpless, kicking at him. "You must've found a- a new spot, you- jerk!"
He hummed with faux-thoughtfulness, easing his touch there, drawing slow and light circles that made you shiver and curl your toes. "Hmm. It's on the list now."
Another time, he caught you in the kitchen, reaching for a bowl in a higher cabinet, stretched out in your sweats and socks, tank top riding up in the back. He came up behind you, bracing your hips between his hands.
You stilled. Warm. Neck heating. You turned your head slightly.
"Well are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me reach?"
And then-
He ducked, leaned in, and blew a raspberry against your lower back - right where your spine dipped and your skin was exposed.
You half-yelped, half-laughed, knees buckling, arms shooting down to brace yourself on the counter.
Too quickly, he stood, arms looping around your waist as you tried to stumble away, and he smiled against your neck. "I'll never get tired of that."
"Hmph," you tried, but couldn't feign annoyance. Especially when he reached up and brought the bowl down without another word.
But he didn't always have great timing. Like the one singular time he got you while you were brushing your teeth.
You were standing at the sink in your little black sleep shorts, thin-strapped tank, mouth full of minty foam, groggy, half-awake, and apparently something about you screamed: ah yes - this is the perfect target.
Because Bucky walked up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed the curve of your shoulder... and then tickled your ribs. Not soft. Not gentle. Ruthless. Firm, deft, digs of his fingers.
Toothpaste foam erupted from your mouth, splattering the sink and mirror, toothbrush clicking against the floor as you doubled over and shrieked and squirmed, whacking your knees against vanity.
That time - you really did scowl at him. And he apologised. Profusely. Through his laughter, through his chuckling as you threw a towel at him to clean the place up.
You only eased your glare ten minutes when he placed a coffee in your hands and kissed you, slow and deep and languid, one hand still on the mug to make sure it didn't spill.
Apart from the one Toothpaste Incident, he was wise about it; he never played when you were upset. When you were anxious, closed off, in pain. When it was clear you only wanted to be touched carefully. Wanted to be grounded.
So it was when you were present. Close enough for him to read you, to feel it was okay. Only when he was sure you’d let yourself go for him.
Because your laughter - your real, wild laughter - wasn’t something everyone got. Not your deep kind. Not your body-shaking, wheezing kind that made your cheeks hurt and your voice go hoarse. Not the kind that made your body weak and vulnerable.
But he got it. Over and over again.
And every time you caught him grinning down at you while you gasped and laughed and shrieked for mercy - his hair falling into his face, eyes gleaming, voice rich with affection...
You could see it that same flash of joy. Like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like this was the sound he’d been waiting to hear on the other side of the ice.
So you gave it, played it, da capo, over and over, and over again.
This is my first time writing something to someone, I’m kinda nervous lol
I’ve been reading a lot of your Bucky fics and I think they’re AWESOME AND SO SOOO CUTE!!!!:3
Second of all… I’ve been reading some Bucky headcanons about him being in a relationship after healing from all of his trauma from the past and I noticed that most of them (if not all of them) take out the fact that he’d be suuuper flirty and he’ll tease his s/o almost all the time! (That’s kinda my take from him, I totally get it if people don’t see that)
And adding to that, I believe he would do anything to make his s/o laugh, mostly with tickles! And he would be so annoyed if anyone from the team tries to tickle the reader lol because that’s kind of his thing and only he can do it, you know what I mean? Like imagine Thor or even Steve attempting to tickle the reader only to find Bucky glaring at them on the other side of the room, it would be hilarious! And! And! just imagine his sweet face when he’s doing it himself, I’m pretty sure he’d become a puddle of love just by looking at the reader!
This has become a ramble so I apologize 😅
So yeah, that’s my personal headcanon about Bucky, he’d do anything to hear the sweet laughter of his s/o and I stand by the fact that most of the time it would be in the form of tickling…
I’m so excited to hear your thoughts about this and maybe some personal headcanons that you have! Only if you want to share them of course! 🫰🏽
sweet anon, thank you for writing to me even though you were nervous! and thank you for your lovely encouragement, im glad you love the fics <3
unfortunately, i don't really have a list of headcannons or thoughts to share on this matter...
but only because your beautiful "ramble" inspired me way too much and i just had to go and write a whole fic about it.
ahh your sneak peaks are such a treat!! cant wait for the fic <33
thank you sweet anon <3 i love hearing what you all think of the snapshots ~ i fear i have too many wips and i fear writing has become far too fun again but OH. WELL.
hello, what is the name of your other account that you mention?
hi anon! it's nevermath.tumblr.com <3 gonna use your ask to give a wee update!
you're all gonna be annoyed at me and that's valid but i haven't made a lot more progress on the bucky fic (it's sitting around 80% complete) because i got completely swept up in the Loki fic mentioned on that masterlist - and i am genuinely in love with it. it's actually the story that got me back into writing after two years off. it just grew a little out of control, and ended up not fitting this blog - primarily because the smut feels very engrained in it, so im not willing to cut it (and also, there's no tickling). im very, very proud of this story.
so i've been striking there while that iron is hot, and now i only have to write a few more scenes of the loki fic before the first draft is done - 43,000 words right now, so it'll be posted in 5-7 parts (one per week), but i'll only start posting when i'm done with the content and purely proofreading cause i dont want to fall behind a committed schedule.
the bucky fic will likely be three mega-chunks of 8-10k words and will be posted all at once. i wanted to put it all in one post but i've hit tumblr's block limit twice with that work - hence the three parts.
hi! this is kind of a random question but if you're comfortable answering im wondering what time zone you're in? just bc your posts are always in the middle of the night for me lol
AEST baby <3
(GMT+10, if that helps)
for real, i haven't figured out the best time to post for all you lovely people. i often post in the mid-late arvo my time. any and all input about best times to post fics would be SO APPRECIATED x
i’ve seen a lot of your work recently and i had an idea
i don’t know how the request thing works but it’s not like that
if someone else will like the idea they can use it
i just didn’t really know where to send it so here we are 😗
So i read a fic where y/n is not ticklish bc of being a mutant, and what if the reader was a normal human but just not that sensitive so just barely ticklish and loki is VERY ticklish
okey ? cool and the reader is very easyly stressed out by stuff so he tries to help her somehow. And after one incident of him trying to tickle her and not succeeding she asks him if it’s okey for her to tickle him when she’s stressed.
And like loki is so shy and flustered abut it bc since his childhood no one ever did that,
being the god of mischief he’s always been trying to get to people and when someone dose this to him it’s making him go insanely shy
and eventually he agrees and the whole thing starts
when the reader is stressed or upset he just comes and lays with her or sits so she can tickle him - gently, at least i think it would go to like hysterical level bc she doesn’t want to over do it and hes just to shy for it.
he’s always hiding, in the pillow, in the crock of her neck, in his hands - and it’s the most adorable thing ever
and he eventually became used to it and stars to like it, after some time when u didn’t do it for a longer period bc you didn’t stress or struggle much for the past few weeks
and comes up to her and asks smth like ,,why didn’t u do it yet” and she’s confused like ,,what didn’t i do” and he goes „yk the thing u always do… „ all shy and blushy and (omg i’m sorry i just love shy loki so much ) they talk about it how we liked it and why and stuff
hope you liked the idea, it wasn’t leaving my mid so i had to write it somewhere😌
i love your blog so much 💕hope youlll have a good day ❤️
hi sweet anon!
thank you for sharing your idea with me. i think i might be able to write something along these lines, though my preferred writing style + characterisation of Loki may lack some of the shy/blushy energy you're dreaming of! let me see what i can do <3
Loki turns his head at that, something sharp and unreadable in his gaze. But he doesn’t push. He just keeps moving, one slow step at a time, keeping rhythm with the music.
His palm presses firmer against your back, and you let out a breath without meaning to, your lashes fluttering shut for half a second. You press in slightly, shuddering as his hand traces a gentle line up the curve of your spine, then smooths flat again. It’s cold still - that touch - unnaturally cool.
You mutter, explaining your goosebumps, "Your hand is cold."
There’s a pause, and then - heat. A gentle bloom of warmth, sudden and soft, pressing into your skin like a secret. Magic. It spreads through your back, up into your shoulders, until your muscles loosen against him just enough to be noticed.
"You're not supposed to do that," you gently remind him, but there's no reprimand in it. There should be, though. He shouldn't be risking using magic to make you comfortable. Not when it could be traced.
But he just hums under his breath - barely a sound - and you feel it rumble low in his chest.
"Why are you really up here?" he asks, voice close to your ear. "Why away from the adoring crowd?"
You blink once, your mouth suddenly dry. "I meant what I said," you say, quieter than you meant to. "I don’t like crowds. And… these galas. They’re just…"
He fills in the silence for you, voice almost amused. "Insufferably boastful?"
You laugh softly. It's a surprising sound that slips from your chest before you can control it, and for once, you don’t bother pulling it back. "A little," you admit.
His voice takes on that biting lilt. "I admit, it’s impressive. The lengths they’ll go to remind me that I was bested by Earth’s mightiest costume party."
You huff another laugh, but there’s a sincerity that flickers behind it. You find yourself looking at him then, at the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbone catching the city light.
"It’s a privilege," you say eventually. "To be welcomed into."
"But?" he presses, and you feel it in the way his body moves with yours. Subtle. Patient. He’s not mocking. Not this time.
You pause, glance out toward the skyline, and Manhattan opens before you like a jewellery box of glittering promise. So much beauty. So much danger. So much potential. You feel like you can see all of it.
"It’s a long way to fall," you admit softly.
You don’t elaborate. Not out loud. But your thoughts flicker like static behind your eyes. You think about the posters. The faces in the crowd cheering your name. The magazines that crowned you the new face of strength. Feminist icon. Trailblazer. Symbol. Hero.
An image stitched together with PR, edited combat reels, polished speeches. A manufactured version of you that lives in camera lenses and cell phone screens, all perfect form and perfect timing.
You’re not sure who they see anymore.
And worse, you’re not sure who you’re supposed to be when the illusion starts to fray.
The thought tightens in your chest.
A breeze sweeps in then, cutting through the quiet. It lifts the hem of your dress just slightly, brushes across your exposed spine, and you shiver.
You glance at Loki and immediately wish you hadn’t. He’s looking at you with that sharp, unreadable gaze again, but softer. Like he sees too much.
You feel foolish all of a sudden. For saying what you did. For being vulnerable in front of him. You straighten, step away, your hand slipping from his shoulder.
For what its worth your A/N at the end of 'endorphins' its def needed... personally for me what attracted me to tickling is the fact that it gets me out of my head/mental issues & does a "reset" per se. Not that it brings me to most people's "normal" but it brings me back to mine. Helps with the mental & physical trauma I havent fully healed from. All of that to say the reminder that tickling isnt a cure or solution to the problem is def one thats needed for some of us unfortunately...
anon, thank you! i appreciate this message a lot and think i needed it.
im always still a bit nervous when the fic includes something even a little heavier (in a non-canon way) because i don't want to skirt over issues, but based off some prompts i receive regarding tickling after a bad/sad/traumatic incident, it seems like many people out there do really see the tickle fluff as - how you phrased - somewhat of a reset or head-clearing moment. and i want to honour that, too.
thank you for your honesty and for sharing your experiences, and wishing you continued healing <3
I can’t wait for the gentle loki fic, u have no idea how excited I am for it! I do like the teasing fics, but something about tenderness in tickling always attracted me some more. I’ll be reading everything you throw at us, though! 🫶🏻
thankyou anon !!
it's a bunch of fun to write different scenarios, so my gratitude to the anons out there who teamed up to give some ideas that got the words flowing! i'll post a sneak peek very shortly
thank you for your sweet words, i appreciate them so much <3
