Bucky Barnes Fanfiction - Blog Posts

i couldn’t pick one so you got three.

oh m y g o d. natasha lemme DROWN IN YOU AND ILL LET BUCKY DROWN IN ME JESUS CHRIST

when you move, i’m moved

Summary:  There’s something you’ve been wanting for a while, and when Bucky finally figures out what that is he suggests that you do something about it.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Word Count: 6,123

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED), threesome (f/f/m), dom!bucky, dom!natasha, but they’re both pretty soft in this, oral sex (reader and nat receiving), fingering, it’s mostly filth in this part

A/N: this is the first thing i’ve finished in over a year i think. i’m not sure how good it is but i’m proud of myself for finishing it. feedback is always welcome :) i listened to the song “movement” by hozier while writing this and that was also the inspiration for the title of this. this is also the first part of what will probably be a mini-series about this relationship so there will be more! i hope you enjoy :)

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You’re on your second glass of wine when Natasha poses the question that’s been on everybody’s mind tonight. 

“So, why did you invite me here tonight?” She has one eyebrow quirked up she’s looking back and forth between you and Bucky on the loveseat sofa. Your breath feels like it’s trapped in your throat, not fully able to reach your lungs. 

You had been the one to invite her tonight, and you truly didn’t have any ulterior motives when doing so, she’d been over at yours and Bucky’s place countless times before, but the energy in the room tonight is different. 

Bucky, who’s normally oblivious and trapped in his own head, has been more observant about the nature of your relationship with Natasha, prompting a conversation between a few days earlier which resulted in the amped-up energy this evening.

“Are you finally gonna tell Natasha how you feel?” He asks as he approaches you from behind while you’re doing the dishes. He places his hands on your waist gently. Your heartbeat speeds up a bit.

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[ FLOWER SHOP OF NEW FEELINGS MASTERLIST ]

started : 04 / 21 / 2025

ended : n/a , ongoing

|| pairing : james "bucky" barnes x florist!reader

summary : When Clint's birthday comes sooner than Bucky realized, Steve forced him to go buy some gift for Hawkeye. Figuring that flowers were an easy enough gift, he takes a visit to the flower on the corner of the street.. There, he meets a cute florist, someone who seemed to melt his cold heart. How will Bucky navigate this modern world romance? Will he allow himself to fall in love? If so.. How will he keep this from the team? And how will you navigate a friendship - let alone romance - with one of the most closed off Avengers?

[ 01 : the cute florist ]

[ 02 : get a grip ]

[ 03 : distractions ]

[ 04 : unlucky ]

[ 05 : run ]

[ 06 : bad feeling ]

Hi, hi, hi! I missed U! What a story, need more!

I'm Into You || Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is so in love with you. The problem is that you don’t know about this fact yet…

Warnings: none expect a lot of fluffiness and Bucky being a sweet dork

Words: 2516

Authors: Cass & Beast

Bucky was looking at his metal arm that was glistening with raindrops.

He was sitting at the balcony of his room at the Avengers Tower.

It was raining but he didn’t care about getting wet. It was one of these days when he was completely lost in the thoughts that were running through his head.

“Y/N… Ah, Y/N.” Bucky mumbled under his breath and ran hand through his already wet bangs.

Truth was that Bucky, the former Winter Soldier, was so in love with you. Yet, he had never found a courage to speak his mind aloud.

“Y/N, hi. I was thinking that… No.. It doesn’t sound good…” He rubbed his beard. “Y/N. Would you mind me asking you to a…. Fuck.” He sighed deeply, hiding face in palms.

When he heard a knocking on his door, he went to open them.

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Jealous Bucky! ❤

FORGIVE ME, I LOVE YOU || Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky got into an argument with you. But good thing is he realized his mistake rather quickly.

Words: 813 (it’s short, sorry guys!)

A\N: I made this little drabble for the best squad I’ve ever met. @thepaperpanda ~ guys, I ❤ you and thank you for the opportunity you had given me by your writing challenge. All the love to ya!

Bucky was at the office on the one of important team meetings. You were there also, taking you were working for Tony Stark as his personal assistant.

Tony dispensed some folders to each of team members. “Take a look at our new guidelines. I’ve decided to introduce a few changes into our previous regulations.”

Bucky exchanged surprised looks with Captain. “Wait, wait, wait. What?” Rogers asked frowning and shaking hia head angrily. “Why you didn’t consult this with us before?” Steve growled.

“To be honest I thought it won’t be a problem to you all,” Stark shrugged rolling his eyes. “But as I can see, Mr Rogers has an issue, as always.”

Bucky clenched his metal hand into a fist.

“Oh! Barnes, are you okay?” Stark contorted his lips in a wry grimace.

“Yeah. I am,” Bucky looked briefly at you.

You were sitting next to Tony making a notes from the meeting.

The truth was you and Bucky were meeting since few months. But you had to be very secret about it. You knew how Tony would react if he would find out. Besides, Bucky didn’t want to make himself any additional problems.

You threw him a mean look and Bucky turned his eyes away. This moment didn’t run of Tony’s attention, however he said nothing.

“Next time, consult such things with rest of the team before you will make them official, is that clear?” Steve asked firmly. He also looked at you. You ran your glace away.

Tony was silent for a bit, then he nodded insensibly. “Yes,” he agreed.

After the meeting, while you were walking along the corridor in the Tower, Bucky caught you up. “What the hell was that, doll?” He questioned out loudly. “Who does he think he is!?”

“Buck…” You started quietly, “don’t ask me. He’s my boss. I don’t have any influence at his decisions,” you explained shortly. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with him.”

“You cold make a statement, but you rather wanted to stay silent about things, huh, Y/N?” He lowered his strong voice while speaking to avoid others to hear your argument.

You cocked brews and took a step back. “What’s that? Why are you accusing me?” You whispered. “You know I would do everything for you.. For us..”

“He again made a fool from Steve,” Bucky crossed arms over his chest.

“Hah, so that’s the reason?! Steve. Great Captain. Friendship before love, huh?!” This time it was way too much for you to handle. You raised your voice, almost yelling.

Bucky growled deeply, turned around, and rushed back toward staircase. He stopped after few steps, and looked at you above his shoulder. “Maybe you like him more than you like me? But like you wish, go to him! Go ahead! If you want to be his puppy on the leash and obey his every word, no problem. It’s your shitty decision, Y/N!” He went away leaving you in a shock in the middle of the corridor.

So this was the real problem between you two. Bucky was jealous.

After the work you came back home, and got changed in some casual clothes. You decided to go out for a little jogging. You were living in the nice district at the suburbs. It was a calm and great place to live in, and you were enjoying that fact.

When you were running through near park, you heard your phone ringing. You ait on the bench and pull your phone out of the pocket, and answered the incoming call.

“Hallo?”

“Hi, Y/N.” It was no one else but Bucky.

“Sup?” You weren’t in mood for a conversations.

“Listen, doll, I wanna apologize.” Ok. It was something new and completely unexpected. “I judged you wrong, I should know how does it work.”

“Yes. Indeed.” You rolled your eyes but little smile appeared on your face. You were proud of him. It was a very first time when Bucky admitted that he made a mistake.

“Please, forgive me, I love you,” he muttered softly. “Don’t be mad at me any longer..”

For few seconds you remained silent, but then giggled and agreed.

“Yes. I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Y/N.” You heard a happiness in his voice. “And.. By the way. I really do admire your pretty butt in that tight leggings.”

You blinked and quickly got up from the bench looking around. How huge was your astonishment when you saw Bucky sitting few benches away from you.

You lauged and walked to him. Man got up also and wrapped his arms around your waist. His smile etched its way back into his face. His body was warm and toned as he hugged you, comforting to the touch. His voice was deep, with an serious tone. His lips brushed your ear as he spoke.

“I really do love you, Y/N.”

Telling myself I don’t need to write about virgin Bucky who grew up in a strict household, never touching himself because he doesn’t want to commit a sin. Suppressing every single urge he’s ever felt his entire life. He gets to college and stays at his best friend’s place over the winter break which is great until his best friend’s single mom is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. She’s so sweet. So pretty. He knows he’s screwed when he has to excuse himself from the dinner table, taking a hot shower, struggling to get his erection to go away. He lets out a soft little whine, gripping his cock and balls, giving it a squeeze to calm down but it doesn’t work. He swears he’s going to cry, it was so wrong, he had to stop.

I don’t need to write about how he’s gonna end up in her bed. I don’t need to talk about how Subby and needy he is. Scared. Shy. Such a cute little virgin literally never touched in his life. We don’t have to talk about all the things mommy is going to teach him like how to touch himself, giving him instructions to follow like a good boy. We don’t have to talk about how badly he wants to be good, asking if you’re sure this is okay? Isn’t it bad, mommy? Is this wrong? Mommy, are you sure? No mommy, no one’s ever touched me there.

We don’t need to talk about the possessive, jealous daddy he eventually turns into, ruining her till she’s a mess of tears and his cream.

I don’t need to write about it.

Drawn to Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 1,282

Summary: Bucky catches you swooning over the animated version of him in ‘What If?’ and at first he’s grumpy about it..

Author’s Note: So this idea just came to me after seeing the clips from What If? and how cute animated Bucky is. I mean I may have swooned myself…hehe Thank you all so very much for reading! Much love always ❤❤❤ Divider by the lovely @imerdwarf 

Warnings: lots of fun fluff, teases, grumpy Bucky, Steve cameo and then it ends with dirty talk and implied smut (18+ ONLY PLEASE!!!)

Gif not mine: Credit goes to @unearthlydust thank you so very much :) 

“What’s that smile about?”

You whip your head up at the sound of Bucky’s voice next to your ear.

“NOTHING!” you nearly shout and slam close the iPad.

“Baby doll…you have that lovey-dovey look on your face again.”

He narrows his eyes before plopping down next to you on the couch. You give him a dazzling smile that looks far too guilty and repeat your answer from earlier.

“Nothing Buck.”

He tilts his head suspiciously before distracting you with a soft kiss and grabbing the iPad away. He rushes into the kitchen and opens it, keeping you away with his metal arm.

“BUCKY! OH MY GOD. GIVE IT BACK!” you scream, trying your best to get at him.

“That’s me,” he deadpans. “You’re watching the ‘What If?’ clips?”

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need

roommate! bucky barnes x reader

summary || Bucky gets horny while watching a movie.

warnings || handjob, crack fic — MINORS DNI

divider by @firefly-graphics

I don’t even know what this is lmaooo.

You stifled a yawn as you stretched your legs further into Bucky’s lap, it was a tradition now since your feet always got cold. Your eyes were drooping low, but you shook your head to stay awake. The TV was throwing colours over the overwise dark room and you were getting sleepy looking at the bright screen.

“That boring?” Bucky asked, turning away from the stupid horror movie he had chosen. “No. I’m just very tired.” You lied. You were sleepy, while watching a horror movie, and it wasn’t even halfway through. The movie was just downright terrible.

“Don’t lie. I know it’s awful. Kinda was a bad pick.” Bucky said dejectedly. “Uff, glad to know I’m not the only one who thinks this is pathetic.” Bucky was a little touchy when it came to the movies he selected, so you tended not to usually criticise them in front of him.

You were about to switch off the TV when suddenly the main characters started making out, in the middle of a haunted house. You wanted to roll your eyes, but the scenes were oddly arousing. The scenes progressed further until they were literally fucking in the dilapidated room.

You wiggled your feet a little in Bucky’s lap to get more comfortable, but then foot accidentally touched something hard and hot in his pants. You both stilled and left the TV to look straight into each other’s eyes.

A devilish idea crossed in your head and you pressed your foot down a little harder. He hissed through his teeth and yet didn’t stop you, so you decided to continue rubbing your foot over his tented pants. But then you purposely took your leg away to gauge his reaction.

“Don’t tease me doll.” His voice was raspy as he looked at you with lust blown eyes. You crawled further until you were right next to him. In the dim light of the TV playing the now forgotten movie, you could see his blue eyes sparkling.

Bucky was a gorgeous man and you’d be a fool to not want him. Bucky placed his hand on your chin and smashed your lips together in a passionate kiss. You trailed your hand down the hard planes of his body as you kissed him.

“Fuck.” He cursed when you slipped your hand into his pants and curled your hand around his hot length. You pressed tight circles on his slit with your thumb and spread the precum. He closed his eyes and leaned against the sofa once you started moving your hand along his length.

You had accidentally seen Bucky naked once, and you knew he was well endowed. But jerking him off was a whole another experience. Your eyes weren’t leaving Bucky’s face because he looked absolutely magnificent, his eyes closed and his plump lip trapped between his teeth as he relaxed.

“I’ve wanted this for so long… fuck!” He sighed as you twisted your hand around his head. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked as you started moving your hand faster. “I… I thought you didn’t want… fuck, I’m going to cum!”

“No wait! Not on the couch please!” You cried out. You were about to take your hand away, but Bucky held you there. “Please god, don’t stop!” His hand guided your fist to go faster. “Bucky! You’re going to ruin the couch and the carpet.”

“No. Take…” he closed his eyes and you could feel that he was on the edge as his cock twitched in your hand. “Take the mug.. quick!” Following Bucky blindly, you took the first cup you could reach on the table. Bucky groaned loudly as he came and you collected his cum in the cup.

Bucky’s body sagged into the couch when he came down from the orgasmic high. You giggled like idiots about what just had happened before your eyes went back to the mug. “Oh my god Bucky! You just ruined my favourite coffee cup!” You screamed.

“I wouldn’t say ruined it…. umm, I just added some extra cream.” He said laughing at his own joke. “Ewww. Not funny.” You said making a face. Bucky pulled you back in his arms and held you there. Soon, you too started laughing on the absurdity of the whole situation. “Well, it was still better than the movie.”

SILVER ➳ BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST

➳ summary: When your best friends Peter, MJ, and Ned drag you along to a concert, you never expected to fall head over heels with the band, more so the drummer. Wild and erotic, Bucky Barnes is a rich rock star who gets everything handed to him. Between the money, fame, and platinum records, he has a nasty reputation. But when an innocent girl like you comes along, he can't stay away.

➳ pairing: rockstar!Bucky Barnes x College!Reader

➳ warnings: will feature smut, suggestive themes, angst, age gap; Reader is 20, Bucky is 30

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

C H A P T E R S

➳ one

➳ two

➳ three

➳ four

➳ five

➳ six

➳ seven

➳ eight

➳ nine

➳ ten

➳ eleven

➳ twelve

➳ thirteen

➳ fourteen

➳ fifteen

➳ sixteen

L I N K S

➳ spotify playlist

➳ the color collection masterlist

➳ If you love SILVER, check out my original fic on Wattpad; MY SWEETEST ADDICTION

not to be dramatic, but I would DIE for chubby!bucky

Sweeter than Sugar

Summary: She broke his heart but you're not going to let her win. Bucky deserves the best and you're going to give it to him.

Pairing: Chubby Baker!Bucky x Reader, mentions of former relationship with OFC.

Word Count: 4K

Warnings: Smut, Oral (fem receiving), body shaming by OFC, language, mentions of insecurities. painful break up (not reader) bit angst, fluff. As always 18+ only.

A/N: Do not copy, rewrite, repost or translate my works. Comments and reblogs are welcomed. Beta'd by the lovely @deann and @makbarnes but all mistakes are my own.

A/N II: @star-spangled-bingo 2021 Squared filled: Curtain fic and @gotnofucks Body positivity challenge

"Wait till you try this. I think this is my best batch yet." Bucky promises as he pulls the tray out of the oven with his vibranium hand.

You cringe for a second before remembering that he can handle the heat.

You stretch, looking around the large bright kitchen. A fresh breeze floats through the open window carrying in notes of rain and freshly cut grass and the faint sounds of the neighbor's kids playing with their dogs.

Leaning back in your seat, you turn your gaze back to him, a faint smile on your lips as he blows on the pastries, cute little puffs he named after you.

His blue eyes shine under the soft yellow lights, an apron under the swell of his pudgy belly. He looks incredible, wearing only a pair of black boxers that stretch across the curves of his ass. His hair is pulled back into a small bun at the nape of his neck, and there's always something smeared across his cheek.

Yesterday, it had been red velvet frosting, and today, cherry.

Bucky scoops a puff on to a small white plate, grabbing a fork from the drawer. He beams, his entire face radiant as he walks towards you.

That's the look that makes your stomach twist and leaves you feeling dizzy.

Dating Bucky has been a dream. He's loving, kind and he looks at you with such love that you lose your breath just thinking about him.

According to him, you've improved his life in several ways; he swears his food tastes better now, that you somehow make his cakes perfect, his frostings sweeter, and well, he can’t look at a peach without grinning like a drunk-in-love idiot.

You’ve spent many late mornings and lazy afternoons watching him patter around the kitchen, listening to him explain his baking processes while you lounge in a chair.

You don’t understand half of what he’s saying, but he speaks with such passion, his hands animatedly flying in the air as he talks about chocolates, melting points, and the differences in pans.

Bucky has discovered early on that he loves to watch you eat. To be more specific, if it's his food. Only his food, if he’s being honest. He gets so nervous every time that his stomach plummets because he wants to make things for you.

Give you so many things.

Starting with your own custom-made pastry.

“Here, Peach, it just melts on your tongue,” his deep voice lowering to a near moan.

He slips the pastry into your open mouth, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip as you swallow. Oh, your eyes almost roll back in your head when the flavors explode on your taste buds. You’ve never tasted anything that wonderful.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you gasp, leaning forward for more. “I-that’s so good! Can I have another?”

He grins, lopsided and wide, his heart thundering so hard it feels like it might fly out of his chest. Bucky will give you pastries as much as you want if you keep looking at him like that. He puts his all into his baking and the fact that you enjoy it makes him feel as if he can walk on air.

Bucky kisses your forehead as you chew, pushing away from the table, he slides on his sock-covered feet to the fridge. “What do you want to drink?”

“What do we have?” You giggle as he dances in front of the fridge, calling out options for you.

It’s hard to believe that the carefree man in front of you is the same one that was ashamed to remove his shirt a few weeks ago.

Bucky holds your hands at your sides, fingers laced between yours as he feasts between your thighs. He promised to make you come for him at least three times and you swear it’s been double that by now. His warm, wet tongue flicking over your swollen, sensitive clit over and over, sucking and pulling it into his mouth like he can’t get enough of you.

You moan incoherently, voice hoarse from begging and mewling, your legs limp around his broad shoulders. “Buc-Bucky, oh right there, Bucky,” you plead, feeling pressure build in your belly as his tongue traces patterns over you.

Bucky grinned, his face covered in your slick. He can’t remember the last time he had a better meal in his life. “That’s my girl, so sweet, need one more taste, just a little more,” he whispers before his lips wrap around your clit again. Your mouth falls open in a wordless scream, back arching off the bed when he gently shakes his head, sucking so hard that you see stars.

Bucky groans actually groans deep and vulgar when you cum,and you feel it as your body explodes, waves of pleasure surging through you until you’re gushing on his beard. He eases up, nuzzling into your puffy folds as you come down from your high. Bucky looks up, his dark slate-blue eyes taking in your heaving chest, a bead of sweat rolling down your belly.

“One more?” he says hopefully, wanting to dive back into your pussy.

Your eyes widen as you frantically shake your head. “No. Oh no. Bucky, I can’t, I really can’t, I’m not sure I can handle any more.” You laugh breathlessly, tugging one of your hands free from his tight grip. You rake your fingers through his hair, smiling down at him. "Besides, I’ve been dreaming about you fucking me until I can’t walk.”

A faint blush sweeps across his cheeks as he averts his eyes. “Peach,” he mumbles shyly like he just didn’t spend the past hour worshiping your pussy with his mouth.

Bucky stands up, wiping a hand down his face. He stares at his glistening palm for a second, and then his pink tongue darts out, swiping across the wet surface. You wonder if he’s aware that he's moaning, your pussy throbbing at the guttural sounds.

“You’re filthy,” you jest when he does it again. His face gets even redder as he sucks on his finger.

“You taste better than my pies,” he retorts. “I could eat you all day, every day.”

“Tomorrow, for sure, but right now I want you inside me.”

His smile drops a little when you tell him to get undressed. He’s been dreading this moment, doing everything he can to avoid it. You scoot back on the bed, reaching out for him. Bucky looks down at his body, at his belly, his eyes narrowing, he scratches the back of his neck, telling himself he can do this.

He lifts the edge of his navy blue Henley, freezing when he hears her voice in his head. “Who would want a fatty? No one is going to love you looking like that.” Even now it stings thinking about her. Bucky glances over at you, his heartbreaking at the thought of you rejecting him.

Bucky drops his shirt and reaches for the lamp. “One second.” He says. An unmistakable hint of sadness in his voice has you sitting up. He’s never sounded like that before.

You tilt your head to the side, searching his face. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

“Just gonna turn the lights off first.” The corner of his lips lifts in a weak, watery smile.

You move to your knees and grab his large hand before he can switch them off. “Why?”

Bucky swallows, “no reason, just like the lights off, 'is all.”

Bucky’s admittedly good at a lot of things, but lying isn’t one of them. He briefly meets your gentle gaze, worry and fear swimming in his beautiful clear blue eyes.

Placing your hands on his chest, you grab his chin. “Bucky, look at me.” He immediately follows your soft command. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

Bucky blinks, shaking his head, almost confused at the thought that you could do anything wrong. “No, no, you’re perfect! It’s me. I don’t wanna disappoint you.” His voice tapers off in a whisper, hearing her sharp laughter the last night they were together. “I know I’m fat, so it would be better if we turned off the lights, that way you don’t have to look at me. “

You stare at your generous, doting boyfriend. “Why wouldn’t I want to look at you?,” you question, befuddled because who on earth would jump at the chance to see a naked Bucky Barnes.

He shrugs a shoulder, his somber eyes drifting down. He grabs his belly and jiggles it. Another shrug followed by a quiet, “I look different with my clothes off.”

You crane your head back, “I love your belly, it’s perfect. Who made you feel like you have to hide it?”

Bucky sighs, rubbing his cheek into your palm. “My ex, Moxie- “

Bucky dated her two years ago. She latched on to him when he and Steve bought the bakery, wanting to be the girlfriend of the rising baking star.

Bucky slowly gained weight as he sampled his baking and designed dessert menus for local restaurants, his joy for baking expanding each day, finally getting to see his dreams become reality.

He hadn’t noticed the changes in his body until one night Moxie cruelly pointed them out.

He was getting ready for bed, eager to be with his girl after a full day of running around. He had been telling her about how another restaurant wanted his input, so excited to share his news that he didn’t notice the way she glared at him.

Tossing his shirt in the hamper, he turned to her and smiled, his hands on his belt. “I’ve been thinking about you all day baby, I can’t- “

Moxie sneered at him, pretending to gag. “Are you serious?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “Um, what?”

“Um, what,” she mocked, pulling the blanket up to her chest. There's a pause, tension seeping into the room. “You know what, I have to say it, I can't take this anymore James. Look at you and look at me, why the fuck would I let you touch me anymore?”

Moxie sighed, “can you put on your shirt back on or something because that- “she gestured at him “-is disgusting” She let out an irritated groan when he flinched at her words.

A punch to the gut would have hurt less. Bucky felt his heart split. “Moxie,” he whispered, unable to find words to express the pain currently ripping through him.

“Look, I didn’t sign up for this, you were in shape when we got together, what the hell happened to you? Why do you think I stopped letting you touch me.” She ranted, ignoring his soft pleas for her to stop.

“Either lose the weight or I’ll fuck Steve, at least he still looks good.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, yawning, “can you go somewhere else, I don’t want you accidentally rolling over me and squishing me in your sleep.”

His mouth floundered open, but he couldn’t speak. It all hurt too much, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, the air was too thick and his chest grew tighter with each breath; he needed to get away, terrified of what might happen if he cried in front of her.

Bucky shuffled out the room, his heart shattering with every step. He thought she was happy, that he made her happy. Her laughter following him out to the hallway made his head droop even more.

What did he do wrong?

He spent the night on the couch, staring at his old pictures through tear-filled eyes, Bucky always had a little fullness to him, but he was always happy with his body. And he had been having so much fun with the grand opening and all the new opportunities that he never noticed that he stopped needing belts and his shirts were a little snug over his belly.

Bucky called Steve, his best friend fuming when he told him what happened. By the time he was done speaking with him, Bucky felt a little better, his heart may have been in pieces but he knew what he needed to do.

He kicked her out the next morning.

Much to Moxie’s surprise and Bucky's. He may be chubby but he's not going to be her pushover either.

Bucky ignored her apologies and said she had to go. It shocked her when Steve had shown up with a roll of garbage bags, tossing them at her feet with a sharp quip that he doesn’t fuck losers. Both men stood side by side, watching silently as she packed her belongings.

The only things she left behind were his broken heart and a few nagging insecurities that plagued him.

He finishes, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of his confession, you want nothing more than to stamp out the sadness marring his beautiful eyes.

“I thought she loved me but--“ he sighs, “--I don’t want you to look at me the way she did, I love you too much, Peach, and I know I should probably lose a few -”

You’ve never been angrier in your life. You want to punch little Ms. Moxie in her throat, she better hope she never runs into you because they will have to pry you off of her.

Clearing your head, you clasp his face in your hands and pull him down for a kiss. “Bucky Barnes, you are the sweetest man I know, you’re beautiful and I love everything about you.”

You silence his objections with another kiss. “I mean it Bucky, I love all of you. You don’t need to change anything.”

Bucky swallows the small protest, letting himself relax. You’re not her, you won’t hurt him. Placing a kiss on his soft, round belly, you murmur, “you have no idea how sexy you are, honey.”

You stand on the bed, holding on to his bicep for balance, and tug his shirt off. Looking down at him, you bite your lip. He’s ridiculously handsome and you’re going to prove it to him.

You pepper kisses along the curve of his neck as you sink back down, praising him and telling him how much you love him, describing in vivid detail how each part of his body is perfect.

His confidence and love for you growing with each word. By the time you reach the band of his boxers, he panting, his eyes darkening with an almost feral need to possess you.

Bucky tears off the last barrier keeping you from him and he pounces. You giggle as he pushes you into the soft blankets, the solid, comforting weight of his body encompassing you as he kisses you with such passion you forget to breathe. His warm lips melding into yours, his wet tongue dipping into your mouth, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue as it dips into your mouth.

Bucky reaches down with one hand, grabbing his cock, his other hand cupping the back of your head as he deepens the kiss. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on yours so he can gaze into your eyes. Bucky watches your mouth fall open, a gasp pouring out when he guides his thick cock into you.

He rolls his hips, moving deeper into your wet, hot heat. “That’s it Peach, you’re so good,” He brushes his lips across yours, swallowing your oh Bucky as he stretches your tight pussy around him. The slight burn gives aways to pure bliss, you circle your hips after a minute. A quiet I’m ready breathed into his mouth.

Bucky thrusts languidly into your pussy, each deliberate slow drag of his throbbing cock against your soft walls sends bursts of pleasure up your belly and down your spine. His lovemaking tender, yet so possessive that your head is reeling.

He makes sure that you feel all of him, each inch as you clench down, greedy for more of him, even as he goes deeper and deeper, his soft lips caressing your neck. His body keeping you pinned, so you have to take everything he’s giving you.

That pressure builds again, heavy and hot in your belly, digging your heels into the top of his thighs, you meet his strokes, pleading with him to please move a little faster, you need it so bad.

You don’t have to beg; he wants you to cum for him; he wants to feel your sweet pussy flutter around him as you cry out his name.

Bucky sucks a bruise on your throat, his hips pounding into yours. The headboard smacking against the wall with each powerful thrust. The dull thuds drowned out by your loud moans, the pressure getting more intense.

“Bucky,—” you cry out, scratching his lower back when he grinds his hips down, “—oh fuck, do that, do that again,” you frantically chant, slapping your hands on his ass, keening when he does, god yes, he does it just right, hitting a tender spot inside your cunt so hard that you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

“That it Peach, is that what you need.” He slips a hand between your bodies, his wide fingers circling your clit, “Go on, cum for me, give it to me Peach, be my good girl, and cum for me.”

You do, your walls clenching down as the pressure snaps, sensations firing off as your orgasms winds through you. Bucky’s pace falters, becomes erratic when he feels you milking his cock, unable to hold himself back any longer he lets himself go, relishing in your warmth until he spills inside you.

He tries to roll off of you, but you wrap your arms around him, murmuring for him to stay for a minute. You smooth your hands over his slick back, Bucky relaxes on top of you, grinning at your contented sigh. “I love you Peach.”

“Love you too,” you respond, plotting all the ways you’re going to let him know how much he means to you.

After that night, you began to praise Bucky, complimenting his body every chance you got, smacking his ass whenever he walked past you, hugging and kissing him.

The first couple of weeks, he would hide his face behind one of his large hands and his cheeks would resemble one of his bright red apples. “Peach, you don’t have to, I mean I’m-” he would stammer each time, always tucking his hair behind his ears.

It took you three days to figure out that he has a praise kink and you amped it. He barely opened his eyes before you were saying something that made him hide his face behind his pillow, laughing when you wiggled under it to tell him how good he looks when he smiles.

While you loved making him blush, you cherished how confident he became. And you reaped the benefits, one second he was a bashful baker with buttercream frosting on his forehead, the next he was bending you over his counter, railing you so good you couldn’t even scream his name.

After a while, he stopped avoiding the bathroom mirror in the mornings. And you couldn’t wipe the grin off your face, the first time you saw him cooking, shirtless, in the kitchen. He turned when he heard your footsteps, his face turning that familiar shade of red as you openly gawked.

“C’mon Peach, don’t you start-” he playfully grumbles, his lip twitching as he held in his smile, he moved back to the frying pan turning off the stove as he braces himself.

You squeal, flinging yourself at him, peppering his back with kisses. You couldn’t contain the litany of praises on your tongue, so proud of him. Bucky twisted in your grasp, cupping your face in his hands. “God I love you Peach.”

Bucky and Steve are celebrating the grand opening of another bakery. The largest one to date. The new building is full of investors, press, other bakers and chefs, a live band playing in the corner, drinks, and food everywhere, and of course the tower of desserts in the middle of the room. The atmosphere light and airy, glasses clinking, people dancing and every kind of cake, pies, and pastry imaginable on silver platters through the room.

You’ve never had so much fun, although a slightly buzzed Bucky is having an even better time because you’re wearing one of his favorite dresses. You remember when he first saw you in it, you twirled out of the dressing room and he nearly lost it in the middle of the store.

The more he celebrates, the more he’s giving you that look. Steve has to keep interfering, he’s close to going feral in front of all his guests.

Steve sent him to the kitchen after he caught him trying to put his hand between your thighs. You’re laughing as a contrite Bucky gets up from the table to refill the rapidly diminishing display.

“You know I’ve known Buck my whole life and I’ve never seen him this happy.” Steve remarks as he takes a seat across from you. His warm blue eyes glistening. “Thank you for that. He’s been through a lot and you’re the best thing that happened to him.”

Your cheeks get heated at his words. Steve leans forward, holding your hand between his. “I mean it, even though he’s getting on my last nerve talking about you.“

Steve squeezes your hand as he looks up at the ceiling for a second. “God, the man never shuts up, and I’m this close to strangling him if he compares you to another peach, but I love-“

He cuts off, his head jerks back so fast, you think something struck him. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

You turn around in your chair, searching the crowded room. “Who are you talking about?”

“Moxie,” Steve spits out, his hand curling into a fist. “White dress by the bar.”

You find her flirting with one of the investors. Moxie puts her hand on his chest, her shrill laugh cutting through the surrounding conversations. Whatever she tried fails spectacularly. The tall, sturdy blonde grimaces and walks away. You would almost feel bad if you didn’t want to slam her face into the wall.

She spots Steve and waves, making her way through the crowd. “Hey, long time no see.”

Steve raises a brow, his eyes hardening. “Why are you here?”

She laughs, patting his shoulder. “I’m here to apologize to Bucky, I know he misses me, he must be lonely.”

“Really?” you question, keeping your voice light and even.

Moxie dismissively glances at you before returning her attention to Steve. You chuckle under your breath, tapping your heel on the floor.

Don’t ruin your man’s event. Don’t ruin your mans’ event. You repeat the thought as you inhale through your nose.

“So I heard you two are doing really well.” She says, her manicured nails roaming over Steve’s suit. “Really well.”

Steve flicks her fingers off him, “We are. No Bucky’s not lonely. He doesn’t miss you. He’s very happy. With her.”

Moxie’s polite veneer cracks when Steve points at you. Waving your fingers at her, you grin at her. “You go near my Bucky and I’ll rip that cheap necklace off and shove it down your throat.”

She turns to Steve, gesturing to you as if she's the innocent one here; he raises his glass, blowing a harsh breath through his lips. “Don’t look at me, I still don’t fuck losers, but I’ll call if you if that changes.”

You laugh in your empty glass when she sputters. She turns to you, hand on her hip. You slowly raise your eyes, returning her stare. Part of you wanting her to do something, so you can wipe the smirk off her overly painted face.

“Whatever, I don’t need this. Keep the fattie. I can find another rich loser like that.” She snaps her fingers, storming over to the bar. You blink a few times in disbelief. The audacity of this bitch, thinking that she can stay and mingle at his event.

You're debating if you should have her thrown out by one of the staff or if you should drag her out by her hair.

You look her up and down as you ponder your choices, pausing when you see the edge of a tag sticking out the back of her dress. Hmm, interesting. She must plan on returning it after tonight.

A devious smirk slowly takes over your face, you know exactly what you’re going to do to little Ms. Moxie.

You glance at Steve, picking up his wineglass. Steve shakes his head while grabbing your hand. “Hey hey, I know what you’re thinking, and no.”

Before you can say anything, he’s pouring more burgundy wine into the glass until it’s nearly sloshing over the sides. “If you’re going do it, you gotta do it right.”

You exchange knowing glances. No one hurts Bucky. You saunter over to her, keeping your hand steady, not wanting to lose a single drop on the floor.

“Hey Moxie,” you call out. She turns around and you ‘trip’ over your heels, the deep red liquid flying forward in a perfect arch, splashing across her ivory dress, her face and you even got some in her hair.

“Oops, gosh, I am so clumsy,” you state, hiding your grin as she shrieks.

Steve jumps up, offering to help before she can swing at you. “I got you, darling.”

He places a hand on her back, quickly ushering her away “a little club soda will get that right out,” he reassures a pouting, whining Moxie.

He's lying through his teeth, that stain will never come out. Steve gets a peek at the price tag, almost laughing at the $899 imprinted on the card. He maintains his façade, leading her through the room, he stops, giving her a wide smile.

“And you can find some at the drugstore down the street.” He states, opening the front door and pushing her out. Her indignant shouts cut off when he slams the door in her face.

You throw your head back and cackle, startling some guests around the bar, you apologize for your outburst between fits of laughter, wiping the tears pricking at your eyes. You wave down the amused bartender, placing an order for you and Steve.

Steve joins you, raising his fresh glass of wine in a toast. “No one fucks with Bucky.”

"No one."

Neither you nor Steve realizes Bucky saw the whole thing. He ducks back into the kitchen, clutching the tray of Cannelés to his chest. For weeks after the breakup, he had rehearsed what he was going to say that next time he came face to face with Moxie.

But what you and Steve did was even better, the love of his life and his best friend always looking out for him.

Loving him unconditionally.

And just like that, the last traces of his insecurities vanished.

Later that night, you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. He smiles at your hand on his belly. He places his large hand over yours, wondering how he got so lucky to have you.

And if Steve would kill him if he named another dessert after you.

He’ll risk it.

𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞

summary ─ “i thought we were going to share her, barnes.”

pairings ─ dilf!neighbor!pornstar!bucky barnes x reader x milf!pornstar!natasha romanoff

warnings ─ smut, +18, threesome yo, oral sex (f receiving), anal sex, strap ons, kissing, cockring, nipple play, natalia is indeed blowing the reader’s mind eheheeh, james is losing it lol, dirty talk, pet names, reader is being sandwiched between james and natasha, fluff, found family trope is real :’) 

a/n ─ hi! i’m back with a part three. many of you asked for a part where natasha was involved, so i thought i could give you guys this little piece of heaven <333 lol.enjoy this 8.5k monster! i’m sorry it took me too long to write and post it :( hope you like it! thank you so much for all the love you’ve shown for the previous parts <33 please leave comments if you like it! thank you <333

part one ─ part two

You were baking cookies with Anya when James stepped into his apartment with Natasha behind him. Anya shrieked happily as she launched herself into the arms of her mother. Natasha chuckled and hugged her, arms tight around her tiny body and her face hidden into the crook of her daughter’s neck. You smiled at the sight.

Keep reading

paranormal love

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x fem!reader

a/n: Bucky is going to be very OOC for the first half of this. Just trust the author on this one, it will all make sense in time. (Toxic relationships, paranormal happenings - you have been warned)

Summary: Moving into this house was supposed to be the blessing your marriage needed. Instead you only seem to be twisted against each other. Something lurks within these walls, something angry, something lonely. Someone wants you gone, and he’ll do whatever it takes to have his revenge on the woman who left him behind. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)

“Okay,” you say, balancing the camera in your palm, zooming in on James’ back while he unpacks the kitchen boxes. “Wanna smile for the camera?”

He gives you a glance over his shoulder before turning and waving to the camera. He chuckles a little, glancing down at the lens and then back at you. “What are you doing?”

You sigh, placing the camera on the counter and letting it record. “Well, you know how the lady said this place was haunted?”

He rolls his eyes and glares at you. “I told you not to listen to her, that chick was off her meds.” You swat at his arm but he bounces away from you playfully. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, holding back a small laugh. “I just thought that if there were any supernatural happenings,” you nod towards the camera, “we’ll need proof if we’re going to make this a tourist trap.”

James smiles, leaning over to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Good call, babe.” You smile after him as he heads back out to the truck to bring in more boxes. Your eyes briefly dart to the camera before you shake your head with a disbelieving chuckle. 

Do you believe in the supernatural? Yes. The metaphysical? Depends on who’s trying to sell you their tarot cards. But you do know that when that woman handed you the keys after you bought the place, you’d never seen such stark relief. 

That poor old woman was terrified of living in this house alone. Of course, the old bitch didn’t tell you about all the horrific things that happened here until after you signed the deed. If you had known this place was haunted, even if it’s not, you never would have bought it. 

Sadly, all your money and savings are now tied into this home. James says not to worry, that there’s nothing wrong with the place. But he’s always been a cynic and he’s never really believed in anything so miraculous as ghosts. Besides, he’s the type of guy to argue with you until he’s purple in the face that the sky is red when he’s in a mood. 

There’s no talking him out of this. And you can’t begin your newlywed life arguing with your husband about the place you just made your forever home. Anyways, it’s not like you’ve noticed anything bad yet. 

The camera is mainly a joke to mess with James and make yourself feel better about the whole thing. You’ll turn it off tonight, be done with it, and hopefully get over this irrational fear of yours. 

12 AM

You spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse your mouth with water. You’ve noticed a strange metallic taste with all the unfiltered sinks. You're worried you might have to call a plumber or someone to check it out. You don’t want to get lead poisoning your first night here. 

You freeze, still bent over the sink, and your jaw snaps shut. Eyes are boring into the back of your head, hateful and angry. It’s not James, you would know if it was. This is something different, the hair on the back of your neck is standing up, goosebumps rolling up and down your arms. There’s a rush of cool air, like something running past you, and your head shoots up in surprise. 

You scream when you see James in the mirror’s reflection. He jumps back in shock, lowering the camera and giving you an exasperated look. A second ago you’d been completely alone and he’d been downstairs, where the fuck did he come from?

“What the hell, James?” You wipe your mouth off with the back of your hand and whirl around on him. He glares at you, eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. 

“Talk about an overreaction. What the hell is your problem?” He snaps, taking that tone with you that you know means you have to be careful. You don’t feel like getting into another fight with him. Especially not tonight. 

“You scared me,” you trail off into an awkward laugh, hoping to ease up the mood a little. He slams the camera down on the counter. Your shoulders jump and you flinch back from him slightly. “What’re you doing with the camera?” You ask, glancing down at the lens and frowning. You spot the red blinking light and realize he’s still recording, your brows furrow in confusion. 

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?” His tone is short and you huff in disappointment. You hadn’t realized something as small as a little scare would piss him off. You used to be good at reading his moods. Since the wedding, though, he seems to have just gotten more and more unpredictable. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, your feet dangling over the floor as you kick your legs. You hate how tall the damn bed frame is, you have a horrible paranoia that something’s going to grab you one day and yank you under. James, of course, had just laughed when you told him this and then bought it. He thought it was funny, that it would help you overcome your fears. 

You still have goosebumps from earlier, the same breeze from before tickles the pads of your feet. You glance down with wide eyes, yanking your legs into your chest and scooting back from the edge. James flips the lights off in the bathroom and walks to the end of the bed. He’s dragged out the tripod and has got it pointed at the bed. 

You tilt your head with a coy smile, “Planning on having some fun tonight?”

He glances between you and the camera, a confused furrow between his brows. You scoff out a laugh as the realization dawns over him. “If you’re up for it, I wouldn’t mind some after-dark fun.” You roll your eyes and tug the covers over your legs. He leaves the camera and crawls on the bed towards you. “But that’s not what it's for.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over his shoulder and then turn back to him with an odd look. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into the supernatural junk?” You tuck your head into his chest, letting him pull you closer as he flips the lamp off. “You’re supposed to keep me tethered to reality, remember?” You tease, looking up at him. 

He glances down at you and shrugs. “The lady did say the master bedroom is the worst, I’m just curious if we’ll catch anything.” 

You shoot the camera a concerned look and shake your head. “I hope not,” you mutter. You snuggle in closer to him, trying to dismiss the feeling of someone watching you. You’re sure it’s just from the camera being on you. Besides, you always get too deep in your head about this stuff.

3 AM

You shoot up in bed, chest heaving as you stare down at your feet. James shifts behind you, grumbling as he flips over and steals the rest of the blankets. 

Your heart is pounding loudly in your chest as you simply sit there, staring at the end of the bed. You pause, holding your breath like the room might tell you its secrets. 

You’re normally a heavy sleeper, not even a fire would get you up. But something just did, you were ripped violently from your slumber. You almost want to dismiss it as an incredibly vivid nightmare. Yet, you can’t ignore the throbbing, almost freezing pain, that’s shooting up and down your left calf. 

The muscle is spasming sporadically and you can still feel the phantom touch of someone squeezing your leg. Your hip is sore from where you’d been dragged down. You’ve had pretty vivid dreams before. You’ve woken up with your feet sore like you’d been running, or your muscles cramped from twitching around so much. But this is a lot. 

You take in a deep breath, slowly pulling your legs into your chest. You slump over your bent knees, hoping to catch your breath and settle your racing mind. It’s impossible to ignore how cold your leg feels, you feel like you’re losing blood circulation. You can’t just go back to sleep with it like this, you’re gonna have to go downstairs and get James’ heat pack. 

You’re seriously starting to lose feeling in it now. You’re wondering if something didn’t drag you and maybe you’ve got a blood clot screwing your circulation up somehow. Hundreds of different possibilities race through your mind, each more worrying than the last. You can't sit up all night scaring yourself, you’re just gonna have to suck it up. 

You briefly consider waking James up so you don’t have to go downstairs alone. You hate how those stairs look in the dark, you feel like something is standing at the end, waiting to reach through the banister and drag you down. A ghost, however, sounds more inviting than making James grumpy before he has to go in for work tomorrow morning. 

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself off the bed and blindly grope through the dark for the wall. Your left leg is practically dead weight as you drag it behind you. Your hands skate along the dusty walls and you grimace, making a mental note to dust tomorrow. 

You’re trying to take it slow, to squint out as many shapes in the dark as you can. It’s nearly impossible to tell when you’re going to hit the stairs. You can only pray that you don’t go toppling headfirst down them. 

Slowly, you inch your toes forward and curl them around the edge of the step. From there it’s a long, arduous process of just trying to get down the stairs. It feels as though with each step you take, the house only grows darker. 

You wished you had taken the risk and turned the lights on. The feeling of eyes following you only gets worse as you finally reach the kitchen. The further you get from the bedroom, the worse your leg begins to throb. You can only be happy that you still feel it at all. 

Your hand skates along the wall until you feel the cool plastic of the light switch. As harsh as it is against the linoleum, it’s a stark relief from being all alone in the dark. You dig around in the moving boxes until you find James' heating pad. You toss it in the microwave and pull yourself on the counter, drumming your fingers while you wait for it to warm up. 

He hates you. He hates that you live in his house. He hates that she’s gone. Bette, he’ll miss her, the way the old woman’s face would screw up in terror always brought a sick satisfaction to him. 

You press the warm pad to your leg and hiss through your teeth as feeling begins returning to your calf. He has to admit, he hadn’t meant to grab you quite so hard. He just wanted one good scare, to either get you out of here or show you who's in charge. Your leg has turned an odd color in the shape of his handprint and it makes his lips curl up. 

There’s a loud ringing from upstairs. It grates on his already frayed nerves and makes anger roll off of him in violent, tangible waves. Your nose twitches, your face screwing up as you look around. There’s a suspicious glint in your eye, one your little husband doesn’t share with you. 

He has to admit, you’re smart enough to realize the truth of your situation, at least. Your husband doesn’t share the same characteristic. He seems alarmingly self-assured, not that he minds, those are his favorite types to break. 

He can hear upstairs, better than you would ever hope to. He listens as your husband picks up the phone, quietly yelling at someone on the other end. A woman, if the timbre is anything to go by. They both sound incredibly angry. He’s not interested in listening to something as trivial as this. 

He turns away from you and moves towards the stairs. He pauses at the base of them, glancing over his shoulder and really taking you in. You look so small, curled up on the counter with the look of a frightened child. 

You scream as the lightbulb above you explodes, plunging you into complete darkness. He smiles to himself, drifting up the stairs and lingering at the end of your bed. Your husband’s head shoots up in alarm and he pulls the phone away from his ear. 

The name Martha lingers on the small screen before he quickly flips it off and rushes out of bed. He blows right through the man at the end of his bed, flipping on the lights and racing down the stairs. He calls out your name, voice frantic and bordering on paranoia. 

He hadn’t thought you two would get scared quite so quickly. He’d been hoping to enjoy this a bit more. Perhaps he should slow down, and savor the long fall into madness before he claims you both. He hovers at the top of the stairs, watching as your husband comforts you. 

He’s got his arms wrapped around you, trying to keep you quiet and get you to calm down. From a distance, he could almost be the perfect husband. But that look is all too familiar, he’s seen it a hundred times before. It’s only now that he recognizes it for what it is. There is no love in your husband’s gaze, only the fear that you’ll find out his little secret. 

He goes back into the bedroom, swipes the phone off the nightstand, and retreats into the shadows. 

“Don’t,” you slap James’ hands away from you, glaring at him. He purses his lips, huffing out a sharp breath and taking a step back. Anger brews under your skin, warms you up, and makes your jaw ache from how hard you’re clenching down. 

“How can you say I made it up?” You shout, no longer caring how loud you are. Your voice cracks at the end as you take on a shrill pitch. You yank up the leg of your yoga pants, shoving your leg towards him. 

Not only has the skin dipped in the perfect shape of a hand, but it’s also turned into an unnatural shade of green and purple. It’s like no bruise or injury you’ve ever had before. James looks down at the mark like it’s a bug to be squashed or a pile of dog shit he just stepped in. 

He fixes you with a sneer and shoves it away from him. You let out a harsh breath and stumble slightly into the counter. “Would you quit fucking showing me that? It’s freaking me out.”

You throw your hands up in the air, giving him an eat-shit look. “How do you think I feel? It happened to me.”

He shakes his head and turns towards the coffee pot, pouring himself another mug. You can’t believe how dismissive he’s being about this whole thing. You have indisputable proof burned into your flesh, and he’s completely ignoring your worries. 

“We need to get you to the doctor, okay?” He shakes his head, giving you the look of a disapproving parent, rather than the supportive husband he’s supposed to be. He hadn’t even been worried for you last night, just mad that you’d woken him up for nothing. 

“It’s probably a blood clot, not a damn poltergeist.”

“James-” His phone ringing cuts you off, and your eyes narrow in disbelief as he reaches for it. It’s closer to you on the counter so you snatch it up before he can grab it. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, taking on a concerningly low tone. 

“We’re going to talk about this, you’re not getting out of this one, James!” 

He whispers your name in a voice you haven’t heard before. His face is dark, brows set in determination as he slowly extends his hand. “Give me my phone.”

You glance at the Nokia and then back at him. The fear that’s been ever-present since last night turns into something else. Anxiety and suspicion make a wicked and nauseating brew in your stomach. “Why?” You whisper, eyes narrowing on him as he takes a step closer. You stumble a step back, holding the phone out of his reach. 

You feel your hand tremble with its vibrations before it begins to ring again. You look towards it just as James lunges forward. His shoulder nearly barrels into you as he grabs your wrist. His grip is so tight you almost feel the bones creaking together. “James!” You gasp, the phone tumbling from your palm and into his hand. He shoves you back, tucking it in his pocket and glaring at you. 

“Don’t touch my phone,” you open your mouth to argue and he takes a large step forward. His foot slams against the ground and you flinch back from him, eyes wide in surprise. “Do you understand me,” he demands, slowly and his voice low. 

You nod, your jaw gaping as you stare at him. He runs a hand through his hair, refusing to meet your eye now. Dark strands fall onto his forehead and he looks more disheveled than you’ve seen him in a long while. 

He looks at his watch and clenches his eyes shut. He pauses, taking in a deep breath as he straightens his tie and rounds the kitchen island. “What are you doing?” You ask, your voice so quiet you’re surprised he even hears it. 

“Going to work,” he snaps. You can’t look at him, you just keep your eyes glued to the floor as the door slams shut. You hold your breath until you hear the car going down the driveway. Ever so slowly, you peel yourself away from the counter. 

Your hand drifts, without thinking, to the imprints on your wrist. “What the fuck,” you mutter, a stunned sort of silence taking over. You can’t help but just stand there, completely dumbfounded by how quickly a simple argument escalated. 

He’s always had a shorter temper than most, but that was extreme. A door slams upstairs and you scream, leaping forward and whirling towards the noise.  “What the fuck!” You shout again, stumbling towards the knife block behind you. You can hear footsteps running upstairs and swallow around a ball of fear sinking in your throat. 

You almost call out ‘whos there,’ but that’s a little too stupid for you. You’re not planning on being the bimbo who dies first in every horror movie. As much as James likes to tease you for being a little simple sometimes, you are equipped with basic survival skills. 

You look towards the coffee maker, the port where your home phone should be is empty. You rush towards the windows, glancing out the driveway and cursing when you find it empty. You were hoping that James might still be in his car, steaming before he comes back in to apologize. But, no, he’s really gone. 

Another door slams and it feels a little petty. Despite the way your heart races and you’re struggling to catch your breath, you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. The looming presence that hung over you last night is gone. James had dismissed the lightbulb exploding as an old house and bad lighting. 

You know better, despite the claims otherwise, and you sincerely doubt that there’s an actual person upstairs. And whatever it is, was smart enough to steal your phone. You slink towards the end of the stairs, just barely craning your neck so you can see into your bedroom. Except the door isn’t open like you left it. 

Light comes through the crack of the closed door. You take a tentative step up, eyes squinting as you try and get a glimpse under the door. A shadow darts past, like rushing footsteps. You gasp, leaping back and covering your mouth with trembling hands. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands, and the loose hairs from your braids blow across your cheeks, tickling your sensitive skin. Old vents, that’s what James told you. His attempt to explain the inexplicable breeze that seems to be following you everywhere you go. You’re bundled head to toe in fuzzy socks, warm pants, and a too-big sweatshirt. And still, you feel your fingers nearly go numb and you can barely feel your nose anymore. 

That’s not a poor AC system. And those aren’t feet under your door. You’re so focused on simply watching the movements under the door that you completely forget anything else. You’re blind and deaf as you watch whatever is moving about in your room. A loud clank breaks through the silence and you nearly scream. 

Your bones almost jump out of your skin as the ice machine starts going and rattles up the old fridge. You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and glaring at the white machine. “Fuck me,” you mutter, holding your chest and just barely calming yourself down. 

You’ve only been here a night, you shouldn’t be so fucking terrified. You’re ready to just go out into the backyard and wait the rest of the day for James to come back. If you could drive off, you would. But you’ve only got one working car right now and he’s taken it to work. You move to grab your laptop off the couch when something creaks behind you. 

Old hinges cry out as they’re slowly forced to work. The sound of steps going down the stairs occupies the space behind you. You can’t find the bravery to turn around, too scared to see what might be there. Something ice cold passes through you. It nearly feels like a violation, as though something was rooting through your insides like it belonged there. It couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds but it was more than enough to have you nearly vomiting up your scarce breakfast. 

The moment it’s over you feel yourself calming down. As though an instinctual intuition has been activated, you know the danger’s passed. Whatever it had been trying to accomplish with that little show, it did it. 

You turn back to your room, the lights off and the door open, looking just as you left it. You glance over your shoulder, looking into the kitchen before starting up the stairs. You give a hesitant peek into the room like you expect it to be a wreck. But it looks spotless, the camera is in the same place James left it, still recording. 

You file that away in the back of your mind. Maybe the camera picked up what happened last night, or maybe James is right. You really are just getting too far into your head. A shrill ringing goes off near James nightstand and you frown. Your phone buzzes on his side of the bed, MOM lighting up the square screen. 

You let out a short huff, quickly snatching your phone and answering. Maybe she can talk some sense into you, or, more preferably, come over to keep you company. “Hey mom,” you answer, smiling slightly to yourself. It’s been a little while since you’ve been able to talk to her. James had banned phones after the honeymoon and then you’d gotten caught up in house stuff, jobs, and the aftermath of the wedding ‘incident.’

An older voice than you’d been expecting answers on the other end, saying your name in a confused tone. Your brows furrow and you frown, “Mrs. Barnes?”

“Honey,” she sounds strained, like she really hadn’t been expecting you to answer. James must have taken your phone by accident. It makes sense, they’re both the same model, but you put a little pink charm on your Nokia so you’d stop making this mistake. Yet, when you look to your left, you see your charm lying on your nightstand. When had you taken that off?

“Where’s James?”

“Um,” you’re still a little thrown off by her voice and take a second to answer. “Work, I think he took the wrong phone,” you laugh a little, disconcerted that it’s not your mother’s comforting voice. 

“Must have,” she answers, she sounds like she’s a million miles away, her tone distant. “Well, um, just tell him to call me back.”

“Alright,” you hesitate, concerned by how off she sounds. “Is everything alright?” You know things have been tough for her since her husband passed on. James’ sisters have been helping her adjust, but the wedding had taken him away from his family for a little while. He hasn’t actually shown any signs of wanting to reach out and it makes you feel guilty, like you’re keeping him away from her. 

Mrs. Barnes, a living saint you swear, has been nothing but kind as she welcomes you into her family. This is the first time she’s ever been so distant to you. You act more like her family than James does nowadays. 

“Has, uh,” she coughs, clearing her throat. You can almost hear what sounds like Francesca on the other end, hollering at her. The sound of James’ older sister’s voice makes you smile a little wider. “Has James said anything to you?”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head in confusion, even if she can’t see you. “About what?”

“Oh, crumbs,” she huffs and you have a feeling whatever she was about to say was important, but someone is snatching the phone away before you can hear the rest of it. You’d been so focused on her voice that you hadn’t even heard James come back in. 

He glares down at the phone, face pale and eyes wide like he’s expecting something horrific. When he places it to his ear and hears his mom’s voice, his shoulders slump in relief. You narrow your eyes at him, disoriented by the strange behavior. 

“Mom,” he interrupts her rudely, “I’ll call you later. Okay?” He hangs up before she can answer. He tugs your phone out of his pocket and tosses it next to you on the bed. “Answering my phone now? What are you, my secretary?”

You slip your phone into your back pocket, not looking at him as you get off the bed. “I thought it was mine. I think my charm broke off.” You put some distance between the two of you, glancing down at his phone and then back at him. “Why are you being so weird about it?”

He flinches like you’ve just accused him of something far worse than being overly protective of his phone. “I don’t like you digging around in my phone. That’s a problem now?” You open your mouth to argue, but he just keeps going, cutting you off, “You’re so goddamn paranoid. First the ghost, now this,” he gestures vaguely at you and you scoff, crossing your arms and glaring at him. 

You two are devolving far quicker than he had anticipated. It must have been a fragile relationship, to begin with. James slams the door and you slump down on the bed, you almost look like you want to cry. 

He goes down the stairs, watching through the window as your husband lingers on the front porch. He calls someone, his mom, and starts yelling at her as he gets to his car. Looking away from the window, he sighs. 

He’d been close, if James hadn’t come home he probably could have pushed you over the edge immediately. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or happy that his game gets to go on a little longer.

You come back down the stairs, eyes rimmed red and shoulders slumped in defeat. You brush through him, not even noticing the chill he leaves behind in you. You have the camera in your hand and a cord in the other. He grins, excited to finally have you see the truth of what happened last night. 

You plug the camera into your laptop, scrubbing through the footage of last night. He leans over your shoulder and watches as goosebumps rise along your skin. You sigh, tugging a blanket over your shoulders, but he knows that won’t do anything to help you. 

Nothing will unless you leave. But your husband has made it clear that you’re not getting out of here until he has actual proof anything supernatural lurks inside these haunted walls. Right here, in your lap, you have your proof. A phantom wind blows up the sheets of the bed, an unexplainable tug of your leg that drags you halfway down the bed. It’s violent and he almost feels sorry, he really hadn’t meant to hurt you, only scare you. 

His fingers drift over your leg and you jump, whirling around, wide eyes looking right through him. He can’t help but admire the way fear makes them shine. You’re quite pretty when you’re terrified, he couldn’t say the same for the hag that used to live here. 

You’re slow to turn back to the computer, but when you do, there’s a slight curve to your lips that he appreciates. “I fucking knew it,” you whisper, slamming the screen closed and getting to your feet. 

You’re giddy, he can taste the satisfaction overpowering the fear. You round the couch, taking in a deep breath and shaking out your arms. Your face sets in determination and you start working on clearing out the moving boxes. 

He doesn’t feel the urge to mess with you any further. He leaves you in peace, lounging in your armchair and watching you work. He’s got a nice surprise worked up for you tonight, no need to take today’s playtime any further. 

You’re efficient, only occasionally getting distracted as you smile at pictures of your wedding day. You put those up on the mantle, beside some family photos. It’s clear how much you value your familial bonds, even your husbands. You put it front and center in the home, reminding him of how it once looked. 

There’s a stark sense of deja vu as he watches you work, a nauseating feeling of what could have been. He can practically taste the newlywed bliss you’re going through. Even with your husband being a piece of work, you still value him, love him. He’d once known that love, hell, he’d reveled in it. 

But the curtain always has to come down. The magic’s never real. He’s doing you a favor by showing you the truth of it all. His gaze drifts away from you cooking dinner and he looks towards the pictures on the mantle. 

James’ mother reminds him of his own. He always wondered what happened to her, what her life was like after he was gone. Neither of them ever got what they wanted. She died wondering what happened to her only son, and he died without getting to say goodbye. 

He thinks of Bette, and feels that familiar white-hot rush of anger, your scream comes a moment later. He glances towards you, confused, before he follows your eyes and sees that he’s accidentally shattered the frames of the pictures. 

You gasp, sucking in shallow breaths as you stumble into the counter, brows furrowed in terror. He clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath, and tamps down on the anger overwhelming him. 

The door opens and your socked feet go rushing towards it, you nearly slip on the hardwoods, arms spinning wildly as you right yourself. James flinches away from your frantic hands as you grab his jacket and drag him inside. “The fucking pictures,” you stutter out your words and point frantically towards the mantle. 

James grimaces, tugging at your hands and looking towards him. He doesn’t see him, of course he doesn’t. But he does see his little accident. James scoffs, face screwing up in anger, he turns towards you. His face is set like a disappointed parent. “You broke them? Our wedding pictures, seriously. All because of a stupid fight?”

He jerks away from you, storming towards the glass and kicking at it. “You didn’t even clean it up,” he says your name, tone increasing in anger. You stare at him, disbelieving and open-mouthed. 

He sits back on the armchair, thoroughly amused. He hadn’t even had to do anything to turn him against you. Your sweet James has just been waiting for a reason to get mad. “This is fucking petty, even for you.”

“What, James,” you stumble over your words, taking a hesitant step towards him. He thinks you’re pretty when you’re scared, but not like this. He doesn’t appreciate the way you approach your husband like he’s a rabid dog. You shouldn’t be scared of him, not yet at least. He hasn’t even had his fun with him yet. 

“It wasn’t me, I swear-”

“Not this ghost shit again, seriously-”

“I have proof!” You shout, your voice is desperate as you try and make yourself louder than him. You run towards your laptop, and ignore the burning smell coming from the oven. He gets up, drifting towards it and turning it off before either of you can notice. No point in having the house burn down. Where would that leave him?

You plug the camera in, turning the screen towards him. James doesn’t make a move yet, simply glaring at you like you’re a bug to be swatted. “Please,” you beg, pathetic and needy. He huffs, rolling his eyes as he watches you both. It’s all so familiar to him, he feels like he’s watching his unfortunate disaster of a marriage play out through you. 

You scrub through the times, cussing as you pass over the clip of you getting dragged. There’s a frantic look in your eye as you hit play. It almost makes him feel bad for what’s about to happen. 

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” James snaps. 

Your face falls and you move the mouse forward and back, looking like a madwoman as you try to find the right moment. You won’t, he made sure of that. Nothing but static plays when you get to the parts that would prove your innocence. 

James tugs at his tie, shaking his head in disappointment. “Not only did you fuck up all our pictures, you didn’t even have dinner ready.” He shoves past you, heading up the stairs and muttering to himself. He pulls out his phone, lingering on a contact he shouldn’t before pressing call. 

You stay still in the living room, looking at the shattered glass and then the oven. “I made your favorite,” you whisper. You suck in a shaky breath, swallowing hard as you kneel down to try and pick up the remnants of your wedding photos. 

3 AM

He sits on the bed, glancing towards the blinking red light of the camera. There’s a clear wall between you and your husband, even if neither of you wants to acknowledge it. You lay curled up in yourself, like a child afraid to seek comfort. He pities you, truly. 

He remembers the happiness of youth, the rush of being married to the person you believe is the love of your life. He will never forget the pain of realizing the person you’ve given everything to turning into someone you don’t recognize. 

His hand drifts over the swell of your cheek. Your lashes flutter, nose wrinkling at the cold brush of his touch. But you don’t flinch away from him, instead leaning into him and looking almost happy by his touch. 

He looks to your husband, eyes narrowing on his relaxed form. He sees the phone lying near him and his face sets in determination. He’s not going to let you fall into the same trap he did. And he certainly isn’t about to let another soul cramp the already stuffy walls of his home. 

It’s been quiet around the house. Less strange events and more strained dinners between you and your husband. You’ve taken to bringing the camera everywhere with you. But anytime a light bulb explodes or a frame topples over, the video goes static. 

You should have given up the hunt for evidence but you can’t give it up. You just need James to see, you need him to believe you. Or, at the very least, you need some assurance that you’re not going crazy. You’ve begun to consider the possibility. 

The bruise on your leg is gone, the constant chills that rack you are still very much present, but there’s nothing else. Everything that happens can be explained by the age of the house. You’ve only briefly discussed it with James’ sisters. Elizabeth gave you the number of a medium she knows. 

James had gotten angry when he found the business card after her visit. He didn’t like her filling your head with more nonsense and indulging you. You didn’t like how dismissive he was. It’s been a few days since the fight and you still have no desire to reconcile with him. 

It’s becoming easier to simply ignore his presence around the house. You know it’s not healthy. You’ve only just begun the marriage, you don’t need to have communication issues tainting it before it’s even on its legs. 

Still, it’s as though something’s keeping you from him. Every attempt at speaking with him is interrupted, thoughts of apologizing just to placate him are struck from your head quicker than they come. 

You stand up from the kitchen table, placing your pictures to the side. You’ve finally gotten new frames for them all, you only need to put them back up. You have no problems putting up the family pictures. Yet, the moment you make to grab the wedding picture of you and James, you grow inexplicably tired. 

Your eyelids flutter shut and you sway on your feet. Your bones grow heavy like you’ve been working all day. But you’ve only been up a few hours, and you had so much more to do today. You try and fight forward, leaning on the table and reaching for the portrait again. You almost feel like you’re nudged back, moved towards the couch. 

A short nap, you promise yourself. Just long enough to get your energy back. 

He followed him to work. That’s never happened before. He’s never been able to follow someone out of the house. He tried, with Steve, he tried to make every aspect of his life hell. But he couldn’t. 

Yet, with this one, he has no problem following him. Maybe it’s the odd resemblance they have. A haircut and a shave, they could be identical twins. But then again, he hasn’t seen his face in a long while, perhaps he’s misremembering it. 

It’s difficult to maintain this control. Half of him lingers in the house, with you, the other half is here. He’s being drawn closer to James and further from you. He doesn’t know if that’s conducive or an interruption to his plans. 

He only vaguely sees you, in his mind’s eye. He leads you to the couch, lays you down, and keeps you away from the reminders of James. He’s gotten good at keeping you both separated. It was easy to begin with, all he’s doing is showing you the truth of the man you married. If only he could really show you. 

James phone rings and he focuses on him once more. It’s Martha again. He hasn’t figured out the truth of their relationship, he’s sure he already knows it. He’s lived this life once, knows the truth of why a husband would act like this. The late-night calls, the constant misdirection of anger. 

He’s paranoid, terrified you’ll find out the truth. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. The perfect housewife at home, and the mistress who fulfills his every desire. At least, that’s his theory. He still needs to be completely sure. 

He ignores James, focusing once more on his connection to the house. He finds you right where he left you, deep in your sleep and completely oblivious to the world around you. He kneels before you, sweeping some hair off your cheeks and tilting his head as he takes in your restful face. 

You look so peaceful when you’re like this, a slight curl to your lips as you wander through dreamland. He wished he could keep you like this, wished he could completely get rid of James. But without him, you wouldn’t be able to keep the house. You’d leave it, leave him. He can’t have that. He’s been lonely for so long, he needs you, craves you. 

6 PM

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

Chewing fills the cavernous silence of your dining room. Forks scrape across porcelain, shallow breaths as you both dance around the tension that threatens to tie a noose around your marriage. You reach for your wine, hoping for another heady swallow. Just like before, you’re dissuaded from it. 

You grow tired at the thought of drowning your sorrows in the alcohol for another night. You clench your eyes shut and take a deep breath, moving the glass away from you and turning back to the roast you made. 

James’ brows furrow as he watches you. “Everything alright?”

You hum, “Tired.” He scoffs and your face falls flat. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he cuts more aggressively into the meat. "Something wrong?” You demand, sucking on your teeth as you anticipate his answer. You’re sure it’s going to be the same broken record he’s been playing since the honeymoon. 

“Nothing,” he shrugs, tone dismissive. He pauses, taking a deep breath before laughing sardonically. “It’s just funny.” You hate how he does this, drags out his answers, and forces you to take the bait. 

You’re not playing this game of his tonight. You won’t do it again. You can’t keep going in circles with him, can’t keep indulging him in these childish tantrums. He waits, eyebrows raised and pretty blue eyes boring into yours, demanding attention. 

Those damn eyes. You wish he was just a little uglier, maybe then you wouldn’t have been so blind to how fucking awful he really is. You almost resent his mother and sisters for this. They could have warned you off, told you the horror stories of his past before the wedding. Instead, they’d warned you after it was too late and your entire life was entangled in his. 

“I work all day, come home, want a peaceful meal. What do I get?”

He falls silent again and you let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, James,” you drawl, bored of this already. Your patience for him is practically nonexistent nowadays. You used to be able to endure these conversations with him, or at the very least soothe him. But you’re tired of feeling like a babysitter and not the wife you’re supposed to be. “What do you get? A homecooked meal, a clean house, someone to come home to. Tell me,” you demand, slamming your hand on the table and surprising him. “What the fuck do you get?”

“A nagging fucking wife who does jack shit all day and complains about being tired! I work for us, so you can stay home and live out your little housewife fantasies!”

Your jaw drops and you suck in a sharp breath. You can’t even form words, nearly laughing at the audacity and ridiculousness of what he’s saying. “Oh my god,” you can only scoff, shaking your head and leaning back in your chair. You smile and roll your eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” He stands, leaning on the table and trying to make himself bigger than he is. It only paints him in a more pathetic light. 

You cut him off before he can say anything else, scooping up your plate and storming into the kitchen. “You’re the one who insisted I quit my job. You,” you turn and gesture towards him, a disgusted sneer on your face, “wanted a fucking housewife. I was just the dumbass that listened to you. You have no right to throw that in my face. You wanted this, James!”

“Yeah, well,” for a moment you think he’s speechless. His jaw opens and closes, nothing but air leaving his parted lips. You should know better by now, he’s always got some bullshit to spew. “I didn’t think you’d be so incompetent at this.”

You drop the plate in the sink, leaning on it for support and closing your eyes. You take in deep breaths, trying to cool down the heat racing under your skin. Your blood’s pumping so hard you’re surprised a vein hasn’t burst yet. 

“Fuck this,” you push off the sink, shoving past him and moving towards the front door. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, watching as you grab your coat and your keys. 

“Going for a walk,” you tell him shortly, slamming the door behind you. You just need some time away from him, away from the suffocating shadow that seems to linger behind him all the time now. 

You pull the business card Elizabeth had given you and dial the number. You don’t know if this anger is coming from whatever the hell lives in that house or if this was always coming. But you’re not going to just roll over and let this thing ruin your marriage. 

7 PM

You’re out for an hour. He’s upset the entire time. He wants to drive James’ head into the corner of the counter over and over again until there’s nothing left but unidentifiable mush. It’s the same fight he used to have. It always started over something so stupid, he could never say anything right. 

No matter how many times he thought he finally figured Bette out. Every time he thought he had avoided some trigger for her, a new one formed. It didn’t matter how perfect of a husband he was, he would never be enough because he wasn't him. He wasn’t Steve, the man who could do no wrong in her eyes. 

He stands in the corner and watches as James paces for a while before he finally leaves, taking his keys and his phone. He takes the car and leaves you stranded here at the house. 

He knows that James could fix the car sitting idle in the garage. He could fix the car. It’s just another way of keeping you under control. James gets to decide when and where you get to go out, you don’t get a say. 

You seem relieved, though, when you come back and see James gone. You’re happier without your husband, it’s both good and bad. He needs you to resent James, needs you to hate him. But that could prove tricky for him in the future. 

“Thank you so much,” you’re on the phone, you’ve got something lumpy in your jacket. One hand lays under the buttons of your coat, stroking idly. “Yeah, Thursday sounds great. Thank you, again, for coming on such late notice.”

You hang up, placing your keys and phone in the bowl by the door. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up.” You open your jacket, revealing a bundle of matted, dirty fur underneath. Somewhere in all that mess is the scrunched face of a pissed-off cat. 

You coo to it, stroking its head and ignoring the fact it looks like it wants to rip your hand off. You bring it to the kitchen sink and he watches as you take the next few hours to wash its wounds and properly groom it. 

He never cared much for cats, or any animals, really. He never had the time or the energy to try and take care of something other than Bette. She was practically a full-time job to cater to. But he enjoys how peaceful you look being able to take care of the cat. He enjoys how much sympathy you display, even as the little bastard rips and tears at your pretty skin. 

He looms over your shoulder, stroking his phantom fingers over the cat's wet fur. It’s enough to scare it into submission. Its claws release your skin and it shrinks back into your hold. He grins, backing away and leaving you to it. 

You frown down at the cat, murmuring soothing words to it as you look around the kitchen. Sometimes he thinks you see him, thinks you can truly see through all the walls and witness what’s left of the man he was. He knows it's foolish, a ridiculous hope. 

You’ll never be able to see him. Even if you could, you would only think of him as a tormentor. He was a blight on your home and marriage, why would you ever care about him?

3 AM

You feel eyes on you. Not the unfamiliar eyes you’ve been feeling, you know these. Intimately. You stir from your light sleep, squinting through the dark. Minimal light comes in through the blinds, but it's just enough for you to see the figure standing beside you. 

You gasp, flinching away from James. He just stands over you, glaring down at where you slept. Eyes devoid of anything. “James?” You whisper. Alpine, the cat you snagged from a neighbor’s dumpster, leaps off the bed. 

She hisses at James, skirting around him and running out of the room. Your brows furrow in confusion. You look back to James, muttering his name again. He gasps like he was dragged out of a coma. 

He stumbles on his feet, tripping over them and nearly nosediving into the bed. You instinctively steady him, guiding him onto the bed beside you. “What are you doing?” You hiss at him, holding his face in your hands and looking him over for any explanation of what was just happening. 

You’ve never even heard him talk in his sleep. Let alone, sleep with his eyes wide open and staring at you. It was beyond disturbing. There’s something unfamiliar in his eyes, they’re soft as he looks at you. Soft in a way they haven’t been for a long time. 

His hand comes up to cup yours, the other almost hesitantly running across your cheek. “James?” You ask again, caught off guard by the odd display of affection.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. You’re ninety percent sure you’re still dreaming, he’s never apologized first before. It’s always been you to broker the peace. You’ll sacrifice being right if it means he’ll stop giving you the cold shoulder, he’s never done the same. 

You try to ask him what he’s talking about, but he’s surging forward before you can speak. His lips are chapped, dryer than you’re used to. He doesn’t give you much time to process anything. His hands drift to your waist, dragging you into his lap as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You’re taken aback by the taste of metal on his tongue. It’s coppery and bitter, not at all like the mint toothpaste you both use. 

He’s not kissing you like you’re used to. He’s not trying to devour you or suffocate you by shoving his tongue as far as it goes down your throat. This is gentle, sweet. It feels like you’re being savored, not claimed. You don’t mind it, in fact, it would be nice if you weren’t so disturbed. 

He’s not acting like himself, he barely looks like he should, and he tastes wrong. This isn’t your husband kissing you. You want to pull away, you try to. But his fingers are digging into your waist and your lips are firmly locked. You can feel the chill of his hands through your pajamas. They’re like icicles, you’re sure there’s going to be a mark from them in the morning. 

“James,” you manage to mutter, pulling away from him just enough to catch your breath. “What’s,” you trail off, tongue growing too heavy to speak. Your words slur together, become one nonsensical jumble stuck in your throat. 

He shakes his head, biting his lip and slowly lowering you back onto the bed. “I’m sorry. I thought this would work.” You narrow your eyes, you have barely enough energy to shake your head in confusion. Your lips part to ask another question. He leans down, pressing one last gentle kiss to you before your eyes roll back and you’re asleep again. 

“I told you I have it handled,” James practically pouts as he sits in your armchair. You used to use it to crochet, it’s got the best view of the backyard and you like to watch the bunnies that live under the porch. But more and more, he stays there. Every second he’s home, he seems to live in that chair. 

Bette had given it to you with the house. You hadn’t really thought anything of it, but with how he’s been acting lately, you can’t help but wonder if its’ connected to whatever secrets live in these walls. Most people would be haunted and their husbands would get worse, you seem to be experiencing the opposite. 

He’s kinder, he’s bringing you flowers and cooking you breakfast. You’re woken up with praise and gentle kisses. Then he’s back to normal by lunchtime. He’s miserable at dinner, only to wake you up in the middle of the night with saccharine apologies. You’re so sick and tired of living in this whirlwind of love and misery. You just want some goddamn answers. 

You need to know the truth of what’s happening to you. Is this just how James is? Is this the house? Is there even anything wrong with the house?

You’re hoping the medium will be able to answer that for you today. Mystic Wanda, the name doesn’t give you much hope but Elizabeth told you she’s one of the best. 

Alpine runs against your legs and James glowers at her. “I told you I wanted her out of here.”

“Tough,” you respond bluntly, eyes trained on the front door. He’d thrown a hissy fit when he saw her the morning after your weird make-out session. You hadn’t bent, though, and you know he’s still upset you’re no longer blindly giving into his whims. 

The doorbell rings and you leap off the couch, rushing towards the door and throwing it open. Wanda’s eyes widen in amusement and she smiles at your eagerness. “Please, come in, and thank you again for coming on such short notice.”

You usher her inside, offering to take her jacket. She passes it to you, eyeing the interior of your home and giving you an appeasing smile. “Well, Elizabeth is a good friend of mine, she told me you were having an emergency and I wanted to help.”

James scoffs from the armchair and she glances over at him with a bemused look. You glare at him over her shoulder. “James, I presume?”

“Oh,” his eyes widen in faux amazement, “did you divine that?”

Her eyebrows raise and you know she’s unimpressed. “I could tell from the attitude. Your sister warned me you were a cynic.”

He mutters a bitter, “Whatever,” under his breath and goes back to ignoring her. 

“I’m sorry about him,” you take her by the elbow, guiding her into the kitchen and away from him. You peer over into the living room, ensuring he can’t hear you. Wanda waits expectantly for you to begin speaking. 

“He’s why I wanted you to come.” You tell her, fiddling idly with your wedding band. “He’s not himself lately.”

“More volatile?” She guesses and you shake your head, laughing bitterly to yourself.

“Less, actually. But he’s unpredictable. I never know when he’s going to be this sweet stranger or the miserable man I’ve grown used to.”

Her brows twitch and a confused smile graces her lips. “Most people aren’t upset when their husband gets better.”

“I know it’s odd,” you admit, sighing and looking down at the countertop. “But, I just need to know I’m not going crazy. I’ve been dragging this around everywhere,” you push your camera towards her. “Every time something happens, the feed cuts out. I’ve been dragged down my bed, harassed, made to think I’m losing my mind.”

You run a rough hand over your face, feeling the aches of this whole experience settle wearily along your bones. “I just need some clarity. That’s all.”

“Well,” she reaches for your hand, squeezing it in hers and giving you a comforting smile. “I can certainly help with that.”

Wanda sits in the armchair, having booted James out of it. He seems a little bit more cognizant as he sits beside you, a little more scared. You keep a wary eye on him while Wanda closes her eyes and “connects” with the house, as she put it. 

She breaks the silence abruptly and it makes you jump. “This chair came with the house?” You nod silently but you have a feeling she already knew the answer. She hums, running her hand along the arm of it. 

“It was his before it was stolen by the man he called friend. He lives in it, watches you from it.” You feel your heart racing, panic steadily rising within you. It’s like a physical caress, the fear trailing down your spine. “He wants something, too many things,” she sighs and shakes her head, frustration playing along her fine features. “It’s hard to discern the truth of it all.”

“But he’s real?” You cut in, imploring her to tell you what you’re desperate to hear.

She gives you a resigned smile, but there’s no happiness in it. “I’m afraid so.” She shouldn’t be so apologetic, this is all you wanted. To know you weren’t crazy, to have James hear it too. But when you look to him for some satisfactory celebration, his face is slack. 

“James?” 

Wanda leaps up from the chair, taking a step towards him. Your husband is gone, any sign of awareness or thought is completely gone. He looks devoid of life, like he’s been a living corpse for weeks. “James?” You call again, voice threatening to break. 

His jaw snaps shut and you jump back, rushing off the couch and stumbling towards Wanda. She grabs you, tugging you behind her, and takes in a deep inhale. “It’s him,” she whispers, eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never encountered one so strong before.”

You glance at her and then back at James. There’s fury playing on his features, and again, those eyes you don’t recognize yet somehow feel familiar. “I think you should leave,” he demands, his voice low. 

It isn’t the normal way he commands you. This is a threat, a complete assurance of power. James stands up in one fluid motion, stalking toward Wanda. She goes stiff before you and you worry she’s going to go slack the same way James did. 

“Now,” he tells her, eyebrows raised with impatience. 

“James, she can help,” you try. His head whips toward yours and you flinch away from the intense look he gives you. 

“We don’t need her help,” he whispers your name and it almost sounds like he’s pleading with you. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, you glance between Wanda and James, unsure which to follow. 

Wanda shakes her head as you take a step back from her. James’ shoulders slump with relief. “Don’t do this,” Wanda warns. “I won’t be able to come back here again. He’s growing stronger, you’ll be beyond anyone’s help soon-”

She's cut off as the light bulb above you explodes. You scream, moving instinctively towards your husband. His arms eagerly wrap around you, drawing you into his gentle hold. He runs a hand over your back and you almost miss the quiet apology he mutters into your hair. 

“Leave,” James doesn’t have to tell her again. She practically runs to the door, nearly forgetting her coat as she rushes out. You slump against him, somehow feeling defeated even after getting what you wanted. 

“Doll?” He peers down at you, pulling back slightly to get a better look. “Are you okay?”

You stare into eyes you know don’t belong to your husband and force yourself to nod. You let this stranger hold you close and ignore the sinking weight of guilt. He feels so much better than James ever did and you hate yourself for thinking that. 

Your husband is in there somewhere, being tormented by some malevolent spirit, and you’re letting him do what he wants to you. Playing house with him like everything’s normal. “Come on, let's go outside.”

You can’t do anything except listen to him. In the back of your mind, you think about how odd it is that he’s showing himself now. He usually waits until later in the day. 

How sick is it, you have a schedule for when your husband will be possessed?

He leads you to the back porch, to the rocking chairs that were there when you moved in. but he doesn’t let you sit in one. No, he guides you down onto his lap, keeping you close as you get yourself comfortable. 

James isn’t like this. He doesn’t let you love him like this. Your touch practically repulses him nowadays. But he can’t seem to get enough of you now. Holding onto you like he might not get to again. 

“Wanda said he was growing stronger,” you mutter absentmindly. He goes tense under you, but he doesn’t yell at you or get mad. He just squeezes your hand in his, idly tracing shapes over your palm. 

“I was thinking of planting some rosebushes,” he tells you, completely brushing over what you said. 

“I thought you wanted to rip the garden out and build a pool,” you tell him bitterly. The neighborhood has its own pool. You’ve been begging James to keep the old lady’s flowers in the back but he won’t have it. 

Now, miraculously, he’s giving in to your whims. You don’t know if you should be happy or disgusted. You’re sitting on the lap of something that isn’t your husband anymore. You don’t feel like you can trust your mind anymore. You struggle to differentiate between your dreams and reality. 

He laughs a little, brushing some hair out of your face and smiling at you. It’s not the smile you fell in love with, or the eyes you fell in love with, but you can feel yourself falling. Or, maybe, you’re just desperate for someone to be kind to you. For someone to love you the way a husband should love his wife. 

“I want you to be happy, Doll.” James doesn’t call you Doll.

“Maybe some gardenias too,” you lean back into his chest, letting yourself get more comfortable. 

You feel his smile against your skin, he turns his nose to nuzzle against your cheek, planting a kiss there. “I’ll buy the seeds tomorrow.” You nod absentmindedly, trying to settle the way your stomach flips. 

3 AM

“James!” You scream his name, leaping onto his side of the bed and holding onto him as tight as you can. He shoots up, grabbing you and turning you to face him. 

“What?” He demands, face pale with worry. 

You frown, glaring at him, “You didn’t hear that?” The bedroom door slams closed and you scream again, curling into his hold. 

“Holy shit!” He shouts, he tries to hold onto you but something grabs his leg. The same way you’d been dragged the first night, he’s pulled out of bed. You scream his name, the bedroom door flies open, and watch as he’s dragged into the hall. 

You leap over the bed, feet tangled in the sheets as you lunge towards the door. He’s screaming, primal sounds of nothing but pure terror ripping through the house. You pound on the locked door, tearing at the knob until you think you might rip it off. 

“James! Please!” You sob against the wood, slamming your shoulder into it until it cracks. Pain shoots down to your elbow and you flinch back, “Fuck,” the screams go quiet on the other side of the door and your eyes widen. 

“James!” You screech, your fists pound against the door until you feel the skin crack and blood dribble down your arms. Something cool brushes against your neck, like a breath. “Stop,” you plead, “stop it, give him back.”

The door swings outward, the wrong way, and you wonder how the hinges don’t break. The only light on is the linen closet. The same closest that you know has a scuttlehole. You don’t think, just run towards it. Your bare feet pound against the hardwood, shaking the whole house in your race for the door. 

You burst through, nearly stumbling facefirst into the ladder. You clench your eyes shut, nails digging into your palms as you look up to see the scuttle hole already open and beckoning you forward. 

Blood trails up the ladder and you could almost cry seeing it. You can’t waste time, can’t dawdle. You don’t know what happened to James but you know it’s not good that he’s quiet. You force yourself up the rickety ladder, pulling yourself into the attic and looking around for any signs of life. 

You didn’t realize how much junk the old lady had left behind in the house. But the attic is chock full of her past. Dusty and browned filing boxes litter old antique tables. Wardrobes, trunks of clothes from the fifties. A mannequin with an unfinished dress. There’s an entire life up here, one she seemed to have just willingly left behind. 

You frown down at something that really draws your eye, a box with a scrawled B.B. on the side. The light’s on, but it's dim and only illuminates the box. Still, you try and squint through the dark to find James. There’s no sign of him anywhere, you can’t help but wonder what the trail of blood on the ladder was. 

You lean down and pick up the box. “What’re you doing?”

You scream, your throat going sore from how much you seem to be doing that tonight. James is on the ladder behind you, a dazed look on his face as he waits for your answer. You tilt your head in confusion, trying to calm your heart from the adrenaline rush that was ten minutes earlier. 

These are different eyes. This isn’t him. Your gaze darts back to the box and you pass it to him. “Take that,” you demand. He doesn’t question you, if anything it seems to make him happy. He drops it down the ladder and holds his hand out to help you down. 

You take it, hissing at how cold his hands are. He only gives you another eerie smirk. Once you’re steady and on the ground, you back slowly out into the hallway. “What happened earlier?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

Your face drops and you scoff, “You were fucking dragged down the hall and I got locked in the bedroom. You weren’t sleepwaking, James.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and flips the lights off. You’re plunged into darkness, a slight whimper ripping its way out of your throat. You’re forced to rely on his guidance as he leads you down the hall. “You’re tired, Doll, we should just go to bed.”

You think back to the box, waiting for you in the closet. There’s no arguing with him, though. You’ll have to deal with it tomorrow morning. You can only pray that you’re not awoken so violently again. 

“Sweetheart,” you mumble tiredly, swatting blindly at the voice. There’s a low chuckle, and then the familiar press of lips against your forehead. “Wake up, I’ve gotta go soon.”

You’re slow to open your eyes, just barely making out James’ blurry shape. “James,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes to try and force them to focus on his form. “What’re you doing?” You asked, words slurring together. 

He places a tray down on the nightstand and the smells of coffee and pancakes break your dazed trance. You sit up straighter in bed, giving him a confused look. Two years of dating, and a few months of marriage, not once has he greeted you with breakfast in bed. 

“James?” you question, he only shakes his head, darting forward to kiss you. Your eyes flutter shut and you find yourself leaning into the touch. It doesn’t take long for it to grow heated, his chilled hands drifting under your shirt and tugging you towards him. 

You’re finding it easier and easier to simply give in to his whims. Your legs spread over his and you melt into his hold like you were made to fit against him. “Shit, Doll,” he huffs against your parted lips, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. His lips are a pretty pink, swollen, and glistening from your kisses. You almost want to bite them. 

You hold back the urge, leaning back and giving him a small smile. It’s enough to make his whole face light up. “You know how badly I want to stay in bed with you today?” You almost invite him to, but the foggy cloud of an abrupt wake-up finally parts. 

You remember the box from last night, what you need to do today. So, you pull back from him, his arms releasing you reluctantly. It’s so peculiar, how his metal hand is warmer than the flesh one. “Going to work?”

He hums, eyes narrowing in on you suspiciously. You reach for the coffee and take a sip, exactly how you like it. It’s pathetic that your suspicion grows because you know your husband doesn’t know how you take your coffee. 

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him, and it’s the first time you haven’t had to force the words out to appease him. It almost feels genuine this time. He gives you a resigned smile, kissing your cheek and leaning back. 

He pets Alpine, stroking down her smooth white fur and smiling at her too. “I’ll see you both later,” he tells you, a promise. You bite your lip and nod. His footsteps echo down the stairs and you leap off the bed, the abrupt move scaring the life out of Alpine. She growls in discontent and stalks off. The door closes and you run to the window, watching the driveway to make sure he’s gone for sure. 

You race into the hall, throwing the closet door open and dragging the dusty box out. Mildew and mold cling to it, but you don’t have time to be concerned with germs. You need answers. You take it downstairs, toss it on the kitchen table, and forget all about your breakfast upstairs. 

It’s odd, how much cozier the house has become. Sunlight streams through the windows and warms your seats and couches. You no longer feel eyes in the shadows. A creak is just a creak. It’s like your fear has just been snatched from you. 

The thought is enough to unsettle you, but you ignore it for now. You’ll worry about that another day. You toss the lid of the file box inside and what greets you only further irritates you. Piles of unorganized papers and pictures, each of the more faded by time than the other. 

You pluck out the first one you see and nearly gasp. It’s James, but not James. A picture of a WWII soldier, in his uniform and posing in front of an army vehicle. He looks just like your husband, but his eyes crinkle a little more when he smiles, his happiness palpable through the picture. He’s even got a prosthetic arm. 

You flip the picture over, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, is written out in pretty cursive. Directly under it is 1942. You drop the picture, taking a few steps back and shaking your head. “No, no, nope,” you shake your head, simply ignoring the truth that lay in front of you. 

Somewhere out there, there’s an alternative version of your husband who was a WWII veteran and apparently lived in this house. Same fucking name and everything. “Oh, fuck me, this is insane.” You glare at the box, not wanting to believe anything you’re seeing. 

How could your life have devolved into this shitfest, just because you moved into one fucking house? How could one crappy ad in the newspaper have completely turned your life upside down and thrown you into the twilight zone?

You throw yourself into a chair, slumping over the wooden table and taking in grounding breaths. You wanted the truth, you’re going to get it. Even if none of it makes any sense. The next few pictures you grab are all in the same sepia tint. One of him standing in front of the garden, another before a truck, even one in the goddamn armchair currently sitting in your living room. And in each one, he looks as happy as can be. But there’s something nearly artificial in his smile. 

You look at the pictures on your mantle and frown. You can’t exactly judge him. You’ve got the same smile in all your pictures too. Just slightly off, something about it slightly forced for the sake of the person beside you.

You find one of him with a very unhappy-looking woman. She’s pretty, even if she does look a little wicked, and she also looks remarkably like you. What bizzaro world is this? She’s nearly identical to you, but she looks goddamn miserable. A hulking blond man has his arm slung around Bucky, fingers just barely grazing the woman’s shoulder. 

You flip it over and find, Bette, Bucky & Steve at the new house, 1950. Bette, the woman who sold you the house. Who told you what nursing home her kids were sticking her in. You leap up from the table, running to grab your coat and racing out of the house. 

Bucky glances down at James' phone and grins. He pulls the car into the apartment complex and picks up the call, “Hello?”

“Where are you?” The woman on the other end demands sharply. 

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting back the spirit surging within him. His left hand twitches without his permission and his eyes narrow in frustration. James was easy enough to subdue last night. He was caught off guard, terrified. 

Now, he’s pissed off and fighting. Bucky doesn’t appreciate the efforts to take control. “I just pulled in. I’ll be up in a minute.” He shuts the phone off and jerks the rearview mirror to face him. The eyes that stare back at him are not his own. 

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” James demands, spitting the words out like he has any sort of power over Bucky. 

Bucky grins, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

James’ face falls and his eyes widen with worry. “What does that mean?” Bucky flips the mirror back in place, glancing up to the third-story apartment where Martha waits for him. He turns the engine off, slowly exits the car, and makes his way up the stairs. 

He’s sure to take his time, enjoying how James grows more and more terrified. It only feeds him, makes him stronger, and grants him more control over him. He’s getting better at controlling him, finally had enough strength to fully take over last night. 

Before, he only had the energy to take over the body for a few hours, at most. But the longer he held influence over James, the further his influence spread. Soon, he could leave the house, without having to use James’ body as an anchor. He’s evolved past anchors and the brick walls that once contained him. He only had one last loose end before he could be with you fully. 

He knocked on the red door, waiting for Martha to answer. It didn’t take long. She threw the door open, face screwed up with rage. “Look who came back. I told you that little bitch of yours wouldn’t be good enough for you.”

Bucky kept the look on his face serene. He tried not to show the rage that raced through him at her grating tone. He wanted to rip her tongue out and choke her with it. He wished he could pluck out her eyeballs and serve them to her on a silver platter. A million different ways came to him as he stepped into her apartment. 

“Hello, Martha.”

“Thanks for seeing me, Bette.”

Bette kept her hands in her lap, picking at the wrinkles of her skin. “It’s grown so thin,” she looked at you, seeing straight through you. “I used to be like you, so pretty, so young.”

Your face screws up in discomfort and you nod dismissively. “You know why I want to talk.”

Bette sighs and clicks her tongue. “Oh, Bucky,” she says his name forlornly, playing the perfect mourning lover. But you know better, she doesn’t mean a damn bit of her grief. 

“Drop it,” you snap, looking around to make sure no nurses are watching. The white sterile walls of the nursing home loom over you. Bette’s eyes snap towards you, the thin film of dementia disappears and she slumps into her chair. 

“Fine. Dammit, what the hell do you want? You already took my house.”

“Yeah, and your damn ghost. I want some fucking answers, Bette.”

She chuckles, the noise bitter and her expression cruel. “You know, you remind me a lot of Bucky. Got that same kicked puppy look to you that makes me want to smack you around.” Despite your best intentions of remaining passive, you feel your heart twinge in sympathy for Bucky. 

Bette’s got the same bitter look in her eye that James used to. You don’t see much of it anymore. Strange how much your life has changed in just over two weeks. “I thought he’d see you and finally move on. He’d finally get his damn revenge on me, I mean you look just like me.”

You can’t help but agree with her. You slip the picture out of your purse and put it on the table before you. “I saw,” you mutter, glancing down at the uncanny resemblance between you both. “I want to know what happened, Bette. I want to know why he’s stuck in my walls, why he’s stuck in my husband,” you add.

Her eyes widen and her jaw gapes. “He’s got your husband?” You nod and you’re caught off guard when she begins to cackle. “God, even dead he’s still the same pathetic, snivelling bastard he used to be.”

You can’t help but get angry, you almost want to defend him. Sure, he’s tormented you, but clearly, he had a reason to be bitter about having to look at your face all the damn time. You’d go crazy too if this was the bitch you were married to. 

“Bette,” you warn, voice low. 

She huffs and snatches the picture. “No harm in telling you, I suppose.” She gives you a wicked grin, “No one will believe you anyway.”

“I met Bucky when I was young, too young. We got married because he was getting shipped off to war. He wanted someone to write letters to, to come home to, and I figured he’d die before I ever saw him again. I could cash in on widow’s benefits. Then the son of a bitch had to go and get honorably discharged for getting his arm blown off.”

Your brows furrow in disgust. You’ve never seen such an evil old woman before. You pray you don’t turn into a wicked old hag like her when you get older. “Steve, his best friend, was discharged around the same time as him. Came to live with us for a while so he could get his life in order.”

Bette glares at you and tosses the picture back to you. You catch it before it slides off the table and she keeps going. “See, some women weren’t as loyal as I was. His lady moved on real fast, left him lonely and looking for a warm place to sleep at night. Bucky, well, he just wasn’t a man. He obeyed me like a little bitch and took every hit I gave him because he thought he deserved it. Steve never did that, always put me in my place. He was a man,” she hisses out the word and you have the sudden urge to slap her. 

“One thing led to another, we were in love and Bucky was in the way. We got rid of him, what else do you want me to say?”

You can’t even figure out where to begin. She’s fucking despicable. Not only did she not love him, he was utterly devoted to her and she fucked his best friend. Killed him to be with him. Despite this overload of information, only one question comes to you. 

“Where did you bury him?”

5 PM

You let out a loud grunt, sweat pouring down your back as you bring the sledgehammer into the brick wall. There’s a loud crack and you pause, taking a step back. A moment later a brick slips out of its place. It doesn’t take much longer for the others to follow. 

There’s a loud crash as it all comes tumbling down, decades of dust and debris float into the air. It drifts down your nose and creeps into your lungs. You drop the sledgehammer to the cement of the basement with a clatter. You kneel over, waving the dust away and trying to cough it out. 

Something rolls against the floor, something hollow that clatters against your shoe. You glance down, stunned into silence as a gaping skull stares back up at you. You stumble away from it, nearly kicking it back, and trip right into the warm chest of your husband. 

Bucky stares down at you, his face blank and devoid of anything you might be able to read. “You talked to Bette?”

You nod mutely, taking a step back from him. You wince as your heel comes down on something that cracks under your weight. You try to look down, to see what bone you’ve just broken, but he stops you. He grabs your chin, tilting your face towards him and forcing you to meet his eyes. “What are you going to do?” He demands, he tries to sound strong, but you can hear the fear that trembles under the cool tone. 

Rest In Peace

Husband, Brother, Friend

James Buchanan Barnes

“It’s a bit morbid isn’t it?” You peer up at him and shake your head. 

“No, he deserves a proper burial.” You place the flowers on top of the fresh grave and stand. You take a few steps back and Bucky pulls you into his chest. “You, I mean. I just feel like your memory deserves its rightful resting place.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and you squeeze his hand. “You think Steve’s in here somewhere?”

You scoff and feel yourself growing angry on his behalf. “He deserves to rot under a bridge somewhere, along with that bitch.”

Bucky laughs pulling back from you and giving you a wide smile. It’s genuine, the first genuine smile you’ve seen on his face in a long time. “Thank you,” he mutters. You shrug, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“I’m your wife, I’m supposed to have your back.” You reach up, pushing a wave back behind his ear. He’s finally let his hair grow out again. He complains it gets in his eyes when he tries to garden, but you love how it looks on him so he keeps it. 

His face lights up, the same way it always does when you say you’re his wife. You interlace your fingers together, pulling him away from his grave and back towards the car. You’re supposed to meet Mrs. Barnes soon, you’re having Thanksgiving dinner at your house tomorrow so the whole family can finally see it. 

Since the discovery of Bucky’s bones and the literal skeleton in the house's closet, you’ve kept family members away from you both for a while. It was a long adjustment period, getting used to the truth and each other. Accepting the fact that James was gone for good wasn’t as hard a pill to swallow as it should have been.  

You have a theory that you both were meant to be with each other, either in the forties or today. Something got messed up in the universe’s timeline and instead, you got James and he got Bette. This paranormal experience must have just been fate’s way of cleaning up what it had ruined so horribly. 

You look up at Bucky, the way his eyes crinkle even when he’s not smiling, and feel something warm spreading through your chest. You don't mind the cold fingers and chilling touch at night when it’s him you’re sharing it with. 

You place the turkey down in front of Bucky and he sends you a blissful smile. You can’t help but lean over the back of his chair and plant a loud kiss on his cheek. Janey gags, tossing a roll at her older brother. “Quit it, would you, I’d like to have an appetite.”

You chuckle, taking your seat beside him. Bucky can’t help but want to cry. This is what he’s wanted for so long. His family back, the woman he loves to love him back. It’s what he begged for. The loss of it all had turned him into this bitter, malevolent spirit. 

As much as he’d like to say he regrets or feels guilt for what he did to Bette, Steve, Martha, and James, he can’t. He tormented Steve until he died of a terror-induced heart attack at fifty. He’d driven poor Bette into the nursing home where her children would let her rot for the rest of her miserable life. Martha won’t be heard from again. 

And James, poor James. He must have had the worst fate of them all. It’s been a while since he’s heard anything from James. He searches for him now, his tiny presence lingering somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Bucky takes your hand, looks at his sisters and mother, and smiles at them. He raises his glass for a toast, slapping at James until he’s forced out of his slumber. Look, he thinks, speaking of all he’s grateful for to you and the other women. They know, he feels James looking through his eyes. 

He sees the way his family smiles at Bucky, and how much happier they look with him. They know, he tells James, they know I’m not you. James pounds futilely against Bucky’s walls. He screams and sobs, begging for you to help him. 

They don’t want you, James. They know that the world is better without you. He lets James linger in his misery, he savors his despair, lets it energize him, and then tosses him back to the abyss. James goes quietly, he gave up fighting a while ago. 

It wouldn’t matter anyway. His brief period of rebellion has fed Bucky enough to keep him subdued for the rest of his life. You squeeze his hand, “I love you,” you whisper, passing him the sweet potatoes. 

He smiles back at you and repeats the same words he’s already said a hundred times to you. This is at it always should have been. Steve, Bette, and James were all stepping stones to get him to you. He wasn’t going to let you go now. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Marvel (Winter Soldier), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

fantasizing about a fictional guy who would probably be a horrible boyfriend but being delusional and thinking he’d have a soft spot for me

40s bucky headcanons (lwky kinda suggestive)

40s!bucky who begs for you too send spicy polaroids with your mail when he’s away

40s!bucky who obviously sends ones of him back

40s!bucky who in his time in london got ridiculed for being so protective of his letters

40s!bucky who the second steve snatched one away from him and ripped it he yelled

40s!bucky who carefully went through photo surgery with tape

40s!bucky whose mail got lost and opened and then reported

40s!bucky who got called into his base commander’s office for outer personal misconduct

40s!bucky who could care less

I DONT ALLOW MY WORK TO BE TRANSLATED REPOSTED OR PLAGIARIZED WITHOUT CREDIT OR PERMISSION