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lovelybarnes · 9 months

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The Blanket in The Box- B. Barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, sam wilson warnings: I FORGOT TO INCLUDE THE TEAM I'M SO SORRY I'LL WRITE A SECOND PART, silly about: request! "What if fem reader got a blanket of bucky. how would he react? how would the team react? i just felt like if u write this promt u would give it the best justification." (THANK YOU SO MUCH for thinking of me so nicely thank you i hope you liked it!!). a/n: this fic won!! i hope you're ready. i hope i did the idea justice!! also i could not for the life of me think of a clever little title so i made it like a bones episode name. yay!

“Something came for you.” Sam is standing at your open door, fingers tucked underneath a large box that has his arms brawnier than usual and his brows up to his forehead, a false innocence in his eye that makes you think he knows exactly what he’s carrying.

You stare at the box for a second and try to think, recalling each order placed and its corresponding package received. You gasp. Sam’s lips prune up like he can read your mind, his fingers curving a little protectively.

You leap from your bed and snatch it away from him, its weight surprising enough to slip straight out of your hands. You heave a foot over the sealed flaps and stare at Sam’s smile. “Go,” you say.

“What?” He exclaims indignantly, grin dropping. “That’s not fair! This whole thing is thanks to me—I should reap some rewards.”

“How?” you demand, bewildered. “They were my targeted ads. Mine.” You push your finger into your chest for emphasis.

"Sure. But would you have paid attention to those targeted ads without my mindful encouragement?" Hard shoving, more like.

"Yes!" you insist, eyes narrowed.

He drops his indignance and instead adopts pleading. “Please just let me see his reaction, you won’t even be able to tell I’m there—”

“No!” you push him out of your room and close the door, leaving him importunate on the other side.

He raps gently at the door with the base of his palm. “Just let me see it! I just want to see it in real life once.”

You press your lips together and crack the door open a sliver. He jumps back and stands ramrod straight, chin dipped hopefully. “Tomorrow,” you say. “You’ll be the first I show."

He looks at you dubiously. "You swear?"

You press your palm to your chest. "From the bottom of my heart."

He seems to accept your offer, glancing back up at you inquisitvely. You back up preemptively, gripping the doorknob tighter. He steps closer. "Will you please take a video, I'll do whatev—"

You shut and lock the door, turning back to The Box.

Apprehensively, you pace around the box, offhandedly snagging an intricate knife from the hidden curve of your closet. It's almost nerve-wracking when you push the blade against the tape, sucking in a giddy breath as you part the flaps open, tossing the weapon onto your carpet and tugging out the contents with great effort. It's doughier than you would have thought, covered with preservative tissue paper. You toss that aside as well, unfolding the blanket you wobble to your feet.

You gasp when you see it wholly, a hand grasping one end of the blanket, the other going to your mouth in order to stop the spiral into laughter.

It's amazing.

It’s greater than you could possibly imagine. Plastic-scented, sure, but you believe in sacrifice.

You hobble over to your bed, draping the blanket over the mattress. "Wow," you whisper, a little overwhelmed as you take in the details.

The Bucky at the top right corner is barely glancing at the camera, an obviously deeply zoomed-in paparazzi picture of him walking outside. Bottom Left Bucky is another papparazzi photo, this one of him holding your bag in a park. Bottom Right Bucky's hand is cut off, along with yours attached to it, but you can see your fingers peeking out behind another Bucky's head.

Top Left Bucky is side-profiled in a suit you remember from a gala, and another Bucky from the same night is in the middle, a little bigger. You recognize the image as one of the mandatory ones Tony ordered for the night, and it's clear why that one is meant to be the center of attention. It's clearer, the surly details of Bucky's face easier to make out; notably the closest thing to a smile a strange camera is going to get from him—the slightest, most sardonic painstaking curl of the corners of his lips.

Still. He's so handsome it makes your chest hurt.

His hair is neat and done in a way that accentuates his cheekbones, and the lovely splendour of his eyes translates even into blanket.

You lean in closer. "Huh," you say. "Did he always have such long eyelashes?"

One of your hands splays atop a grumpy picture of Bucky, fingers curling and uncurling on the fuzzy surface. Not bad.

For the real test, you pull an edge up and crawl underneath, pulling your chin to your chest to stare at the blanket from above.

"Warm," you mutter appreciatively, fisting your hands into a Bucky's face. You pinch it to your field of view, dragging a chunk off your ankle so you can observe this Bucky up close. You recognize his clothing as his mission gear. How someone got the picture is beyond you.

You're too busy picking at the blanket to notice the subject walk into your room, shutting the door very carefully once he's on the other side of it. "Hey."

You startle, meeting his eyes abashedly. You stretch out your fingers as far as they'll go over what you were looking at, but it's futile when there are twin faces on every other inch. Bucky hasn't seemed to notice your unease, and you try to get your limbs to relax so he won't.

"Hi," you force out, cringing when you sound doubtful. You clear your throat. "Heeey."

He frowns at you. "Do you know Sam is outside your room?"

"Is he?" you say. "How... strange."

Bucky gets to your bedside and stares down at you, dubious. "Are you feeling—" The back of his hand is grazing your forehead when he pauses, breath catching for what must be the first time. You don't stop looking at him, catching the contemplative inhale and subsequent eyebrow furrow when he realizes he isn't even sure what to ask.

You stare at each other for a few moments until his lips part again, index finger tapping on your blanket. "Is that me?"

"No," you lie immediately. "No, it's not."

"I'm pretty sure... I'm pretty sure that's my face."

"No."

"I know it pretty well."

"Me too."

"Why do—where did th—" He sighs, deeply and deflatedly.

"It's Sam's fault," you blurt. "Mainly. Or, actually, it's because of how shitty our privacy is nowadays. You're right. Things were better back in the old days."

"Where did you get this?"

"Etsy," you admit ashsamedly. "It was actually pretty expensive. I got an ad for it and it started off as a joke, and then..."

His head shakes confusedly, pupils flickering between each face on top of you. "Why... why do you have this?"

"I got an ad," you repeat.

"Sure. But... why?"

"I don't know. I generally try to avoid the Bucky Barnes edits."

"That's not what I... I mean why would you listen to it?

"I personally like it."

"How would someone make this?"

"A collage? I don't know, the internet is getting hard for me to understand."

"Why? Why would this exist?"

"Why not?" you counter.

He steps back, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip. His pupils erratic before they settle on a specific part. You try and follow his gaze, arriving at a shirtless image of him from a couple metres away, a towel draped around his neck.

“How did they get that picture?” He looks it over critically, a grimace on his face. He grows a little more horrified as he discovers more stills of him in different situations.

"You know there are these things of all of us? I found one for Steve. Mine's pretty creepy." You slip out from underneath it, standing guiltily next to Bucky. He's barely noticed you, a frantic finger drumming on Bottom Right Bucky's shoulder. "Tony has one of himself. I'm pretty sure he had it commissioned."

Bucky doesn't respond and you tug at his shirt. "Will you stop glaring at it?"

"I just... every time I think I get this century, aliens or Asgard or.... this happens."

You rub a soothing palm up and down his arm. "Okay, I'll give you that. That's fair enough."

"What are you going to do with it?" he asks, turning to you.

You cock your head. "What do you mean? What do you usually do with blankets?"

"Really?" He looks a little horrified.

"Yes, of course. Why else?" You grab his arm. "Touch it," you encourage, urging his hand to smooth over it. "It's soft."

"I guess."

"That's not something you can argue, Buck," you admonish.

"Wanna see?"

"No," you mutter, glaring at him. "It's gonna grow on you," you say menacingly.

"It won't."

"We'll see." You pat Middle Bucky on the head. "We'll see."

You like challenging yourself in harmless situations. Setting a ginormous plate on your non-dominant hand seems innocuous enough when the only thing threatening it is your impeccable balance, and after a particularly short mission, it serves to burn what's left of your adrenaline.

You step too confidently and your tray of cookies balances precariously on your palm.

You concentrate on each wobble, careful to not let anything slide too far. When you finally turn to your room, you let your shoulders slump from their place by their ears, only to regret it immediately when you tense again, sensing another presence the moment you step inside.

It's a relief for just a moment when you realize it's only Bucky splayed across your bed, because you realize he's sleeping very peacefully beneath the Bucky Blanket and your phone is in the pocket opposite to your free hand.

You gasp and subsequently snap your mouth shut, stilling in your doorway.

"My phone. My phone, nonono," you hiss in despair, needing to shut your eyes to concentrate but not wanting to look away. You suck in a beep breath, focusing on keeping the plate steady as you switch hands and pull your phone out.

"Ohh, I knew it. I told him," you whisper, taking a picture.

A shimmery glow takes on most of the weight, allowing you more freedom with angles. You're taking a slow step toward the bed when you're interrupted. You should've closed your door.

"No way," Sam chortles loudly. Your tray clatters to the floor, Bucky shoots up in the bed. "Nice nap, narcissist?"

it seems like every picture of him groans with Bucky.

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gutsby · 3 months

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Trigger Tease(r)

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Before his morning briefing, your mob boss husband decides to take a pit stop in the sauna with you.

Warnings: 18+. Oral (f!receiving). Gentle fingerfucking. Praise and degradation. Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Bucky talking you through it. Bimbofication if you squint.

Notes: @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast - you inspired me 🪽 I just had to crank out a little teaser for the third installment of Wedded Bliss. I hope y’all like it 💓

Full version here

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing, you found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time these days: pinned up against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was better sustenance to him than the whole damn meal the two of you had eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt in quick succession. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over while Bucky drank in your every sound, and the few tears that sprung to your eyes as they always did, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouths and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, gritting his teeth as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you.”

Taglist (STILL HAVE TO UPDATE THIS I'M DUMB AS SHIT): @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx, @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes, @wilsons-striped-ties, @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @fandomsfeminismandme, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic, @dameron-grant-spector, @sushiseoks, @deansapplepie, @mrsjoequinn, @lunaroserites, @first-edition, @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi, @excusememrbarnes, @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl, @diannana, @shawnberry, @yujyujj, @urmomsalex, @mrs-bucky-barnes-73, @athenabarnes, @christinabae, @wintrsoldrluvr, @bethbunnyy, @i-heart-smut @dixsond

#THE TITLE WILL MAKE SENSE LATER I PROMISE #it’s ‘tease’ not ‘teaser’ in the full fic that was just my attempt at humor #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #mob bucky barnes #marvel smut #marvel x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #mob boss bucky #mob!bucky

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xiohuoche · 3 days

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#kindred #bucky barnes #motivation #law #lgbt humor #locgoddess #so sexy #dogslife

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cat-cosplay · 1 year

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James Mewchanan Barnes, the Went-Purr Soldier

#the winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #bucky #captain america #cat cosplay #cosplay #cats #kitty #cats in costumes #cat #fan art #cat costume #cats of tumblr #aww #puns #humor #funny #mcu #marvel

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madame-helen · 3 months

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#meme #memes #shitpost #shitposting #humor #funny #lol #satire #funny memes #funny humor #funny meme #comedy #fact #facts #marvel #bucky barnes #mcu #echo series #irony #joke #parody

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heli0s-writes · 2 months

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Sweet

A/n: You know how sometimes when you’re having a breakdown and nothing is helping but then something completely unrelated and stupid just does it for no reason. This is that. With pot brownies and kissing. Bucky is recovering and reader is an moron with a heart of gold. Angst, hurt/comfort, humor. Reader/Bucky. 3k words Warnings: Marijuana use; conversations about trauma, particularly food-related; language.

The path leading away from the cabin is littered with wet patches of morning. Rime colors of miserable winter in sludge grey are starting to be overtaken by sprouts of green, yellow, and brisk dew, springtime optimism come to life.

Pepper’s got the front of her house looking like a farmer’s market flower stand. Pots of tulips and daffodils explode up the steps and tri-color ribbons connecting porch-light to porch-light. The magnolia tree is soon to bud, and she’s hung hummingbird feeders and birdhouses all around.

When the cars start rolling in for the quarter-yearly potluck, you hang out near the garden, rocking back and forth on your feet. You'd shown up early but didn’t know what to do around a toddler, so outside it was.

The familiar Range Rover halts to a stop, Sam’s door opening as he makes his way out, holding ceramic handles of an enormous crockpot.

You call, “Bring your famous chili?”

“Damn right, I did,” he beams, “you bring your appetite?”

You waggle your eyebrows before looking to the SUV he hopped out of, Steve lingering by the back door with a brown paper box tucked beneath his arm, knocking on the heavily tinted windows with a long-suffering sigh. “C’mon, Buck. Up and at ‘em.”

A loud, decisive knock thumps back at him and Steve rolls his big, pitiful, puppy dog eyes in your direction. Beneath the blue of his left orbital is what looks suspiciously like the fading ochre stain of either an almost healed bruise or a newly forming one, which only makes Steve’s silent call for aid more pathetic and urgent.

Damn, okay. Since you’re kind of on thin ice already, this could go one of two ways.

Sliding up, you crack your knuckles.

“Barnes,” you call, “I got something illegal for you. Wanna see?”

“Dead body.” He responds from behind the still shut door, and you’re not sure if that’s a question. Steve glares at you accusatory, as if you’d actually bring a dead body to a potluck, good grief.

“Uh, no.”

“Knife.”

Steve shoots you another look—which is just ridiculous at this point, the both of them.

“Knives aren’t illegal.”

“Depends.”

Steve shifts the box of what looks to be cherry turnovers and mouths phrase day, which means that Barnes decided to stop talking in complete sentences sometime between when he woke up and probably when Steve over-crowded him and is now reducing all communication to two or three words as both a method of punishment for Steve and self-preservation for Barnes.

“It’ll make you feel better,” you urge, “Loads better.”

“Sex.” He rolls down the window just enough for you to get a glimpse of his eyes, narrowed and steely. “Drugs?”

You mouth bingo, outrightly ignoring the fact that it feels like Bucky Barnes nearly solicited you for sex, and Steve puts his hand over his own face, about to quip until he realizes that he’s probably said too much already—which is what got him in this predicament to begin with—and simply drags himself toward the house.

Barnes watches him go wordlessly before he opens the door and steps out, looking down at you, lightly shivering in the cold, and says, still one-worded, “Okay.”

He pops three brownies into his mouth and chews, opening just enough to get out a muffled, “too sweet” before returning to grinding down like he’s cracking pecan shells in there.

“I know you have like,” you make panicked motions with your fingers, snapping the red Tupperware lid back down frantically, “hella metabolism, but pump the brakes or you’re going to flip.”

“Flip,” he concludes, determined. He squirrels about two more in before you can do anything about it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I was going to let you take those home later—oh my god, I’m going to get into so much trouble.”

The two of you are stopped at one of those cutesy stone birdbaths around the perimeter, leaning on the lip as Barnes licks remaining chocolate off his fingers, looking as pleased as punch. As much as he can look, anyway, you think, since you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him smile at anything other than the time Steve stubbed his toe bad enough on Tony’s kitchen island that he doubled over.

“Did you say sex earlier?” You suddenly remember the flash of silver from the darkness of the SUV. “Wait, actually, I wanna go back even before that—did you really think I’d have a dead body?”

He shrugs.

“Cool,” you reply, “cool, cool, cool, cool. I think I should be more concerned, but you know what, I like it. Feels like a vote of confidence.”

A wide grin stretches across your face and you temporarily forget that Bucky fucking Barnes has eaten about half a pan of brownies with 25 grams of pot baked into them, that in about 15 minutes you’re both expected to sit down like normal people and have a nice dinner without anyone doing… whatever it is that he might do when he’s blazed to high heaven.

You shake the thought of Steve’s disappointment out of your head. Maybe it’d be best to keep acting natural, get him into some kind of headspace.

“So,” you whistle, “what’d you bring to the potluck?”

He gives you a sidelong stare and if there were Olympics for how someone can convey eat shit and die without moving anything but their eyes, he’d win every 8 years for the rest of his unnaturally long life.

“Well, I brought myself,” you curtsy, starting back down the trail again, figuring that you’ve got five minutes walking forward before it’d be time to turn back to the house, “and your present,” to which he gives you a short nod, “and an empty stomach. You excited for Sam’s chili?”

“Spicy.”

“Spicy?” you recoil, suddenly finding the prospect of a man who gave Captain America a black eye last week or possibly this morning—the monster who ate half of your most lethal bake—panting and sweating over a bowl of chili astoundingly inconceivable.

“Oh wait, you live with Rogers. What’s he feeding you at home? Steamed chicken?”

“Baked.”

You sigh, “God, you’re fucked. Nat brought something with Carolina Reaper infused honey glaze. Barnes... we’ll have to do a prayer circle for your ass.”

His face twists into a look of disgust before he starts to notice his lips, pressing them together, pulling them apart. After a few more motions like he’s discovering his body, bit by bit, he turns to you, and announces, “Feeling it.”

You laugh, jealous, because although you had a bite about 30 minutes before he even arrived, the brownie hasn’t hit you yet. “Good,” you say anyway, “that’s good, right?”

He only apathetically regards a sparrow flying past. You suppress a chortle when Barnes repeatedly licks his lips and rubs at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Have you ever been high before?” You correct, “In the fun, recreational, consensual way?”

Another listless shrug before he turns his head. You push yourself off a nearby log and make a show of stomping through haphazard piles of sticks and dead leaves, curling your fingers in a come along motion.

He follows, boots crunching, steps short and patternless, making a racket behind your back. He looks like a kid, fingers tucked up into his long sleeves, bouncy knees as he attempts to splash into every puddle as he possibly can before catching up. He’s almost got a grin when he looks at you, remembering where he is again, and there’s a light brush of color along the tops of his cheeks from the chill.

Around a small bend in the path, you duck under a branch, hop over a stone, and when you land back on both feet, the ground wobbles just enough to notice.

The air smells nice. Your eyelids feel heavy in a good way.

“Steve really piss you off this morning, didn’t he?”

Barnes lands a couple of feet away, his face dropping into an exhausted expression at the question, which you can’t fault him for because Steve’s a lot of things. Simple things, on the surface, but Barnes has known him longer than most anyone else and you imagine all of his noble qualities—his longstanding patience and willpower and belief in the goodness in everything and everyone—you imagine that shit gets old.

Hell, it gets at you on occasion, and you’re not even the brainwashed best friend who’s probably hearing a hundred voices in his head and is too tired to hear one more no matter how well-intentioned it might be.

Sometimes, being inundated by language just breaks it all back into foreign, incomprehensible script. And sometimes, being exceedingly plied with something you can’t make any sense of makes you turn inward, makes you bare your teeth in self-defense.

Which makes you realize you probably should ease up, too, talk less, but then he takes a long step with his ridiculous legs and is by your side, walking as if you two do this all the time.

“He’s a fixer.” Bucky’s brows are scrunched together, hands buried in his pockets. You nod quickly, not wanting him to go into any more detail than that because it’s not news that the entire population is still wary of Bucky Barnes’ re-emergence as a United States citizen when he was, up until very recently, a—uh, Russian one.

This, obviously, puts many things at odds with each other, including Steve, who is Mr. United States himself. The Avengers, too, who are mostly Team United States, considering the location and overwhelming population. But most of all, Bucky, who is still cobbling together bits and pieces of his life each day, is faced with the knowledge that everyone in the world knows more about him than he does.

You rub the back of your neck sympathetically because that shit would kill your heart so fast.

“You know what.” You shake the Tupperware at him, “Have the rest of these. You deserve it. And like, a million hugs.”

He barks a laugh, gladly gulps down the rest, and there’s a dapple of fudge on his chin looking so silly and sweet as he chews.

Ah, shoot. You avert your gaze, feeling very bad ideas break out up your arms and neck, and the shudder that is about to overtake you seems less about Barnes’ sweet face and more about Steve’s disappointed one. Like, he’s going to read your mind and know you’re having ideas about his best friend. And he’s going to do that thing where his eyebrows drop and his lips press together as he attempts to hold back a few choice words. Until later, probably, when he corners you somewhere and unleashes them anyway.

What were you thinking?, he’ll hiss. Are you capable of thinking rationally?

“What?” Barnes prods. “What is it?”

“Nothin’” you take a leap forward, herding the both of you back. The closer you are to the cabin the more you’ll remember that you’re at a family event, with friends, who should all stay in the friend territory.

But you blurt anyway, “You said sex earlier!” Because you’re a whole ass idiot.

He makes a small noise, says, “Yeah,” like that’s any help.

“Are you…” what the fuck, your head is spinning, “like, in… need of some?” Your face feels hot.

“Maybe. My body is…” he frowns, so weirdly open right now, and then he looks at you with half is face in a weary grin, the other half lost and confused. “Responding to stimuli in ways I haven’t— responded to in... Trying to fix it. Steve wants me to be fixed.”

He tilts his face to the sky, glaring at it. “Can’t get it out.”

You’re trying to force your rabbiting heart down to a manageable pace. You’ve never had any in-depth discussions with him about anything, much less his sex drive. The most interaction the two of you get is the occasional mission or get-together where you crack jokes and get shitfaced when the job’s done. You’ve been told you’re sort of a pain and haven’t given a fuck too much to change that.

You’re sort of in trouble right now, having been “irrational” during the last mission, running across the iced lake instead of taking the planned route and falling in. It ended up working out, since you got to the enemy helicopter before the enemies, but then there was the stabbing because you were sort of outnumbered and the pneumonia afterwards because you fell into the fucking lake…

There was a massive chewing out. Steve and his many, disappointed words.

Something about motor-mouths and low-object permanence but sure, good on the inside when it counts.

You hope this is one of those times where it counts.

“Listen,” you start. “Take as long as you need, there’s no rush on recovery and pushing yourself too hard is detrimental to your health. It’s not a straight line.”

“I hit him.”

Your wheeling brain is making a sharp left, trying to figure out where Barnes is driving toward. Oh. The black eye.

“Aw, Steve?” You wave your hand, swatting nothing. “He’s a big boy.”

“I’m hungry. Then I’m not.”

“I mean, that sounds normal—“

“No, a lot. Fast. Cyclical. Endless.”

It must be his metabolism adjusting. The realization of his relationship with food comes fast, almost visceral. Scarce when he was young, then rationed during the war before it was taken from him altogether. He was given the bare minimum with Hydra—protein slurry, tube-fed—then purged—stomach pumped—before being put on ice.

For decades.

Starvation must have truly felt endless.

And now with food being a surplus, with his body readjusting to it, yet his mind still struggling with habits—it must be so confusing. Another seemingly natural function to be confused about.

“Ah,” you manage, a lump in your throat like a blockade.

“I get nightmares.” He’s glaring at his hands, one flesh, one metal, opening and closing his fist like trying to get a grip on himself, and his voice is so small and pained. “These thoughts. All sorts. Can’t sleep.”

You extend your hands, shake off the dry sob that wants to erupt from your chest, and declare with flourish, “On the fourth day, God made Purple Kush, and it was good. So, we can—we can fix that.”

He takes another one of those long looks, through his lashes, lips quirked in quiet humor.

“You’re not really a fixer.”

He shakes the container of crumbs in your face.

You gasp, snatching it back in offense. “I can fix… some things! I replaced the utility light in the kitchen yesterday!“

Your cheeks are hot, face twitching like a broken screen because all you can think about is how handsome he is, out here like this, nose blushing, eyes lazy and crescent shaped, the heavy creases beneath them less pained and more relaxed.

And how he’s teasing you—- and he’s kind of a little shit.

“You fucker,” you say.

He grins—all big and silent, and for a second you count your blessings that he’s not going to say anything else shitty until he quips, “Not unless you’re offering.”

He’s staring at you intently, a curious expression winding its way up his face. His eyes are huge and blue and the most alert, glazed-over, pair of bloodshot, redder-than-the-devil’s-dick eyes you’ve ever seen on anyone stoned halfway to the moon.

His tongue darts out, sweeps a slow, careful line over the width of his bottom lip, practically asking, and you’re just the simple idiot who openly gawks at him.

“Ah,” you nod. “Yeah you’re definitely right. I’m—“ you gulp, “more of a fuck-up.”

Because what’s another fuck up to add onto the long-running list of fuck ups you’ve had recently, anyway? Kissing Barnes might count as a really serious one, sure, but at least it’s not pneumonia.

It’d make him feel better, probably, it’d make him feel something, at least. Steve would appreciate that, if Barnes came to the dinner table verbal, maybe even laughing. No one has to tell Steve that his best pal kissed your face off in the woods.

The idea of your face being kissed off is doing a number on you. The idea of Bucky Barnes, this gorgeous, miserable, godly, tragic contradiction, your at-arm’s-length teammate, your quickly-becoming friend, kissing your face off because he needs to feel something soft in the midst of the rest of the horrible, jagged things he already feels every second of his life—and he can get it from you.

You’re stupid and simple and how could anyone say no to that? So you take one last second to steel your heart, push forward, and lean in.

It’s, frankly, bizarre.

He kisses you gently, fantastically, inconsistently, wavering from assured one second to apprehensive the next, like he remembers how but can’t quite execute.

You meet him where you can, respond to the parting of his lips with your own, adjust to his tension with grace, and when he starts feeling like he’s getting the hang of it, like muscle memory has finally settled into his body, you let him lead.

One hand finds the base of your skull, the other placing itself on your waist. His kisses grow greedy, like he remembers desire is a thing that occurs to him. He tilts his head down, kisses up like he wants to swallow every sigh between your lips, like he’s hungry for the sounds you make—and you’re making, embarrassingly, a lot of them. He’s good—dominant but kind, mouth wide, lips full, tongue cocoa-sweet and clever as it strokes yours again and again.

When he backs you up into a tree, you barely register it. His hand has moved to cushion your head, and he’s urging his entire body forward into yours, grip tight at your hipbone, moving his mouth to your jaw, then your neck, and you stutter a string of letters that refuse to make words.

Barnes is expertly sucking marks beneath your collar, right beneath the neckline, his breath hot and coming out in a near snarl and when he scrapes his teeth down, sinking them into the soft skin of your chest, you yelp loud enough to send a few birds scattering from the trees.

He jumps off like he’s burned you, eyes frantic, afraid.

“No—” you clear your throat, hands out, “Hold on.”

He’s blinking, head clearing, head trying to assess what he’s done, the situation, the pulled loose neckline, the wet shine of his spit up your throat.

“S-sorry—”

“No, don’t be sorry.” You give him his distance but take a small step forward. “That was hot. But,”

He blinks, confused, and this whole thing could easily go pear-shaped, your well-intentioned explanation might turn into unintelligible speech at any moment, but you have to try or else he’ll tailspin into catastrophe, and you suddenly feel so sorry for Steve, the poor fuck who’s doing this every day, clinging onto the hope that what he’s saying doesn’t set Bucky off, doesn’t push his boulder back downhill.

He's still stuttering sorry, starting to pace.

“Listen,” you say firmly, clipping your own panic, “that was wow, let me tell you. But if you don’t stop, I’m going to like— hotwire a car.”

Somehow this stops him in his tracks, “What?”

“Well, I didn’t drive here. Because you know, I was going to like, get really shitfaced.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and like, take you to a hotel or something.”

He frowns, obviously completely lost. “Why?”

It’s your turn to be lost. Both of you open-mouthed and panting at each other like two dumb dogs chasing each others’ tail in an ouroboros of idiocy.

“Huh? What do you mean why? You just tongue-fucked me, do you think I’m immune to getting on my knees for that?”

Now you can see it happening—the incomprehensible speech like a marquee as it runs across Barnes’ brain. Tongue-fuck, immune to getting on my knees. He doesn’t understand any of that, and god bless any soul who can. What language are you even speaking right now other than hot-brained, hot-skinned, hot-hearted to him, who’s still struggling to defrost?

“Never mind,” you redact, “ignore that.” You put your hands on his shoulders to ground yourself, vaguely thinking that maybe you shouldn’t touch him but the firm slap of your palms seems to break him out of his new trance. “Can we kiss again, later?”

He blinks, staring at you, at your hands on him, at your lips all swollen up.

“Yes.”

You sigh, relieved and thankful that other than you, no one’s freaking out, that your plan to get Bucky Barnes high worked out after all, and that he has agreed to make out later because he’s really, really good at it.

“Wonderful. Let’s go back now? Are you ready?”

He mulls it over and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Sure, but I’m not eating chili.”

“Well, you’re in luck, there’s plenty of chicken.”

He grimaces, cuts a sharp look up to you before a twinkle settles in his blue, blue eyes. “Okay,” he agrees, “guess we should do a prayer circle for my ass.”

You clap your hands together and recite Our Father.

“It was sex, wasn’t it?”

Sam’s got one hand over his belly, snickering. Everyone else looks your way, gullible, scandalized, and you can’t blame them since the two of you were gone an awfully long time and came back extremely disheveled.

Bucky had walked in dutifully behind you, wiped off his boots, sat down at the dinner table, and asked for seconds saying please and thank you and he even threw in a that was delicious just to watch Steve’s head explode.

And Bucky, who you’ve come to realize is genuinely a shit— still one-worded and knowing full well the repercussions of his one word— only shrugs and responds, “Yes.”

The room erupts into shouting as you throw a buttered roll at his head. He catches it easily and brings it up to his grinning mouth, shimmer of spit glossy and fantastic on his lips.

#reader x bucky barnes #bucky barnes/reader #reader insert #fanfiction #mcu #hurt/comfort #angst #humor

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latent-thoughts · 1 year

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You: Is stabbing someone immoral?

Loki: Not if they consent to it.

Bucky: Depends who you’re stabbing.

Steve: YES?!?

#loki #bucky #steve #mcu incorrect quotes #steve is traumatized by them #lol #marvel humor #loki x you #loki x reader #mcu loki #mcu bucky #mcu steve #steve rogers #bucky barnes #bucky x you

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darsynia · 1 year

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Safe In My (Our) Arms | Series Masterlist

(Sex Pollen and aftermath trope; Stucky x Reader endgame, Steve & Bucky Friendship, Bucky & Reader friendship)

Summary: When a well-meaning lab test goes catastrophically wrong, Steve ends up doused in the potent aphrodisiac Mistress. His plan to retreat to his bedroom to handle things himself is derailed when it turns out the very security measures he put in place to keep himself isolated have created a new dilemma.

Your best friend Bucky has taken months to open up, but this latest confession is a doozy: the friend Steve he's spoken so warmly about is actually Steve Rogers. From the moment he steps out to run an errand and leaves you alone in the apartment he shares with Steve, the situation escalates into first the most frightening, and then the most erotic experience of your life...

Follow Safe In My (Our) Arms to read about how these three people go from separate friendships to a solid, loving bond, navigating plot twists and moral dilemmas along the way. Oh, and a bunch of sex. Minors DNI! ♥️

Part I: HAND(S) OFF MASTERLIST (completed 4/6/23)

Part II: SHIPPING AND HANDLING MASTERLIST

Ch 1: VICINITY Ch 2: URGENCY - new! 4/23 Ch 3: Ch 4: Ch 5: Ch 6:

Series News:

Welcome! I'm not trying to give people a million things to keep track of, but I did think it would be nice to have a series masterlist. I plan on posting a preview of chapter 1 of Shipping and Handling tomorrow, with the full chapter on Sunday.

If you've asked to be on the taglist for Hand(s) Off, my plan is to tag you for the rest of the series. If you're interested in being added, please ask! If you'd like off the taglist, please let me know, with no hard feelings. Thanks for everyone's support and interest so far, it means the world.

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uglybitch420 · 1 month

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Me in math class

#marvel #marvel mcu #mcu #bucky barnes #meme #humor #funny #lol

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wintermischief · 1 year

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Bucky Barnes x F!Reader Humor/Crack Fic Recs

last updated: january 20, 2023

18+, MDNI in case of nsfw content

Fics with humor and all the chaos. Basically shit that makes me giggle. If you liked the fics please show support to all the amazing writers!!

❗️ PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU’D LIKE ME TO REMOVE YOUR FIC OR IF I MADE A MISTAKE❗️

Magnetic Poetry @thenhewaswrongaboutme

Marry Me At The Bottom Of The Sea @teamcap4bucky

Partners In Crime @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

Misfire @shurisneakers

I Love You, Baby @sleepypanda27

Artichokes @heli0s-writes

Crunchy @heli0s-writes

Interrogation @heli0s-writes

Fellowship @heli0s-writes

Grilled Cheese @ayybtch

Facetime Blunder @the-winter-smoulder

My Girlfriend, The Worm @vivwritesfics

Smash or Pass @sidepartskinnyjeanslibrary

Under The Covers @imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul

Pebbles @lovelybarnes

Oh Good, It Has A Mind Of Its Own @beyondspaceandstars

Laundry Day @onceuponastory

Guys Night @teamcap4bucky

The Gas We Pass @jobean12-blog

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic recs #crack fic #humor fic

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notafunkiller · 4 months

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youtube

Bucky Barnes being a grumpy, sassy old man for almost 9 minutes

Part 1: Bucky Barnes being a grumpy, sassy old man for 2 minutes

#bucky barnes #the winter soldier #sebastian stan #tfatws #cacw #catws #catfa #mine #edit #my video #humor #youtube #marvel #mcu #marvel edit #mcu edit #sebstanedit #sebastianstanedit #seb stan

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navybrat817 · 10 days

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“Any excuse to do your lumberjack, you’ll take it.”

sdffgjkll the way that i thought at first this was dialogue and her just calling his dick his lumberjack as a nickname

thanks for the giggle, babe

Bahaha. I love that, nonnie, and glad you liked it. Maybe we should give our lumberjack a nickname for his dick. What do we think, lovelies?

Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat answers #bucky barnes #lumberjack!bucky barnes #humor #bahaha #😂🤣😂#nicknames #james buchanan barnes #to do list #sweet nonnie #sending love ❤️#asks are always appreciated

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ro-is-struggling · 2 years

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Road trip

Pairings: platonic!Bucky Barnes x Reader, platonic!Steve Rogers x Reader, platonic!Sam Wilson x Reader (i think this is gender neutral but if it isn't please let me know so I can fix it)

Summary: you annoy the shit out of Steve, Sam and Bucky— especially Bucky—during a long road trip.

Warnings: crack fic, humor, sharing beds, kinda fluffy

English is not my first language

Word count: 3400+

Notes: I don't know what this is. I had this stupid idea after watching civil war again because that tiny car with two super soldiers in it it's so funny to me. I'm sorry if it's sucks, I have a shitty sense of humor

Being on the run wasn't as cool as it sounded. The movies always made it out to be this grand adventure in search of truth and justice where the stakes were always high. But in reality being on the run involved crappy motels in the middle of nowhere and hours of driving through back roads. There was nothing glorious or epic about it, it was just boring. Especially when you spent days trapped in the world's smallest car with two super soldiers.

Steve, Bucky, Sam and you had left the motel where you had spent the night first thing in the morning, hoping that would give you a head start. The plan was to get to the next stop before dark, but fate had not been on your side. Now it was almost dark and you still had a long journey ahead of you, having to drive through the middle of nowhere. Literally. You were so far away from any trace of civilization that you weren't even able to pick up any radio signal, so the car was plunged into the deepest of silences. The only noise you could hear was coming from the old engine, which was threatening to break down and leave you stranded there with every rumble it made.

At least that was until you proposed that you play some road game to pass the time. The guys weren't very enthusiastic, but you insisted so much that they ended up agreeing. They knew that entertaining you for a while would be better than having to put up with your boredom.

"We've been trying to guess what it is that you saw for over 15 minutes, why don't you just tell us?" Bucky spoke with annoyance beside you, tired of playing 'I spy with my little eye'. He felt like he was trapped in the car with a five year old and honestly didn't know how much longer he could put up with you.

"But that's not fun! You're supposed to guess!" you complained pouting.

"We give up," Steve said from the driver's seat, your eyes meeting momentarily in the rearview mirror.

"Fine! It was the doodles I made on Bucky's arm while he slept," you admitted with a grin as you watched Bucky's expression change upon discovering the doodles on his arm.

"How were we supposed to see that?" Sam complained from the passenger seat, interrupting Bucky before he could let out any curses in your direction.

"Okay fine, you're right! Let's play something else."

"Why can't we just sit in silence for a while?"

"Because that's not fun, silly!" you said, tapping Bucky's nose with your finger. "Let's play 21 questions."

"I'm going to sleep," Sam stated, leaning back in his seat and resting his head against the window. He was tired, having spent the last few hours awake driving after having the worst night's sleep of his life. Normally he wouldn't have found your attitude so annoying, half the time you guys would team up to annoy everybody—especially Bucky—, but this time it was different. He was exhausted and the last thing he needed was to deal with your boredom.

"Nooo! C'mon it'll be fun! I'll think of something and you guys have 21 questions to guess what it is. Got it?" You explained the rules a little too enthusiastically. None of your teammates responded, but you took their silences as a signal to continue. "Okay guys I'm ready, start with your questions."

"Are you thinking about hot dogs?" Bucky spoke in an annoyed tone. The smile disappeared from your face and for the first time in hours you remained silent. How had he been able to guess in the first round? Did he have mental powers that he had never told you about?

"... no," you lied in the hopes that the game would last more than five seconds.

"Y/N!" the super soldier next to you complained, knowing full well that he was right.

"Fine, you won! I was thinking about hot dogs. How did you know?"

"Because you haven't stopped talking about it since lunch."

"Well maybe you wouldn't have had to listen to me complaining if Steve had let me eat that hot dog when I had the chance."

"It was a half eaten hot dog in the garbage!" Steve defended himself, raising his voice a little. He still couldn't believe that you were actually willing to eat that. It was so wrong on so many levels, though the worst part was that you kept blaming him for saving you from your own stupidity.

"It was fine! I had worse," you said in a casual tone that made Bucky shake his head in disapproval.

"IT WAS IN THE TRASH!" Steve exclaimed, raising his voice and earning a smack from Sam who despite all the noise was still trying to sleep.

"Whatever, man," you shrugged. "Let's play something else!"

"Why don't you take a nap, Y/N. It's an easy way of making time pass by quicker" Sam spoke from the front seat without moving or even opening his eyes. He tried to tempt you with the promise that time would pass by faster, that all your boredom would be forgotten in the dream world, but you didn't fall into his trap. You couldn't even if you wanted to. You weren't comfortable enough to sleep in that car, trapped between the door and Bucky's muscular body. Your brain refused to shut down even if it knew it was best for everyone.

"I can't, I passed my window of opportunity and now my brain won't shut off. I have to wait another few hours for my next window. And you guys better pray for it to come quickly because this silly mood I'm in is only gonna get worse the more sleep deprived I get."

"Well, maybe you aren't tired, but I am and I would like to rest," Sam complained. "I've been driving all morning so please let me sleep."

"I'm sorry but I'm so bored," you pouted, looking at Bucky with innocent eyes trying to convince him to take your side even though you knew that was impossible. He was a man of little patience and you could read in his expression that you were beginning to drain him of it.

"Then find something to entertain yourself in silence."

You let out a huff, sticking your tongue out at Sam before turning to focus your gaze on the window. The view was shitty, you really were stuck in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing but road and land all around you, and you couldn't even enjoy that because the sun was starting to set, making everything fall into darkness. However, it was enough to keep you silent for a few minutes. Bucky closed his eyes, reveling in the peaceful atmosphere. For a moment he thought he had defeated you, that you had finally understood that no one was in the mood for your bullshit. But then he heard your voice once again and knew that the battle was far from over.

"Oh I know, I know!" Your excited exclamation broke the silence. "I should drive so I can get tired like Sam."

"NO!" The two super soldiers shouted, making you frown.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you haven't had a proper night of sleep in at least two days and you have been surviving purely on chips and energy drinks," Steve explained and you rolled your eyes. "I wouldn't trust you with anyone's life right now."

"Whatever," you muttered angrily, letting your back hit the back of the seat with a loud thump. You crossed your arms over your chest, digging your eyes like daggers into the back of Steve's head. He was being irrational, denying you the only activity there was to do in that damn car to keep you bored. He was conspiring against you and you would make him pay for it.

Choosing to save your revenge against Steve for later, you turned to look at Bucky. "Can I keep doodling in your arm?" You asked him and you sounded so cute that he almost said yes. Almost.

"No."

"Then give me your hand."

"What? No!"

"C'mon man, give me your hand!"

"What for?"

"I want to play thumb wars with you."

"But I don't."

"Play thumb wars with me or I'm gonna start singing and you know how annoying I can get."

"Jesus, Buck just do it" Steve pleaded and he let out a sigh of defeat. He grabbed your hand reluctantly, rolling his eyes as you let out a chuckle of victory.

"One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war!" You barely had time to blurt out the rhyme before Bucky crushed your finger under his. "Hey! I wasn't ready," you complained, your angry eyes meeting his expressionless face. "Best of three."

This time he let you make the first move before attacking. His thumb charged at yours, but you were quicker and moved it out of the way just in time—letting out a squeal of happiness as you did so. However, the joy didn't last long because two seconds later he managed to catch your finger under his once again.

"I won," Bucky stated inexpressively, although you were able to notice in his eyes a spark of joy at having beaten you at your own stupid game.

"One more time! I want to see if I can beat you at least once."

"You said best of three."

You looked at Bucky with narrowed eyes for a moment before you opened your mouth and started singing the first song that popped into your head in the most off-key way possible. In the background you heard Sam growl and Steve curse under his breath, but that didn't stop you.

"Okay, okay fine!" Bucky gave in and you grinned like a bratty kid who had just gotten their way—and in a way you kinda were.

You took his hand once more, giving him a defiant look before trying your luck once more. You were much more careful with your movements this time, trying to predict what Bucky would do to use it against him. You concentrated and eventually managed to catch his thumb under your finger for a brief two seconds. You didn't even have time to smile in victory before he turned the tables, beating you for the third time.

"Oh you completely suck!" You exclaimed angrily, letting go of his hand.

"You're the one that wanted to play this with a super soldier," Bucky laughed and you realized you hadn't taken his super senses into account. "It's your fault, not mine."

"You're supposed to let me win sometimes, you know."

"Why because you suck?"

"No! Because it's not fun if you always win" you said, hitting his arm, fully aware that he didn't even feel a slight tingle. "Sam, play with me!"

"Sam is sleeping and you should do the same" Steve interjected using that disappointed father tone he sometimes used with you.

"I can't, I'm uncomfortable. There's no space back here."

"Bucky, move over so she can have some space."

"I can't, there is no more space" Bucky mumbled through his teeth. "There would be if we have taken a bigger car like I suggested-"

"There wasn't a bigger car," Steve interrupted him, "So figure things out!"

The car fell silent, the tension tangible in the air. Everyone was tired, hungry and in desperate need of a bath. You had spent too much time together in the most uncomfortable situations so it was normal for Steve to be a little grumpy.

Deciding that you had done enough to fuel the tensions, you settled into your spot to try to get some sleep. You tried to mirror Sam, leaning your head against the window, but the vibrations from the engine rattling on the glass were distracting you and making you a little dizzy. So you opted to slide down the seat until you could rest your head on the backrest. That solved the vibration problem, sort of, but it was an even more uncomfortable position than the previous one. Turning your head to your left, you found Bucky leaning against the seat and enjoying the silence. Then an idea popped into your mind.

"Can I cuddle with you?" you asked him in the softest voice you could muster, trying to persuade him to agree.

"What? No!" he exclaimed, his cheeks turning a soft pink.

"C'mon, I can't sleep like this and you're taking half of my side of the seat with your big muscles anyways so you owe me."

Bucky hesitated, looking at you with a frown. He wasn't in the mood to put up with you on top of him. Not only was he tense and tired, but he was angry at you. You had spent the last few hours doing nothing but irritating him and now you were asking him to be your mattress. Nope, he wasn't going to do it. You would have to find another way to get comfortable, just like he and Sam were doing. He wasn't going to help you after you entertained yourself by testing the limits of his patience and sanity.

But then you pouted, looking at him with puppy dog eyes, and Bucky knew he couldn't refuse. Letting out a sigh, he opened his arms to make room for you. "Fine," he said. "But only because I want you to shut up." You smiled at him, knowing full well that wasn't the only reason. He could never resist your charms, you were too cute to deny you anything.

You settled on his chest without any shame, wrapping your arms around his body to cling to him. His muscular chest felt firm against your cheek, but the warmth he emanated was enough to compensate. The new position was much more comfortable, allowing your body to stretch in a different way after hours of sitting in the same position. You could feel his breathing, his chest rising and falling beneath your face. It was nice, peaceful. You could fall asleep like that.

"Hold me," you said when you noticed that Bucky had let his arm rest on the back of the seat. "It's weird if you don't. Besides, you have to protect me in case we crash while I'm sleeping. If you don't hold me I'm going to fly out the windshield." Bucky rolled his eyes, but didn't protest, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he pulled you closer to him. You let out a long yawn, the built-up tiredness finally winning out over your energy-drink fuelled brain. You closed your eyes, snuggling more against him as you let his breathing and the movement of the car relax you. "You're comfy," you murmured against his chest.

"Just try to get some sleep," he said, relaxing beneath you. Without realizing it, Bucky began to stroke your shoulder with his fingers. He traced imaginary shapes on the exposed skin, awakening a gentle tingle in his path. It was a subtle touch, but it was enough to help your body relax. For a moment you tried to concentrate on it, trying to figure out if his fingers followed any specific pattern or drawing, but you lasted only a few short minutes before you gave in to exhaustion. Steve's soft voice saying “finally" was the last thing you heard echoing in the distance.

You didn't know where you were or what time it was, the only thing you knew was that you were hugging something soft and fluffy, like a giant pillow. In the distance a voice called your name, and when you looked up you found a marshmallow three times your size. It had a face, two big cartoonish eyes and a kind smile that it was dedicating to you. The world around you was full of pastel colors and fluffy clouds. It looked like the fantasy of a little girl who was obsessed with unicorns and forest fairies, but you didn't question it. You were too comfortable using Mr. Marshmallow as a pillow to think about anything.

But the voice in the distance calling your name grew louder each time, becoming clearer in your mind. A constant annoying sound that distracted you from the pure happiness you felt in that strange fantasy world. You tried to ignore it, but it kept persistently increasing in volume until it was the only thing you could hear.

When you opened your eyes you felt completely disoriented and disappointed. The world around you was much darker than the one in your dreams and the body underneath yours, although comfortable, was not half as soft as Mr. Marshmallow's. It took you a few seconds to realize that you were in the car curled up next to Bucky and that it had all been a dream.

"What time is it?" you mumbled as you sat up straight, rubbing your eyes to shake off the sleep.

"Late," Bucky replied. "C'mon, Steve found a motel. Let's get you in a proper bed."

It was only when he opened the car door to get out that you realized he was parked in the driveway of what appeared to be a cheap motel. The neon light sign, though malfunctioning, was working enough that the glow hurt your eyes. You followed Bucky across the parking lot with your eyes glued to the floor, the last thing you needed was to get a migraine. He led you to Sam and Steve, who were coming out of the lobby with room keys in hand. Or rather, the key, singular.

"They only had one room available," Sam explained, waving the keys in his hands. They had a sticker on them that read 06 in messy handwriting, warning you that it was probably the worst place you could have chosen to stay. But you were tired of being trapped in that damn car, so you didn't complain. As long as the sheets didn't have bugs on them you'd be fine.

"It has two queens so we're gonna have to share," Steve announced as you walked to the room.

"I call dibs on Bucky!" you were quick to exclaim as if you were a toddler fighting for the front seat of the car with their siblings. "He's comfy," you added, clinging to his arm so he wouldn't escape your side. Bucky rolled his eyes, but you were able to notice the pink flush on his cheeks.

When you reached your room you barely took the time to change into more comfortable clothes before throwing yourselves on the beds. Everyone was tired and aching from hours of sitting in the same position, so lying on a bed was a dream come true. Sure, it wasn't the most comfortable and fluffy mattress in the world and yes, you had to share the space, but it was still an improvement after spending days sleeping in a tiny car.

You settled in on the side of the bed facing the hallway. If for some reason you had to get up in the middle of the night you didn't want to have to wake Bucky up—you didn't want to have to put up with his grumpiness in the morning. He laid down next to you a few seconds later, the mattress dipping under his weight. You fought for the sheets for a bit, wanting to keep yourselves tightly covered while leaving as much space between your bodies as possible. When you realized that wouldn't work, you put the courtesy aside and snuggled together.

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of Bucky's body help you relax once again. But this time it didn't seem to work. You could feel your muscles relaxing on the mattress, your eyelids heavy with sleep, but your mind was elsewhere. The voice inside you kept talking, asking questions and imagining situations that distracted you and kept you from sleeping.

"Hey guys," you whispered in the dark. "Guys... are you awake?"

"Huh?" you heard Bucky mumble, accompanied by a grunt from Sam from the other bed.

"Do you think fish can see water?"

"What?" Steve spoke, a mixture of annoyance and confusion in his voice.

"Like, we can't see air, right? So do you guys think fish can see water or it's just like the air for us?"

Instead of answering you with words, Sam picked up one of the pillows he had set aside and threw it at you. The object hit you in the chest before bouncing off Bucky, who threw it across the room in annoyance.

"Y/N, please go to sleep," Steve implored tiredly.

"Next time I'm carrying you to bed like a kid who fell asleep in the car on the way home," Bucky warned you in frustration, regretting waking you up in the first place.

#bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #sam wilson x reader #bucky barnes fluff #steve rogers fluff #sam wilson fluff #marvel imagine #humor #crack fic #bucky barnes x gender neutral reader #steve rogers x gender neutral reader #sam wilson x gender neutral reader

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