Memes

When you started dating Matt, you'd made sure to buy pure silk pajamas so you could cuddle with him without it setting off his sensitive touch receptors. The physical reminder of how much you care makes his body ache with love, as if he can feel your affection seeping into him, filling the cracks of his own self-hatred and making him feel whole in a way he's searched for his entire life.

You have a book balancing on his back, your fingers flipping to the next page periodically. The book you're reading is a sci-fi, something you'd picked out on the date he'd taken you on not too long ago, he knows this because you'd been talking about it— the plot, ins and outs of the world-building, and complexity of the characters.

But he didn't mind listening, in fact, he enjoyed it thoroughly.

"Sweetheart?" Matt's tired voice breaks through the comfortable silence of the room quietly, breaking your concentration. He hears you reply with hum.

"Would you mind reading to me? I want to hear your voice," He requests, sinking further into you.

Matt can almost hear the smile that graces your face, your heart-rate picking up ever so slightly before it settles back down.

"'Course I can, honey," Your reply is thick with tenderness, your love for him palpable.

One of your hands drifts up to his head, fingers beginning to thread through his soft locks, short nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Your voice is soft and smooth, melting into his ears pleasantly. The words flow out of your mouth flawlessly, not a single pause of hesitation or crack. He is completely pliable under your touch, softening at the sensation of your hand in his hair and the sound of your sweet voice.

It isn't long before you feel Matt's body go limp in your grip, his breathing an even inhale and exhale. Your fond smile only deepens as you close the book and carefully lean over to place it on the nightstand, flicking off the bedside lamp within the same movement. You lean down and press a chaste kiss to his forehead, to which he leans into before nuzzling back into you.

Matt doesn't think heaven could compare; or maybe this is his heaven, forever with the person his heart beats for, safe and sound.

☆

gambit ; strip poker ..

"you sure you're up for this one, chere? pretty intense game .." remy sorts a deck of cards in his hands, nimble fingers moving faster than your eyes can track. he doesn't watch the cards so much as he watches you. his eyes are doing that thing. the thing where he looks you up and down nice and slow. the thing that feels more than friendly.

but no, remy and you were just friends.

friends played strip poker together, right?

right?

"it's not my first time playing." you reply, the lie slipping past your lips easily.

"is that right? you some kind of daredevil, then?" he leans back to crank up the stereo before you can respond.

a slow, jazzy tune fills the room, honeyed saxophone floating gently through your ears. your foot taps idly to the beat as remy passes you a few cards and flips three face up onto the table.

you look at your hand. a two and three of hearts. on the table is a king of spades, eight of diamonds, and queen of clubs. you try not to wince.

you're pretty sure remy is cheating by the time you get to the third round. you've already kicked off your boots - he let you pick the first item, and you couldn't muster the courage to say anything more than shoes and socks - and your jacket. the top you're wearing feels too small and too thin. the room feels too hot.

remy has relaxed into his seat, having helped himself to a few shots of whiskey. he's leaning over the table, cards held idly in one hand and the other elbow propped onto the table so he can rest his head on his knuckles. you know he's cheating because he hasn't looked at his cards a single time. even in that half-there, drunken state, remy only has eyes for you.

"aw, too bad." he says, placing down another winning hand.

that jerk.

"you're cheating," you accuse, hitting your cards off the tabletop in an exasperated fit.

"mmhmmm.." remy hums, blinking slowly at you, "you can lose the shirt."

"seriously?"

"thought you played this game before."

"thought you had manners."

remy laughs, his voice easing into a sultry drawl, "take off your shirt, [name]."

you try not to shiver. you avoid his gaze, staring instead at a spot on the wall as you lift the hem of your shirt. you tug your top over your head, letting it fall to the floor beside your chair. even though you're not looking at him, you know remy is drinking you in.

"it's not fair that i have to sit here, half naked, while you're fully clothed!" you finally snap, daring to glance at him.

he has the audacity to smile at you, all innocent, "you're right. should i start with my pants, or would you rather -"

"okay, stop. i get it."

"you're beautiful."

the sincerity in which he says it gives you pause, and you finally meet his eyes, holding your breath. remy's sitting up now, not entirely sober but much more serious.

"i .. uh .. i don't go 'round playing this game with just anybody, you know?" he adds, swallowing thickly as he eyes you again. and again. and again.

you know what he's saying. you don't know if you believe it.

"that's why you're cheating? is this some kind of fantasy of yours?" you ask, trying for some bite.

he bites his bottom lip to hold back a grin, "hah." you watch, entranced, as he runs his tongue over his teeth, "sorta. but it ends a little different."

"what? i guess you want me to ask -"

"you see, chere, dis is the part where i kiss you, and you either punch me silly, or ..."

trailing off, remy is suddenly halfway across the table, a hand snaking around your neck to pull you in.

he tastes like whiskey. you think about punching him, pulling away and pretending this never happened. pretending he was still just a friend. but then he slides his tongue into your mouth and you can't think of anything other than him. his smell. his taste. his touch ..

it's safe to say you forgot about poker. and remy has never just been friendly.

johnny storm ; in the rain ..

"what? i don't understand why you're running away!" johnny scrambles after you, his shirt soaking through and sticking to him all over. he's uncomfortable. he hates being wet, but he doesn't slow down, staying right on your heels as you storm off.

"i'm not running!" you shout back.

it's true, you aren't running. but you are aggressively walking. and you're fast when you want to be.

you can't explain it. you don't want to explain it. seeing him kiss that other girl just irked you in all the wrong ways. you still have goosebumps, the bad kind, from just thinking about it. his hands on her waist, his lips on hers.. it made you want to scream. it makes you want to scream.

how do you explain that? how do you say 'oh yeah, johnny, i'm fine. i just want to rip out my hair when i see you with another girl, that's all' without sounding out of your damn mind?

"[name]! - [name] - stop! wait up, okay? let's talk about this!" he bolts out in front of you, sending you skidding to a stop.

your only inches away from him, having barely missed ramming straight into his chest. that same chest she was all over - ugh! what is wrong with you?

you stare furiously at the ground, and he ducks his head to meet your eyes. his blonde hair is sticking to his face and he's not wearing shoes, having run out after you on a whim, but his hands are still warm when they grasp your wrist.

his voice is gentle when he says, "[name]. what are you doing? don't run away from me.." he mumbles, eyebrows knitting together.

you can't bear to see him looking like a whimpering puppy, so you force your gaze onto a building over his shoulder, "is she your girlfriend?" you say the words through grit teeth, your hand flexing against his grip.

he lets you go, recoiling. for a second, johnny just looks at you, like all the cogs in his head have finally clicked into place, "that's what this is about? you're .. jealous?"

"no! yes! i don't know! is she your girlfriend?"

"no! i just kissed her to make you notice!"

".. what?!"

he winces, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. he has the decency to at least look chagrined as he takes in your newly irritated expression, "look .. i didn't mean to .. i just wanted to make you jealous, alright? i guess i got what i wanted, but -"

"i'm not jealous!''

"okay, you're not jealous," he holds his hands up, "but you did storm out. heh. storm. get it? okay - sorry - don't hit me -" he grabs your hands again, mostly to keep you from beating his sorry ass to a pulp, "so it did bother you, yeah? that i kissed her?"

"obviously, you dimwit!"

"yeah, dimwit. i know." he squeezes your hands, finally moving closer, and closer, until his chest brushes yours. he tilts his head at you, "i'm sorry. i didn't want to hurt you," he pauses, letting go of your hand to instead brush his knuckles over your cheek, "i like you. but you wouldn't look at me. so .."

"so you went off with a another girl?" you snap.

he grimaces, "it was one kiss. i can give you a lot more. i want to give you a lot more .." he trails off, eyes darkening for a moment as he bites his lip.

"you - hey, you can't just .. we're not done talking -"

he swallows your protests with a kiss, his hands sliding around your waist and tugging you closer. the rain soaks through you, and though it should have chilled you, you've never felt hotter.

peter parker and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad first date

he hadn't called it a date, when he first asked you out. he had meant to, but when he finally got the courage to talk to you, what came out was -

"let's go out! as friends, i mean! totally friendly, just friends. two friends, hanging out. alone. haha .."

and somehow, that wasn't enough to scare you off.

what should have scared you off, though, was the partially dead flowers and muddied outfit he showed up in. you considered yourself lucky no one else was home when peter knocked at your door, because they would have refused to let you out and probably called the police on the squatter trying to seduce their kid.

peter's hair had been soaked, he had a splotch of dirt on his cheek (which he wiped away furiously once you pointed it out), his pants were ripped at the knee, and his sneakers were tearing at the seams.

for some reason, you found it endearing.

"hey! hi! oh - um." he shoved the flowers toward you after you opened the door - a bouquet of partially crushed and dirtied lilies - "these are for you. in a friendly way - stop saying that, peter .." he trailed off, slowly glancing down at himself, "right! oh! so. i fell. right into a puddle, actually. a muddy puddle. mud puddle."

you gave him a pitying, if a little amused, smile, "do you want to come inside? i think i have something that'll fit you .."

peter lingered awkwardly in your doorway until you were able to put the dying flowers in a vase and wrangle up a clean pair of pants and a hoodie for him to wear. he blushed pink to the tips of his ears on the way to the bathroom.

the clothes were a little small on him, and he was more than a little bashful about it all, but you made it work.

you thought that was it. but then came the actual date (not date? friendly hang out? it was unclear).

peter insisted he make it a surprise. but the arcade was closed, the funfair rides made him sick, and the food truck made you sick. he apologized profusely through the whole thing, muttering to himself on occasion.

he was silent as he walked you home. silent and embarrassed and beating himself up.

"peter?" you asked, stopping in front of your door, "you okay?"

he scuffed the toe of his shoe against the concrete, running a hand through his brown hair, ".. i'm really sorry, [name], i -"

"come on, it's not your fault the arcade was under maintenance."

"but -"

"or that you get sick on rides."

"still -"

"or that i'm allergic to pineapple."

"yeah, i know. but, look, i had this whole thing planned, alright! i was going to win you a prize, and then we'd go on the ferris wheel, and i could finally confess how much i liked you -" he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut with owlish eyes.

"you .. like me?" you echo. you're more startled by the fact that he actually said it - peter had never been subtle, "i thought this was just a friendly hangout? for friends?"

he lets out a rueful chuckle, nodding his head like he's accepting defeat, "guess i made a pretty big fool out of myself, huh?"

you step closer to him, ignoring the way he stiffens, "i think it was really sweet. and, peter? i like you, too."

with that, you leaned up and kissed him. for a moment, he was frozen, and you thought you made a mistake. but then, his hands come up to frame your face gently, and his lips moved against yours. it felt like fireworks burst all around you two.

you felt peter's shoulders relax under your hands, and he pulled back just to pepper kisses all over your face, leaving you to duck and run for cover, laughter fading into your house as peter gives chase.

wolverine ; only one bed

"you have got to be shitting me," you hear logan's disappointment before you see it. he's already shouldered through the door and paused just past the threshold.

the motel is sketchy enough that you don't really want to linger in the halls, so you nudge him forward and shut the door behind you, before turning to see what has him stomping around like an angry bull.

oh.

one bed. one very small, very cramped bed for the two of you.

okay, you could handle this. not like he's your lifelong crush or anything. you're too old for crushes, anyway. just two adults and a twin bed.

"i'll sleep in the bathtub." logan says before you can get a word out.

you step past him to peek into the bathroom, "yeah, there's no bathtub, just the shower." you point out, eyeing a spider as it crawls into a crack in the wall.

"i'll sleep on the floor."

"it's hardwood." you protest, frowning.

"what d'ya want to do then, share?"

"yes."

he pauses from where he's rummaging through his bag and turns over his shoulder to give you a perplexed look, "really? i'm a big guy, sweetheart. might not be a lot of room left for you."

"i'm a kicker."

"swell."

with that settled, you place your bag on what you are claiming as your side of the bed, sifting through it to pull out a phone charger and a few other things you place on the nightstand. logan marches past you to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water rushing as he turns the shower on.

you take a tentative glance over your shoulder to find the door had been left open a crack, probably to let the steam out. you can just barely see logan pull his shirt off, and, consequently, get an eyeful of his back. his muscles contract when he moves, and you stare, transfixed by his scars and finely textured skin. the way his bicep swells when he reaches up to comb a hand through his hair.

you look away before he takes his pants off.

you're curled up, half asleep on a small sliver of the bed when logan comes out. donning only a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, he casts you a lingering glance as he pads past you to slide under the covers. you force your eyes shut for a moment as you take in the warmth of his body next to yours.

you feel him shift a little, grunting as he settles onto his back, and you match his position. with the bed so small, you have no choice but to lay with your shoulders touching. it feels like his bare skin is burning you. you swallow.

"do you always sleep shirtless?" you ask, trying not to sound too discombobulated.

you catch him raises an eyebrow, "it's hot." he responds with an unbothered shrug.

you turn onto your side, facing him, and rest your head on your forearm. he does the same. if you moved just a little bit closer, you're pretty sure your noses would touch.

"i saw you." logan murmurs the words quietly, laced with a little bit of smugness.

your eyebrows shoot up - shit - "what? what do you mean?"

"you were watching me change." he lays the words out cleanly, all too aware of how it makes your face heat up.

"come on, no i wasn't," you try weakly.

"there's a mirror in the bathroom."

you wince, caught. "alright, sorry, i just .."

"'s alright," he gives you a grin, one of those feral, wolfish smiles he only gives every once in a while, "i liked it. didn't leave the door open for no reason, y'know?"

oh.

oh.

"so, you .." you pause. did you dare say it? yeah. with the way he's looking at you, you'd probably say anything to keep him talking, "you wanted me to .. watch you change?"

he smiles again, canines flashing, "sure. i got a better idea, though - why dont'cha come on over here and get a feel, instead?"

logan takes one of your hands, tugging it up to slide over his chest as he closes the distance. you don't protest when his lips meet yours, melting into it.

you run your hands up and down his chest and abs, falling back against the mattress as he rolls on top of you.

sleep is the last thing on your mind, especially with him touching you like that.

he stares at you for a second before looking down at his hands. the coin is still moving.

“oh my god.” his face immediately turns pink. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“a little.” you laugh. “dex, that thing hasn’t stopped moving since you got here.”

he groans and drags a hand down his face. “great.”

“it’s cute.” you smile.

his expression somehow becomes even more horrified.

“don’t call it cute.”

"are you nervous?” the question makes him pause. for the first time all evening, the coin stops moving. he looks down at it, then back at the coin.

"I really wanted this to go well.” the honesty in his voice catches you off guard. suddenly the coin, the fidgeting, the awkward glances - it all makes sense. your heart feels strangely warm.

without thinking much about it, you reach across the table and gently take his free hand. dex freezes. completely. the coin slips forgotten into his other palm as his eyes widen slightly.

"you know,” you say, tracing your thumb across his knuckles, “this date was already going well.”

there’s a softness to him now that wasn’t there before. the coin hasn’t moved in nearly ten minutes. instead, his thumb has started brushing absentmindedly against yours. when he realizes what he’s doing, his blush somehow deepens.

"sorry.”

"for what?”

"I don’t know.” he laughs nervously. “everything.”

you shake your head fondly before leaning across the table. before you can second-guess yourself, you press a quick kiss to his cheek. it’s brief, sweet, barely lasting a second. dex immediately stops functioning. his eyes go wide. his mouth opens and closes twice. the poor guy looks like his brain has completely crashed.

you ask, trying and failing not to laugh. “you kissed me.” his voice comes out breathless.

"I did.”

his face is bright red now. for a moment he just stares at you before a shy smile appears. “thank you,” he says softly.

"for the kiss?”

"for making me stop being nervous.” your chest melts. you squeeze his hand gently beneath the table, and this time when he smiles back, there’s no tension left in it at all.

You come to the Tower after a HYDRA clean-up operation in Bucharest.

Former intelligence analyst.

Temporary consultant, Fury says.

“Temporary” becomes six months faster than anyone expects.

You’re clever enough to keep up with Tony, sarcastic enough to survive Sam, patient enough to tolerate Bruce’s nervous rambling, and somehow stubborn enough to call Natasha out on her bullshit without fear.

The team likes you immediately.

Bucky doesn’t.

At first.

Mostly because you’re too observant.

You look at him carefully.

Not fearfully.

Not pityingly.

Just carefully.

Like you’re trying to understand him without taking him apart.

He hates that.

Then he starts noticing things.

You don’t flinch around him.

You don’t stare at the metal arm.

You don’t ask questions about the Winter Soldier.

But sometimes he catches you watching him when you think he isn’t looking.

Not because he’s dangerous.

Because he’s alone.

That’s worse somehow.

The touch thing becomes impossible to ignore after a mission in Prague.

It’s ugly from the start.

Explosives.

Gunfire.

A narrow hallway collapsing before Clint can get civilians out.

You get trapped beneath part of a shattered support beam.

Nothing life-threatening.

Just enough to pin you awkwardly until Bucky and Sam can move it.

You laugh afterward.

Brush dust off your jeans.

Tell everyone you’re fine.

But your hands shake for almost an hour.

Bucky notices because he notices everything about you now.

Which is already a problem.

Then Natasha walks by and squeezes the back of your neck absentmindedly.

And you nearly melt.

It’s subtle.

Most people wouldn’t catch it.

But Bucky does.

Your eyes close for one second.

Your shoulders loosen.

Your breathing evens out instantly.

Relief.

Immediate and devastating.

Like your nervous system has been waiting for permission to settle.

Bucky stares.

You realize he saw.

Embarrassment flashes across your face so fast it hurts to witness.

You pull away immediately.

“I’m okay,” you say too quickly.

Bucky says nothing.

But something ugly twists in his chest afterward.

Not disgust.

Not judgment.

Something worse.

Recognition.

He starts testing theories after that.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

You’re sitting on the couch during one of Tony’s terrible movie marathons, half asleep beneath a blanket while everyone argues over which “Die Hard” movie counts as the best one.

Your feet are tucked under you.

Your head keeps drooping.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches over and brushes your hair away from your face.

Just once.

A small movement.

Barely anything.

You freeze.

Not frightened.

Just stunned.

Then slowly—carefully—you lean into his hand.

Like it’s instinct.

Like your body chose before your brain could stop it.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky pulls his hand back immediately.

You blink yourself awake, suddenly aware of what happened.

“Sorry,” you mumble automatically.

Sorry.

Like you did something wrong.

The word slices straight through him.

“For what?” he asks quietly.

You stare at the television instead of him.

“Nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep that night.

After that, it gets worse.

For both of you.

Because now Bucky knows.

And now you know he knows.

The tension changes shape.

It becomes something alive.

Something breathing between you.

Bucky starts finding excuses to touch you.

Tiny things.

A hand at your lower back guiding you through crowded rooms.

Brushing shoulders in the kitchen.

His fingers tapping against your knee during briefings.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

Friendly.

Normal.

But he notices the way your entire body softens every single time.

And you notice that he notices.

One night you fall asleep in the common room while reading.

Bucky finds you there around two in the morning.

Curled sideways on the couch.

Blanket slipping off your shoulder.

Exhaustion written all over your face.

The Tower is quiet.

Everyone asleep.

He should leave.

Instead he kneels beside the couch and carefully pulls the blanket back over you.

Your eyes flutter open immediately.

Panic first.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Sorry,” you whisper groggily.

Again.

Always apologizing for existing.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

“You gotta stop saying that.”

Your brow furrows.

“For what?”

“For wanting things.”

The room goes completely still.

You look at him like he just reached into your chest and pulled something out barehanded.

Bucky realizes too late how honest that sounded.

You swallow hard.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He almost lets you get away with it.

Almost.

Instead he says quietly, “Nobody touches you enough.”

Your face crumples.

Not dramatically.

Not crying.

Just—

wrecked.

Like no one was ever supposed to notice that.

Bucky feels suddenly, horribly protective.

You look away first.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

The silence afterward feels intimate in a way that terrifies both of you.

Then, carefully—slow enough for you to pull away—Bucky rests his flesh hand over yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Gentle.

You stop breathing.

And then—

you turn your hand beneath his and hold on.

It ruins everything.

Because after that, neither of you can pretend anymore.

Touch becomes dangerous.

Addictive.

You start gravitating toward him unconsciously.

Sitting beside him.

Leaning against him during briefings.

Falling asleep against his shoulder during quinjet rides.

And Bucky—

God.

Bucky becomes obsessed with taking care of you.

Not in a controlling way.

In a reverent one.

Like he’s trying to make up for every year nobody held you gently enough.

He tucks blankets around you.

Rubs your back when anxiety hits.

Lets you thread your fingers through his metal hand because you like the coolness of it against your skin.

One night after a nightmare, you end up outside his room at three in the morning.

You look mortified to be there.

“I can go,” you say immediately.

Bucky opens the door wider.

“You can stay.”

You hesitate.

“Only if you’re sure.”

He almost laughs at that.

Like you still don’t understand he’d hand you every broken piece of himself if you asked.

That night you sleep beside him for the first time.

No sex.

No kissing.

Just sleep.

Your head against his chest.

His arm around your waist.

You fall asleep in less than five minutes.

Bucky stays awake almost all night.

Because nobody has ever trusted him with softness like this before.

And because he realizes somewhere around four in the morning that he’s completely fucked.

The team notices eventually.

Sam notices first, obviously.

“You got heart eyes,” he tells Bucky over coffee.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You brush her hair behind her ear like she’s in a Jane Austen movie.”

Bucky glares at him.

Sam grins wider.

“She looks at you like you hung the moon, man.”

That shuts Bucky up.

Because that part scares him too.

You do look at him differently now.

Like he’s safe.

Like he’s home.

And Bucky has spent almost a century being neither of those things.

The first kiss happens accidentally.

Which is a lie.

Nothing between you has been accidental for months.

It happens in the kitchen.

Late.

Rain against the windows.

You’re wearing one of his henleys because you left your clothes in the wash downstairs.

Bucky is trying very hard not to think about that.

You’re standing close enough that your socked feet brush his.

Talking softly about nothing important.

Then your hand lands absently on his chest.

Just resting there.

Warm.

Trusting.

Bucky looks down at it.

Then at you.

And something in his expression must change because your breathing catches.

“Buck,” you whisper.

He gives you every chance to walk away.

You don’t.

You step closer instead.

His metal hand settles carefully against your waist like he’s afraid too much pressure will break you.

You tilt your face up.

And Bucky kisses you like a man dying of thirst.

Slow at first.

Disbelieving.

Then deeper when you make that tiny sound against his mouth.

The kind of sound that tells him this means something.

Your fingers clutch his shirt.

His heartbeat goes completely feral.

When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

The devastation is already complete.

Loving Bucky Barnes is not easy.

Loving you isn’t easy either.

You’re both too damaged in complementary ways.

Bucky gives touch like it’s survival.

You receive it like oxygen.

Sometimes that becomes dangerous.

There are nights he holds you so tightly it borders on desperation.

Nights you cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.

You become each other’s comfort too quickly.

Too deeply.

But somehow—

somehow—it works.

Because neither of you asks the other to be healed first.

Months later, after a mission gone sideways in Madripoor, Bucky comes back bloodied and furious and shaking with leftover violence.

You find him alone in the Tower gym at two in the morning.

His metal fist has cracked one of the punching bags clean open.

“Buck.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately.

Like he can’t bear for you to see him like this.

You walk toward him anyway.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

You stop directly in front of him.

His breathing is ragged.

Eyes wild around the edges.

Still halfway in combat mode.

Everyone else in the world might fear him like this.

You don’t.

Very gently, you take his flesh hand first.

Then the metal one.

“You came back,” you say softly.

The anger breaks instantly.

Just—

gone.

Bucky folds around the grief of it with a broken sound in his throat.

And suddenly he’s holding you so hard it almost hurts.

His face buried against your neck.

You stroke your fingers through his hair.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

No one has ever held the Winter Soldier through his terror before.

No one except you.

Bucky thinks, not for the first time, that this is probably what love actually is.

Not grand gestures.

Not fireworks.

This.

Being known completely.

And held anyway.

The proposal happens almost a year later.

Quiet.

Private.

Perfect.

You’re half asleep in bed, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain taps against the windows.

Bucky’s tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

Your fingers are linked with his metal hand.

Comfortable silence.

Home.

Then suddenly he says, very seriously, “Marry me.”

You blink up at him.

“What?”

His expression turns nervous immediately, which is honestly absurd considering this is James Buchanan Barnes.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re asking me while I look like this?”

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m wearing an old Stark Industries shirt and one sock.”

“You still look beautiful.”

You laugh softly.

Then realize he isn’t joking.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Bucky…”

He brings your joined hands to his mouth.

Kisses your knuckles carefully.

“I spent a real long time thinking I was too broken for this,” he says quietly. “Then you walked in and started looking at me like I was worth something.”

Tears sting your eyes immediately.

“You are worth something.”

His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

“And you deserve to be loved out loud. Deserve to be held whenever you need it. Deserve somebody who notices.”

Your breath shakes.

“Buck—”

“I notice everything about you.”

That does it.

That destroys you completely.

Because he does.

He notices when you’re overwhelmed before you say anything.

Notices when you need quiet.

Notices when you’re touch-starved and crawling out of your own skin from loneliness.

Notices when you need his hand on the back of your neck to ground you again.

He notices.

And he never makes you feel ashamed for needing.

“Yes,” you whisper, crying now. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding that breath for decades.

Then he kisses you.

Slow.

Tender.

Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like being chosen.

And afterward you curl into him instinctively, your face tucked against his chest while his arms close around you immediately.

Automatic now.

Natural as breathing.

Bucky presses his mouth against your hair and thinks, with something dangerously close to peace, that maybe ruin isn’t always a bad thing.

Because figuring out you were touch-starved ruined both of your lives.

chill Fluff, kinda Smutty (so 16+), xGN!Reader

Synopsis: (TW/CW: Anxiety) Reader is dealing with muscle tensions due to anxiety and handles it the way they can. Loki is unhappy (and offended) at their solution, and chooses to help them in his own way. (1539 words)

mint confetti Fluff (sex mentioned because they have a kid), xF!Reader

Synopsis: (TW/CW: Pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, childbirth (all briefly mentioned)) While attending a child's birthday party with her daughter, Reader engages in social interaction of many kinds. (1924 words)

mint confetti, pt.2 Fluff, SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (TW/CW: They have a daughter, smut (Dry humping, dirty talk, making out, coming in pants, switch loki)) Weeks after the children's birthday party that Reader, Loki and Freyja had all attended, things are still very much tense between Loki and Reader. It all comes to a head when Loki voices his displeasure towards Reader's supposed cold shoulder. (2255 words)

expecting love Fluff, SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (TW/CW: Pregnancy, smut (fingering, allusions to oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, praise, breast kissing/sucking, loki is desperate)) Reader wakes up in Loki's arms, much to her chagrin and to his joy. The two of them embrace the evolving nature of their relationship with open arms. (1408 words)

comfort Fluff, F!presenting Loki, xGN!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: talk of periods/PMS, reader's gender isn't mentioned, but they have a uterus/are able to get periods, loki snark) Loki comforts her partner as they're dealing with an onslaught of unpleasant feelings and exhaustion in their shared living room due to their quickly approaching period. (681 words)

silver tongue Fluff, Smutty, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Arranged marriage, very slight allusions to oral (f!receiving duh), loki is a little devious shit but we love them still) Reader greets the day with her handmaiden Gunhild, who gently probes her about her feelings regarding her impending nuptials to one prince Loki. (1492 words)

late night calling Fluff, SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: SMUT (f!receiving oral, clone play, breast worship, dirty talk kinda, allusion to future threesome), Arranged Marriage (but they kinda want each other and it's not that secret), Loki being a devious and smug little bitch (but if he knows he's a great munch, why wouldn't he flex about it??)) Most unusually, Loki calls for his wife in the middle of the night. Surprised and intrigued, Reader makes the journey through the palace in order to see what her husband might want from her. He's never done this before, after all. (2675 words)

book club Fluff, Smutty, xGN!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Smutty right at the end, Reader daydreams about Loki (who doesn't)) Reader and Loki bask in the simple quiet of an evening of reading together by the fire. (673 words)

raven black Fluff, Smut, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Period/menstruation, smutty (Loki wants to be tied up, talks about roleplay, wants to engage in period sex, mentions baby making, allusions to period sex), Loki is a menace (permanent warning here lol)) When Reader wakes up to the unpleasant surprise of her monthly courses, she finds herself in need of fresh air and goes to her favoured source of it: the royal gardens of Asgard. It is there that she comes face to face with a raven who seems to be more than it appears. (1572 words)

saturday night, drink Fluff, kinda Smutty, xGN!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Drinking (but only Loki is explicitly mentioned drinking alchohol, Reader can have drink of choice), no mention of y/n (always forget to add this here), Reader fucks with Loki by claiming they have the mega hots for Doctor Strange (left unclear if they actually meant it or not), flirting (duh) (Loki wants to get straight to the point), Loki is devious, Loki discusses their whorish past (with pride) (diva)) Loki and Reader, finding themselves unsure of what to do on a Saturday night, spend it indoors attempting to entertain themselves with a drinking game. (1483 words)

reconnections little bit of Fluff, kinda Smutty, Angst, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (TW/CW: Angst, mention/allusions to sex, Loki being really bad at feelings, Loki being an ass.) Reader and Loki as explored through snapshots of their relationship. (1850 words)

reconnections pt. 2 tiniest Fluff, Angst, xF!Reader

Synopsis: Reader's return to Asgard seems to drag along plenty of considerations and melancholy with it. Reader questions her place in Asgard, and if it even one she should occupy anymore. (2356 words)

reconnections pt.3 Fluff, Angst, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW: Loki bad at feelings, Loki jealous, Reader jealous, Reader slaps Loki (gif inspo), Loki hates himself (let's get you therapy babes) (same)) With the Reader's homecoming on the near horizon, she attends what is likely to be one of her final feasts in the famed Asgardian feast hall. However, though she hopes for it to be an uneventful evening, that wish is snuffed out the moment she catches the eye of Loki of Asgard, who cannot avoid stirring up some trouble at the sight of her in the company of another. (3.7k words)

trick or charm (Halloween Special!) Fluff, Smut, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Loki being devious, Loki being charming, Loki attempting (and succeeding at) seduction, Smut (dirty talk, Loki wants to get it on), power couple core, chaotic appearance of some Avengers, no mention of y/n, living my dream of writing an Avengers Tower fic.) Reader and Loki attend a Halloween Party at the Avengers Tower. (2212 words)

anniversary Fluff, Smut, xGN!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: SMUTty, Loki is absolutely feral, Loki wakes up horny, Loki goes to bed horny, Loki dreams and is horny, dirty talk (but also it's kinda romantic and sappy), yearning, lusting, dirty thoughts, fantasizing. No mention of y/n, Loki is a little shit as always, Loki's ego (but we love it)) Loki and Reader wake up on the morning of their one year wedding anniversary. The typical dynamic of their relationship soon takes full force, and the usual mischief they've come to find comfortable and expected, ensues. (1926 words)

first snow FLUFF, xF!Reader

Synopsis: Loki and his family wake up, happily, to the first snow of the year. Typical shenanigans follow. (1729 words) (Technically a sequel to mint confetti pt.1 and pt.2, but can be read on its own)

marbled conversations kinda Fluffy, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Loki is emotionally constipated, Loki is kind of an ass, Loki acts mysterious (but he gets jealous), a smidge of past!Loki x Sif (offhand comment), kindaaa enemies to lovers (it's not), arranged marriage, BANTER, sassy divas) Reader wishes desperately to get any sort of reaction out of her betrothed, Prince Loki. (2k words)

ice point Fluffy, Angsty, kinda Smutty, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW/TW: Loki needs a hug, Loki clearly has complicated feelings about their birthday, odin being mentioned as a sucky dad (who's surprised), Loki's Jötunn heritage is mentioned (duh), reader thirsts hard for Loki, Loki thirsts hard for reader, no mention of y/n, reader orders nightgowns for loki to see her in, basically horny couple going through hurt/comfort as foreplay) Reader wakes up with a start, scared that she'd missed her opportunity to spend the whole day celebrating Loki, her husband, on his birthday for the first time as a married couple. She ends up finding him, and his surprisingly sour mood. (1784 words) (Loki Birthday 2025!)

a royal soak Fluffy, Smutty, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW: Loki is naked (thank god), Loki is taking a bath guys (where is this diva's rubber ducky?), reader is scheming hard (inspired by Loki perhaps), Loki being a whore (in any and every shape or form), Loki being an attention whore (different from previous warning), Loki being Loki, exhibitionism (lmao?? first time for writing everything, guys) (can't believe it took this long for this to show up in one of my loki fics), no mention of y/n, reader is genuinely feral for loki (she risks execution for this) (same girl), UNBETAED) She was definitely not supposed to be trailing after the God of Mischief in the hopes of learning more of what he was like when he was not acting it all up for the people of Asgard. (2k words)

a winter's hunt. Fluff, SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: (CW: SMUT (breast worship, dirty talk, Loki discusses a wet dream, handjob) + a sort of fade to black before they go full freaky mode because I didn't know where to take the smut lmao, possibly (probably) inaccurate aspects of how yule was celebrated, reader is pregnant but it's not a plot point (more like an offhand comment or two). UNBETAED as always.) A few days before Yule, Loki wakes up feeling an inescapable hunger for his beloved nymph of a wife, and as he admires her while she remains asleep, he only hopes that she will wake up willing to indulge him before he is to leave on a hunt for elk. (2.4k words)

bookcase rendezvous Fluff, SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: SMUT (dry humping, removal of clothes + more dry humping, desperation, dirty talk, fingering, handjob, attempts at m!receiving oral, allusions to f!receiving oral) Loki yearns after his betrothed but intends to treat her with respect so as to not have her run off before his own nature inevitably causes her to. His thoughts keep him distracted while he visits the royal library. (3k words)

apple picking Fluff, Flirty, xF!Shy!Reader

Synopsis: It was her choice what she would spend her Friday night doing. She felt no one had any right to tell her what to do, even if that person happened to be a handsome, tempting God of Mischief. *Even* if his intentions were good, too. (1.1k words)

a healing touch. Fluff, SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: SMUT (dirty talk, allusions to oral (f! and m! receiving), praise kink kinda, horny desperation from both parties, riding, promises of f!receiving oral, talk of their past trysts, breast worship, Loki moans/groans) Loki is at his most annoying when he cannot deal with things on his own, for one reason or another. So, when he finds himself injured, his wife is quite eager to make him feel better, even if it goes against the healer's orders. After all, she'd be doing most of the work. (3k words)

to covet. SMUT, xF!Reader

Synopsis: SMUT (exhibitionism, dry humping, dirty talk, breast worship) She's felt his eyes on her all night, that damnable man. Then, she feels his breath on her. Later, too, his hands. (~2.3k words)

on the mend. Fluff, Smut, xF!Reader

Synopsis: SMUT (thirsting, dirty talk (talk of oral f!receiving)) Loki is thrilled at the prospect of his love finally returning to the palace, and he is under the impression that she is just as eager to see him, too. Why, then, does she not come to his chambers as expected? (3.1k words)

Social Media AUs

Bedtime Fluff, kinda Smutty (so 16+), xGN!Reader

Synopsis: Just some texts between Loki and reader in an already established relationship.

oven issues. Fluff, xGN!Reader

Three months ago, he kissed you for the first time. Three months ago, he took you out on a date, and after dancing around each other like quite the limber gymnasts for weeks, he let his guard down. Three months ago, you found the man of your dreams; he let you into his home, surrendered his body to you and with it, his soul, and you have not left since. 

As the rain patters against the window pane, you watch him stumble out of the bedroom, hurriedly buttoning up his shirt. You chuckle. He couldn’t keep his hands off you this morning—or any morning you stay over, really. You have yet to move in with him, but all in due time. You’re just happy he let you see all of him, finally, after trying to read him for so long. 

He let you put a magnifying glass into his life, and just when he thought you would run away scared, you turned around and vowed to stay. Matt might be a little broken, but that’s what you love about him.

Love.

You haven’t dared to utter those words yet. Three months of dating, and you’re as sure about your feelings as you can be. You’re not so sure about him. He’s gentle with you, he remembers the smallest details you tell him, and he brings you flowers every Friday. Matt takes good care of you, but you don’t know if he feels the same way about you. For all you know, he just likes being with you.  

“That for me?” he asks, interrupting your train of thought as he slides his arm around your waist from behind.

You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t notice your absent mind. “Yeah,” you say. “I know how much you hate the stuff Foggy keeps around the office. This should keep you awake ‘til lunch.”

He places a kiss against your temple with a satisfied hum. “You’re a goddess. Thank you.”

Blood rushes to your head. It’s the little things he does, the little things he says, the little terms of endearment, and the way he touches you that make it so much harder for you not to blurt out the truth. 

“I think I’ll be home early tonight,” he says. “You want to grab some dinner?”

You watch as he takes the cup, adding the milk you put where he can easily find it before he closes the lid. Trying to be subtle, you wipe away some of the spillage, but the smirk on his face tells you that he did notice. 

You clear your throat, trying to keep your composure. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“Alright.” He reaches for his wallet on the table nearby. “Pick you up around seven?” 

“Sure,” you say.

It’s sickeningly domestic, the way you are with him. The way he is with you. God, you want more of that. You want it every day. The voice in your head is screaming for you to be careful, but you’re already too deep to pull out now. He might be the man you grow old with, or he will be the heartbreak that kills you. There is no in-between with this man or the way you’re feeling about him. You are more than just down bad. You’re down mad—mad because he already drove you crazy. 

Matt kisses you again, this time on the lips. “See you tonight.”

You are about to give the sentiment back to him when suddenly, three words tumble from his lips that implode every thought of worry you’d had over the past three months.

“I love you,” he says.

You stop. 

He stops.

You both stop dead in your tracks.

Oh. 

“What?” you ask, your voice soft, barely above a whisper. 

Matt stands as though he’s wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him. Doubt crosses his unfocused eyes. They dart left, right, then back to where he can hear your heart racing. He can’t read you. 

You were so scared of rejection that the thought that he might reciprocate those three words had been the last on your mind—until now. Now you know. He said it. He said that he loves you, and all you can do is stare at him because the truth hits so much harder when it’s out there.

He must think you don’t feel the same way. He must think your temporary paralysis has something to do with him, and this is nothing more than a casual thing between you. But there’s nothing casual about what’s burning between you. There’s nothing casual about the fire, the passion, and yes, the love that’s building between you like an unbreakable brick tower.  

You almost flinch when he pulls away with that kicked-puppy look in his expressive hazel eyes. They glisten enough for your reflection to stare back at you.

“I, uh,” he stammers, “I have to go.”

Unfortunately, you remain rooted to the ground as he grabs his coffee and his suit jacket, and heads for the door. 

Get it together, you idiot! 

The door falls shut behind him. Normally, his footsteps would echo in the hallway, but there’s not a single shoe shuffling against the floorboards. 

You snap out of it. How idiotic, you think, getting caught off guard by the man you love telling you he loves you, shattering your anxieties. That’s supposed to be a good thing. It is a good thing. He has your heart, and you’re not getting it back. You need to tell him that. This is not the time to be a flabbergasted idiot or to act like a lovesick teenager who’s never heard the word ‘love’ before. This is the time to actually act. 

You drop everything you’re holding and sprint toward the door. At the very same time though, the front door opens back up, revealing a disheveled Matt. Again, you stare at each other. One second, two, then a minute has passed. 

He places his cane aside. “I didn’t–” he starts, running his fingers through his hair, “I mean, I did, I just… I wasn’t… you know, the coffee, and…”

A smile grows on your face. A stupid, lovesick smile that makes your cheeks hurt. He loves you, and he meant it. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

“You know?” He exhales shakily.

You nod. “Yeah, I… I know. And I–” You take a step forward. 

“Yes?” Matt takes a step toward you, also.

A pause. You take another deep breath. “I love you too,” you say.

The weight finally lifts off your chest. It’s out there now. No going back. 

The words have barely seeped in before Matt is on you, pulling you in by your hips as he brings his lips to yours. He kisses you like you are the air he breathes. He kisses you, and the last wall standing between you shatters to the ground.

“You had me scared there for a second,” he murmurs. 

“I’m so sorry.” You brush your nose against his. “I was just so surprised you said it, and I–”

He frowns. “Surprised? Why?”

“I’ve loved you for months now, and I just thought… you weren’t ready. So, I didn’t say anything.”

“Sweetheart,” he grabs your face, “I’ve been ready since the day I met you. I love you.”

And you will love each other until the day you both die, you’re sure.

You’re smiling when you say it. Teasing, mostly. You’d been flipping through old photos earlier—your wedding day, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his entire life. The anniversary’s tomorrow. You’ve been thinking about it all week.

He pauses.

The dish towel stops moving.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Uh,” he says, and the sound is careful. Measured. “Three years?”

Your smile falters.

“Three?” you repeat softly.

He sets the plate down too slowly. “Four?”

You don’t mean for it to hurt. You don’t. But something inside your chest drops heavy and cold.

“It’s five, Buck.”

The kitchen feels suddenly too quiet. Too still. The hum of the refrigerator is loud in the silence between you. He looks at you like you’ve just told him something impossible. Like you’ve corrected him on a fact he knows in his bones.

“Five?” he echoes, frowning.

“Yes. Five.” You cross your arms without meaning to, the motion defensive before you can stop it. “June eighteenth. Five years tomorrow.”

His eyes flicker away.

And that—more than the number—makes your throat burn.

“You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” he says quickly, too quickly.

You huff a humorless laugh. “You didn’t know.”

His shoulders tense. “That’s not—”

“You didn’t know, Bucky.” Your voice wobbles now, and you hate that it does. You hate that this matters enough to make your eyes sting. “It’s our wedding anniversary.”

He stares at you like you’ve just accused him of something unforgivable. And maybe you have. Because this is the man who memorizes the way you take your coffee. The man who still traces the shape of your engagement ring when you’re half asleep. The man who can recall entire mission briefings from ten years ago with photographic precision.

But five years of marriage?

He’s confused.

You swallow hard. “I didn’t think it was something you’d forget.”

“I didn’t forget,” he says again, more firmly this time—but there’s something strained underneath it. Frustration. Not at you. At himself.

“Then why didn’t you know?” you whisper.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Runs his flesh hand through his hair.

And then—softly, like he’s stepping off a ledge—he says, “Because that’s not when it started.”

You blink.

“What?”

He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. “That’s not when we started being married.”

Your heart pounds, anger tangling with confusion. “Yes, it is. That’s literally what a wedding is.”

He shakes his head, slow and stubborn. “No. That’s when we had the ceremony.”

You stare at him.

And for the first time, you see it. There is no world where Bucky doesn't care about your wedding day.

“Buck,” you say carefully. “What are you talking about?”

He exhales hard through his nose. Paces once. Twice. Like he’s trying to find the right words and they keep slipping out of reach.

“I count from when we met,” he mutters finally.

You go still.

“What?”

His jaw clenches. “I count from the day I met you.”

The words hang in the air between you.

“You—what?”

He gestures vaguely, frustrated. “We were already… it was already you. From that day. I knew. So I just—” He shrugs helplessly. “That’s when I started counting.”

Your brain struggles to catch up. “Counting what?”

“How long we’ve been married.”

You stare at him like he’s just spoken another language.

“You didn’t tell me that,” you say faintly.

“Yeah,” he snaps, immediately regretful. He drags a hand over his face. “Yeah, because I figured you’d think it was weird.”

Weird.

You think about that first day. The coffee shop. The way he’d watched you like he was memorizing you. The way he’d walked you to your car even though it was broad daylight. The way he’d looked startled when you’d joked about “marrying a stranger.”

“You’ve been counting since then?” you ask.

He nods once. Reluctant. Embarrassed. “Thirteen years,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

Thirteen.

You’ve been together ten. Married five.

He’s been married to you—in his heart—for thirteen.

“I just… I don’t separate it,” he says, voice low now. “You weren’t my girlfriend. Not really. Not in my head. You were my wife. I just didn’t have the paperwork yet.”

Your chest feels tight in a completely different way now.

“So when I said five,” you murmur, “you thought I was wrong.”

He gives you a small, sheepish nod. “I thought you were testing me.”

You blink, and then despite yourself, a shaky laugh escapes you. “Testing you?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought maybe you forgot the first eight.”

You stare at him.

And then your eyes fill for an entirely different reason.

“Bucky,” you breathe.

He steps closer instinctively, like he can’t stand the distance anymore. “I wasn’t dismissing it,” he says urgently. “I wasn’t forgetting. I swear to God, doll, I wasn’t forgetting you. I just— I’ve never thought of June eighteenth as the start.”

Your voice trembles. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He hesitates.

Because you’d think it was weird.

Because he’s always afraid of being too much. Of loving too intensely. Of holding too tightly.

“Didn’t want you thinking I was… I don’t know. Crazy,” he says finally.

You step into him before he can finish the thought.

He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you like they were made for it. Like they’ve always known where to go.

“You absolute idiot,” you whisper into his shirt, and your voice is thick with tears and laughter all at once. “You thought that would make me think you cared less?”

“I didn’t want you thinking I didn’t care,” he murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I can’t have you thinking that.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“Thirteen years?” you ask softly.

He nods.

“And you never told me.”

“Figured it was safer in my head.”

You cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“I married you five years ago,” you say gently. “But I’ve loved you for thirteen.”

Something in his expression breaks open. Soft. Vulnerable.

“So,” you continue, wiping at your cheeks with a watery smile, “tomorrow is five years of marriage.”

He nods.

“And thirteen years of you being secretly insane.”

A huff of laughter escapes him, relief flooding his features. “Yeah. That too.”

You lean up and kiss him slow and certain.

“And for the record,” you murmur against his lips, “that’s not weird.”

His arms tighten around you, like he’s anchoring himself.

“It’s the most Bucky thing I’ve ever heard.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes soft and shining.

“Thirteen years,” he whispers.

“Thirteen,” you agree.

“And five.”

“And five.”

He smiles then—small, private, certain.

Because in his mind, you’ve always been his wife.