buckbuckbarnesstuff

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Another banger. I expected nothing less. Keep up the amazing work, darling. You are doing so great, I hope you know that. And I hope you are proud of yourself because you definitely should be. This series is amazing!!

unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

________

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted to find the source.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push.

You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC I FULLY EXPLODED WHEN I SAW IT

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Eyes made of Starlight

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Maid!Reader (Cinderella Au)

Summary: You are drawn into a royal masquerade by a mysterious woman with a magical mask.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Classism (social hierarchy themes); self-worth struggles; fantasy themes (fairy godmother, spells, illusions); power dynamics; magical disguise

Author’s Note: Oh how I loved writing the magical Cinderella vibe!! This amazing request also comes from my lovely darling!! I hope you'll enjoy this as well, beloved ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The palace walls groan with music. Light spills through stained glass. You can hear the laughter of women who never had to scrub anything in their lives.

You have no reason to be here.

You have no right to be here.

The gown does not belong to you.

The mask does not belong to you.

This moment does definitely not belong to you.

You shouldn’t be here. Not walking under crystal chandeliers, not between silk-slick gowns and heels carved from heaven. Not with perfume-laced air choking your lungs or golden music playing with your ribs. Your hands are calloused. Your eyes are too wide. You walk as if waiting to be punished.

Because you will be.

You are nothing but a maid in this place. One of many. A slip of a girl with sore fingers and silent steps, always in the background, always apologizing.

You had ash on your hands just this sunrise. Streaked across your apron. Tangled in your lashes.

You had scrubbed the same hallway twice - once out of duty, once out of nerves.

You are not meant to be here among those royals, and yet you are.

The mask that sits on your face is not just a disguise. It’s an enchantment. Deep green velvet shaped like leaves, spun with gold threads that glow when the light hits just right. You remember the exhilaration you felt when you held it in your hands after it was placed on your bed. Remember the woman who you believe put it there.

No one speaks to her. No one trusts her. They call her strange, witchy, always lingering too long in the shadows of the garden wall, half-swallowed by ivy and moonlight. She has been a part of the place longer than anyone seems to remember, sweeping corners no one else would touch, talking to birds like they can answer her.

Everyone avoids her.

They say she curses the cooks and sings to the moon and never ages a day past forty.

But you have spoken to her. Brought her bread once, tucked it into a cloth napkin with a wildflower and an apology. Timidly waved at her when you saw her standing cloaked in midnight-colored shawls that fluttered like wings.

And one night ago it was just there. The mask. Lying under your sheets, ready to be worn. You don’t know why you actually decided to do it. You never would have. It’s not a decision you would even consider. But somehow, you pulled on that mask and were suddenly dressed in a gown more worthy than your life.

You are trembling now, standing at the edge of the ballroom. The candlelight plays games with your shadow. You can feel your heartbeat tap-tap-tapping against your ribs.

The clock chimes nine.

The doors open wider and the crowd shifts.

You saw him once.

The prince.

You were delivering lines for another maid who either quit or vanished or both. And on your new route, you saw him at the end of the corridor, coming closer with each step. He had been dressed in navy and silver, his hair pulled back and his expression unreadable.

You tripped and dropped the stack of sheets in your panic, not expecting to just encounter the real prince on a simple delivery. Not as a simple maid. You hated yourself for being in his way.

And when the sheets met the floor, you didn’t breathe.

Just watched the crown prince himself bent - bent - to help pick them up.

Just watched him smile at you and ask if you were alright.

As if he wasn’t a prince and you weren’t made of floor polish and forgotten names.

You didn’t stop thinking about it since. Didn’t stop thinking about him since.

You don’t even recall if you even answered him or kept staring all while blushing so hard your skin stung.

All you are able to recall is that he had eyes like storms and a mouth made for poetry, and something about him - something in the way he looked at you, not through you - unraveled your spine.

That was weeks ago.

And now he is here.

And you are too.

He enters without fanfare, without guards, without his title dragging at his heel. He wears deep blue tonight, with black embroidery shaped like curling vines across his shoulders. His dark hair is loose, falling just below his ears.

He is beautiful. But in a way fire is beautiful. Dangerous and too bright to look at for long.

He stands there like a painting brought to life.

He scans the room and stops suddenly.

On you.

Eyes lock.

Breath caught.

Your heart drops out of your chest and slams into the floor.

He is staring. Not at the dress. Not at the mask. Not at your lips or your waist or your trembling fingers.

He’s staring at your eyes.

As if he is trying to place them in the sky.

And then he is moving. Descending the stairs slowly as if the floor belongs to him and he is offering it to you.

The crowd parts for him.

People turn to watch. Whispers start.

You want to run.

You want to melt.

You want to rewind the world and be a maid again and never take that mask from that strange woman and never come here.

You clutch the sides of your gown, panic boiling in your chest. You could run. You have to run. He can’t know.

But he’s already there and you are not moving.

“Don’t go,” he speaks and his voice is velvet.

He is standing in front of you now, impossibly close, all shadows and silver eyes staring straight into yours.

Deliberately, and without taking his eyes off of yours, he offers his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says. “Please.” His voice is deep. Genuine. A request.

A prince should not talk to a maid this way. You are sure he wouldn’t if he knew who you were.

But a maid also cannot say no to a prince.

So you take his hand with shaking fingers and the second you touch him, you are pulled into his arms, into his chest. The music swells around you as if it were meant for this.

You dance like the world has forgotten gravity.

His touch is light and guiding. One hand presses against your back, the other is intertwined with yours. He doesn’t say anything about the tiny nicks in your palm you got while hanging linens out to dry and forgetting the rose bushes behind.

Never in your life have you danced before.

Never in your life have you felt the proximity of a dance partner or the sequence of the steps to the music.

Your mind doesn’t know but somehow your body does. Your body moves as though it’s been waiting its whole life to be near him. To dance this dance with him.

Perhaps that too has something to do with the mask.

Music rises. Time bleeds away. It feels like flying. It feels like burning.

He looks at you. Doesn’t stop looking at you. And you wonder if he sees past the magic. If he sees the girl who cleans his windows and folds his sheets. The girl who dropped them in front of him and stammered out an apology so awkward she wanted to dissolve on the spot.

Your breath is suspended like the stars outside the palace windows. His hand rests against your back, the pressure just enough to keep you guided, not enough to push. The thumb of his other hand moves in slow circles over your skin and you find yourself staring at it.

His head tilts down to you.

“You keep looking away,” he observes slowly, calmly.

You look up and his gaze is already waiting for yours. “Excuse me?”

“Your eyes,” he adds, voice gentle. Quiet. “You keep hiding them.”

He leans in even closer. You hold your breath. Your steps falter.

“The most important part of dancing,” he states quietly. “is eye contact.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Everything else follows if you don’t look away.”

You feel the breath of his words against your skin and it makes you hot.

He is not teasing. Not amused. Not quite serious either, but sincere. Thoughtful. As if this moment means something to him too. As if it’s not just your heart fighting its way out of your chest.

You swallow. “Why is that?”

He pulls you closer, shifting his grip. His voice drops even softer. “If you don’t look at your partner, you cannot read them. You cannot anticipate the next step. Cannot be ready to catch them if they fall.” Something passes through his expression.

A beat. His gaze dips to your mouth. Your chin. Back to your eyes.

“And people fall.”

The words land inside of you immediately and you feel them spark a fire that heats up your neck.

You blink a few times, snapping your gaze away from him only to have his hand leave your back to turn your head in its right position - looking at him. His thumb brushes your jawline before he pulls away and settles right at your back again.

As if nothing happened.

You force yourself to nod. Careful. Like if you move too fast the spell will shatter and you will wake up barefoot in the laundry quarters with soot on your face.

He watches you some more. The way your eyes move over his face. The way your brow is twitching. The way your breath is uneven.

You almost stumble. He steadies you effortlessly as if he’d known it would happen.

“Try again,” he encourages gently. “Just look at me.”

You meet his eyes again. Fully. The ballroom fades. The velvet and glass and gossip melt. The crowd around you spins in their own perfect orbit but this is something slower. Something more important.

He leans in another time, breath ghosting your cheek. His voice is a whisper.

“Do you think I could ever forget your eyes, hm?”

Your heart drops alongside your stomach.

The clock chimes midnight.

One.

Two.

Three.

You stumble back. Out of his hold. Out of his arms. Out of his orbit.

The mask is growing warm. Too warm. Your vision flickers. Your dress begins to dull, like color draining from a dream.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking, rushed. “I have to-”

And you turn.

“Wait-” he almost shouts, desperate, confused. “Please tell me your name-”

But you are gone.

Glass slippers skim the marble. Tears burn behind your eyes and make it hard to see. The mask slips from your face as you disappear into the night, heart hammering loud enough to break open the stars.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Hello darling, it’s me @marvelstoriesepic ♡

I read, I loved, and now I need to rant. You will find me do just that below the cut:

Bucky stared for a moment longer. Then, quietly, firmly, “Sit.”

Ugh, I always get so weak when he gets all firm and commanding like this, especially when the reason for that is the reader being hurt 🤭

“I would’ve known,” he interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “That’s the point.”

That was so unnecessarily hot, so help me. We all know he would have let everything fall just to get to her!!

“You could’ve torn the rotator cuff,” he said flatly. “Could’ve pinched the nerve. You dislocate at that angle and it severs the bundle near your clavicle, and you’re not just numb—you’re done. That’s a full paralysis risk.”

Gosh, this is unnecessarily hot as well. How do you manage to write him so attractive omg. It’s so accurate that he knows this and the way he flatly delivers it as if it wouldn’t shatter him if anything like that would have happened has me on the floor

“Here,” Bucky said quietly, stepping in behind you. His sweatpants were gone now, boxers too, but he kept to the far side of the stall until you leaned into him without needing to speak.

And he is so considerate and attentive AHHHHH. I am swooning.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” you said quietly.

“Too late.”

You lifted a hand to his face. Touched his cheek, thumb brushing the scar there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

“You’re here,” he corrected. “That’s not the same.”

This hit me so hard. And it’s so well delivered. Wow

“I’m carrying you to bed,” he said.

“I can walk.”

“Don’t care.”

Pleaseee he is just too hot. I am loving his boldness and stubbornness. It’s also so accurate!!

“Sorry,” he said, voice hushed, thick. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And he is so sweet and worried. I love it. He just wants to be here for her

You shifted your hand across his chest. Felt the hard flutter of his heart. Too fast for a man lying still.

This is actually so meaningful. I loved that. He is genuinely so full of concern 🥺 i am a sucker for that as bad as a person that might make me.

You nuzzled closer, burying your nose in the place just under his collarbone where the skin was softest. He let out a quiet sound when you did, like he hadn’t realized how much tension he was holding until you settled there.

This just healed me.

I love how you included so much of them simply cuddling and lying together under the covers. It’s content and intimite and I love the way they are communicating all throughout the fic. It’s real and healthy and authentic and it got me so moved. Thank you so much for blessing us with this lovely piece of art 💜💜

Margin of Error | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You skip the med bay after a mission that left you bruised and bleeding to keep Bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood, injury, self-treated wounds, dislocated shoulder, medical trauma, mentions of nerve damage, panic responses, protective!Bucky

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: been running on caffeine, stress, and the vague memory of sleep the past few days and wrote this instead of doing literally anything productive. i’ll probably regret it tomorrow but i’m sure you all will thank me for this. do something gentle for yourself today!

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The door clicked shut behind you, too loud in the hush of 3 a.m.

You winced, not from the sound but from the blooming ache along your ribs—a dull, thudding thing that had grown teeth somewhere between the quinjet and the car ride home. You hadn’t bothered with the med bay. You couldn’t. Not when you knew what it would trigger.

A simple scan, a single ping, and Bucky would know. No matter where he was. No matter what state or country he was in. The notification would be flagged priority, something about shared permissions and ‘partner alerts’. And you knew him, knew the way he’d abandon his own mission, skip debrief, tear across continents just to put eyes on you.

You couldn’t let him do that. Not again. Not after last time.

The scrape of your jacket zipper echoed through the apartment as you peeled it off. One shoulder dipped lower than the other, dislocated and popped back into place two hours ago with a groan and a tree trunk for leverage. Your shirt was tacky with blood. Not all of it yours, but enough that you didn’t want to think too hard about it.

The apartment was dark. Not just empty-dark, but heavy. The lights were off, blinds drawn, the kind of quiet that meant no one had touched the space in hours. Maybe days. You exhaled, shallow.

Good. He was still gone.

You padded through the kitchen barefoot, leaving a faint smear of red on the tile that you’d wipe up later. 

You opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers. Your grip was going. Blood loss, maybe. Or nerve fatigue. You weren’t sure.

You sipped. Swallowed. Braced your palm against the counter. Waited for the floor to stop tilting before heading to the bathroom.

First aid kit. Bathroom cabinet. Top shelf. You knew the drill.

The light over the bathroom sink flickered when you flipped it on. You stared at yourself in the mirror for too long, trying to make sense of what was staring back.

Dark circles. A bruised jaw. Dried blood crusted beneath your nose.

Not the worst you’d looked.

The pain flared as you bent down to grab a towel, wrapping it around your palm where a shard of glass had made itself a home just beneath the skin. Stupid mistake. Rookie mistake. You muttered under your breath, pulled open the bathroom drawer.

But the med kit wasn’t there.

Your brows furrowed. You checked the cabinet under the sink, then the one behind the mirror. Nothing. You opened the linen closet next, rummaging through shelves of folded towels and spare shampoo bottles, making too much noise—plastic rattling, wood creaking under your weight.

And then—

A sound pricked your ears. Soft, but unmistakable. A dull thud. Followed by the shift of a floorboard.

You stilled.

Every part of your body snapped back to attention, like it had only been waiting for an excuse. Your breath stilled in your chest. Blood surged hot through your ears.

Not an empty apartment.

You dropped the towel in your hand.

Your knife was still sheathed on your thigh. Part of you had forgotten it was there. But you reached for it without thinking, fingers locking around the hilt, thumb flicking the clasp. The steel was still warm from your body, the leather tacky with blood.

Another creak. Closer now.

You stepped back from the cabinet, blade drawn, posture squared—not wide enough to agitate any wounds, but firm enough to hold your weight. If someone had followed you home, if the mission had trailed into something worse...

A figure stepped into the doorway, framed by the soft glow spilling from the bathroom mirror.

Bucky was shirtless, barefoot. Half-asleep. Hair tousled. Eyes fogged with sleep but rapidly clearing. The moment he saw you—saw the blood, the blade, the way you were braced like an animal cornered—

He stopped short. Hands up, palms open.

“Hey, hey—baby, it’s just me.”

You didn’t lower the knife. You couldn’t move.

Because your brain couldn’t reconcile it immediately. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t home. He was supposed to be halfway across Eastern Europe dealing with something messy and classified and very much not here.

He took a few steps closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded thing that hadn’t decided if it needed help or if it still intended to bite.

You didn’t realize your breathing had gone ragged until he was in front of you, reaching out slowly. His left hand came up first, the metal one, movements practiced and calm, palm open. No sudden movements. The kind of control that came from too many years disarming bombs.

“Sweetheart, can I take it?” he asked quietly, eyes locked on yours, not the knife. “Please.”

You hesitated but, slowly, your fingers began to unfurl. The blade shook once, then slipped from your hand into his.

He caught it with care. Set it down on the counter beside you.

You tried to speak. Swallowed instead. Your throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere behind potentially cracked ribs.

“I thought you weren’t home till Friday.”

“Got back yesterday.”

“You didn’t—why didn’t you call?”

“I was gonna surprise you. I thought…” He trailed off, gaze lowering to your shirt, your side, the blood. “Christ.”

He stepped back like he couldn’t stand seeing it up close. Ran a hand down his face. Metal fingers scraped against his jaw.

You didn’t say anything. You just leaned on the wall like the exhaustion was catching up.

Bucky stared for a moment longer. Then, quietly, firmly, “Sit.”

“What?”

“Please sit down before you fall over.”

His voice was gentler this time. Not just quiet, but low in a way that coaxed more than commanded, like he was trying not to shatter whatever thread was holding you upright.

The porcelain was cold against your thighs as you lowered yourself onto the closed toilet seat, hands braced on either side of you, breath sharp through your teeth when your ribs caught against gravity.

Bucky knelt in front of you, the light from the mirror catching the jagged scar that ran from the edge of his collarbone to the meat of his shoulder.

His eyes flicked across your body, cataloging damage. That precision never left him. One look and he knew what was surface-level and what was deeper. His jaw flexed as he looked at the soaked side of your shirt.

He stood, moved fast, but quiet. Like he was afraid if he took too long you’d vanish or pass out or both. You watched him go., the broad line of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He moved like he was still halfway in a war zone, even barefoot in your shared apartment.

He was back before you had time to think about closing your eyes. Med kit in one hand, a fresh bottle of water in the other.

“Drink.” He held it out, waited until you took it.

You cracked the cap. Sipped. It felt colder than before. Or maybe your hands had gone hotter. Shaking again, too.

Bucky crouched in front of you, laying out supplies like it was muscle memory. He didn’t speak right away. Not until he’d pulled a pair of shears from the kit and slid the blunt edge beneath your shirt hem.

“Gonna cut this off you.”

“S'fine. Didn’t even like this one.”

A small sound escaped him—half exhale, half broken chuckle. “Still. Hate seein’ you in blood.”

The blade sliced clean. Fabric peeled away. He didn’t flinch at the wound beneath. Just cleaned it, steady and efficient. No dramatics. Just careful hands and the occasional furrow of his brow when you hissed between your teeth.

You weren’t watching the injury. You were watching him.

The line between his brows. The way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back. How his hands never hesitated, but his eyes never lingered too long either. Like looking too close made it worse.

Finally, after he’d flushed the gash and applied a waterproof bandage, he sat back on his heels. Rested his forearms on his knees. Looked at you.

“Why didn’t you go to med bay?”

Not angry. Not demanding. Just…there. A quiet question hanging between you.

You swallowed. Didn’t answer right away.

“I asked Hill to scrub my exit from the mission log,” you said eventually. “Went out through a side hangar. Didn’t even file my return time. Just…got in the car and came home.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not what I asked.”

You pressed the bottle to your lips again. It gave you something to do. Something to anchor you.

“If I showed up at med bay, it would’ve triggered the system,” you said softly. “Partner alert. You would’ve gotten pinged. Would’ve seen the scan, seen the treatment order, the vitals. You’d have thought—”

“I would’ve known,” he interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “That’s the point.”

You glanced at him. “And what would you have done, Buck?”

He didn’t answer.

You let the silence answer for him.

“You would’ve left wherever you were. You would’ve dropped everything. You wouldn’t have slept, or eaten, or breathed until you got back here. And I—I didn’t want that.”

He exhaled slowly. Ran his hand down his face again. You could tell it was habit, a tell. One of the few he hadn’t trained out of himself.

“I get it,” he said finally. “I do. But, baby…you don’t have to protect me from your pain.”

Your throat tightened.

“I wasn’t trying to protect you,” you said. “I was trying to spare you.”

His gaze lifted. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.” You shook your head. “One’s love. The other’s fear.”

He sat with that. Let the words settle. Then leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. 

“You don’t have to be strong when you’re home.”

“I wasn’t trying to be strong,” you murmured. “I was trying not to make you hurt with me.”

His hand came up, thumb brushing your cheek. The skin there was warm, too warm. Maybe a fever. Maybe just him.

“I’d rather hurt with you than without you.”

The words were quiet. Rough around the edges. But they landed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his metal hand settling carefully over your thigh. The weight of it made something in your chest loosen.

“I know what this life costs,” he said. “I’ve paid it too many times. I just—” His voice faltered. “I don’t want to get a message at two in the morning and find out you’re three floors underground across the world with a code red next to your name.”

You nodded once. Just enough for him to see.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, Buck.”

That seemed to ease something in him. Not all the way, but enough.

You reached for his hand then, the flesh one. Twined your fingers through his. They were still a little cold from rinsing off the blood.

He squeezed back.

“Come to bed,” he said.

“I should shower first.”

“I’ll help.”

You arched a brow. “Are you trying to make it sexy?”

He huffed a dry sound, shaking his head. “No. ‘M trying to make sure you don’t pass out standing up.”

Fair.

He squeezed your hand again, firmer this time. Then released it to kneel beside you, one hand steadying your knee while the other reached behind you to turn on the shower. The spray stuttered to life, sharp against the tile, steam already beginning to curl at the edges of the mirror.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a moment.

The idea of standing felt distant. Like something your body used to know how to do, but had since unlearned. Everything hurt. The kind of hurt that came with deep tissue damage, bone-bruising impact, whatever internal bruising you hadn’t dared look at too closely yet.

But Bucky was already moving.

He stood again, leaned over to the cabinet for a spare towel, then turned back to you with the kind of gentleness he never gave anyone else. Only you. Always you.

“Up we go.”

You braced your good arm on the counter and let him lift you—not because you couldn’t, but because fighting him on it would’ve taken more energy than you had. His arm wrapped around your back, careful to avoid your ribs. You leaned against him as he helped you to your feet.

The room felt too warm now. The steam was climbing fast.

“You got this?” he asked, voice low, right at your ear.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. “Just… slow.”

He nodded once and helped you shuffle toward the shower. He helped you peel what was left of your shirt off, eyes never lingering where they didn’t need to, hands always checking for resistance before moving again.

When your left arm jolted mid-lift, you hissed through your teeth.

Bucky stilled.

“What?” His voice sharpened, immediate.

“I—” You swallowed. “Popped my shoulder earlier. In the field. Had to get it back in before exfil.”

He went still.

“You did it yourself?”

You nodded. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you couldn’t quite raise above chest level now. You could see the gears turning in his mind—injury assessment, timeline, recovery window, potential complications.

“You could’ve torn the rotator cuff,” he said flatly. “Could’ve pinched the nerve. You dislocate at that angle and it severs the bundle near your clavicle, and you’re not just numb—you’re done. That’s a full paralysis risk.”

“I know,” you said, voice small. “I didn’t have another option.”

“There’s always an option,” he muttered, not at you, but to himself. “There should’ve been someone with you.”

“There wasn’t.”

You met his eyes. He looked away first.

He helped you out of the rest of your clothes in silence. Unbuckled the strap at your thigh. Peeled the blood-stiffened fabric down your hips, careful not to drag against any bruises. When you reached for the support bar to step into the shower, your fingers trembled.

Warm water slid down your spine. Over your ribs. Across the bruises you hadn’t seen yet. You stood there, letting it hit you, head tilted down, hair plastered to your skull. Blood spiraled at your feet. A rust-colored helix circling the drain.

“Here,” Bucky said quietly, stepping in behind you. His sweatpants were gone now, boxers too, but he kept to the far side of the stall until you leaned into him without needing to speak.

He took the body wash from the shelf, worked it into a lather with slow, circular movements. The scent was familiar—his, not yours.

He  worked around the bandages he’d already placed, avoiding the raw edge of the worst wounds. But when he hit the spot beneath your ribs, your breath stuttered.

His hand stilled.

“You breathing okay?”

You nodded.

He waited.

“…Mostly.”

“D’you think anything’s cracked?”

“No.”

“You feel tingling anywhere? Pins and needles?”

You nodded once. “A little in the fingers.”

He exhaled, pressed a slow kiss to the curve of your neck—not for comfort, not for softness, but something deeper. Like an apology. Like sorrow. Like grief at what you had to do just to make it back to him.

“You need to let someone run a scan,” he said, voice low against your skin. “Nerve damage can build. It gets worse over time. You’ll lose strength, coordination—”

“You know I hate the med bay.”

“I know.” He kissed your temple this time. “But I’d rather you go willingly than when I have to carry you there.”

That silence between you rang louder than before. Steam coiled around your bodies. Water ran down your spine.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” you said quietly.

“Too late.”

You lifted a hand to his face. Touched his cheek, thumb brushing the scar there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

“You’re here,” he corrected. “That’s not the same.”

You didn’t argue.

Because he was right.

He reached for the shampoo next, squeezing some into his hands and carefully working it through your hair. Gentle, slow circles. He tilted your chin back beneath the stream when it was time to rinse. You kept your eyes closed the entire time. Let him take care of you in all the ways you wouldn’t let anyone else.

When the water turned cold, he shut it off, wrapped a towel around your shoulders. Dried your arms like you couldn’t do it yourself. You let him.

He guided you out of the tub, hand firm on your waist.

“I’m carrying you to bed,” he said.

“I can walk.”

“Don’t care.”

He toweled off your hair a bit, ruffled it gently, and bent to press his lips to your sternum. As if he had to physically remind himself you were here, alive, still warm.

And then he picked you up.

Lifted you with both arms like it cost him nothing, though you knew his back probably ached from his last op, that he hadn’t even finished unpacking yet. You didn’t resist. Your arms looped around his neck, tucking your face into the place just beneath his ear.

The bedroom was dark, just like the rest of the apartment. He hadn’t turned on a single light since stepping out of the bathroom. 

He paused beside the bed, nudging the rumpled blanket back with one arm before lowering you gently onto your side. His touch was slow, like he was afraid too much movement might split something open again. Your breath hitched when your ribs protested the shift, and his hands stilled instantly.

“Sorry,” he said, voice hushed, thick. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer that. Just adjusted the pillows behind you, pulled the covers over you, then crawled in on the other side—not climbing over you like he might’ve on a normal night, not brushing it off with a flirt or a laugh. He took the long way around. 

You felt the mattress dip under his weight.

Then, the weight of his arm—the metal one—sliding under you. A tentative pause. Then the warmth of his other arm curling around your waist, hand settling just above the bandages he’d wrapped himself. 

You moved, leaned in, slow and instinctive. Let your head rest against his shoulder, your hand splay across the space between his ribs. He exhaled, and you felt it vibrate through his chest.

“Cold?” he asked quietly.

“A little.”

“‘Kay. Gimme a sec.”

He adjusted, drew you tighter, pulling the blankets closer around you both. His flesh fingers found the back of your neck and rubbed soft, slow circles there. He always ran warmer than you—something about his body trying to regulate the metal of his arm and the serum in his veins—and you leaned into it now, greedy for it.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

“I didn’t like waking up to you not being there,” he said softly. “Didn’t like the quiet.”

You blinked up at him.

“I thought you were asleep when I came in.”

“I was.” A short breath. “Too deep. Think that’s what scared me. That I didn’t hear you come in at first. That I wasn’t ready.”

“You don’t have to be ready all the time, Buck.”

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “I do when it comes to you.”

You shifted your hand across his chest. Felt the hard flutter of his heart. Too fast for a man lying still.

He swallowed. “You came home bleeding. And I didn’t feel it.”

“You were exhausted.”

“I was asleep.”

There was no self-forgiveness in his voice. Just something close to shame.

“You’re not a sensor,” you said gently. “You’re not a failsafe. You’re a person, Bucky. One who deserves rest.”

You nuzzled closer, burying your nose in the place just under his collarbone where the skin was softest. He let out a quiet sound when you did, like he hadn’t realized how much tension he was holding until you settled there.

You wondered if he ever truly relaxed when you were hurt.

“I didn’t want to come home like this,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. You felt him shift, just a fraction, enough that his hand could move from your waist to your back, the pads of his fingers drawing slow, idle lines across the blanket there. 

“I know,” he said.

You let the silence return for a moment. Let it press down, warm and clean and unsharpened. There were no bombs in this bed. No shadows behind the door. No mission timers running out.

Just his heartbeat. Your breath. The soreness in your limbs. The whisper of fabric between you.

“You know what’s weird?” you said, voice thin and drifting.

“Hm?”

“That I didn’t even think about you until I got back here.”

He went still.

“I mean, of course I thought of you. Not like that. But in the moment. The worst of it. When I realized I was bleeding and alone and probably too far from help—I didn’t see your face. Didn’t flash to you like some cinematic dying thought. I just got practical. Tactical. Kept moving. Like that part of me doesn’t exist until I stop.”

You heard his exhale. Long. Slow.

“That’s not weird,” he said finally. “That’s how you stay alive.”

You tilted your chin slightly, enough to look up at him. His face was shadowed in the dark, but you could see his eyes—open, fixed on the ceiling, lashes still wet from steam.

“That part of me scares me a little,” you admitted.

He didn’t flinch.

“I like that part of you,” he said.

You blinked. “You do?”

He nodded once, chin grazing the top of your head.

“I like all your parts,” he said, and somehow it didn’t sound even remotely flirtatious. “Even the brutal ones. The ones that patch bullet holes in the dark and walk three miles with a sprained ankle. I don’t want that to be the only version of you, but I’m not afraid of it.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just let the silence fall again.

It was strange—how quiet things got when you were together like this. How still he could be. For a man who used to breathe like every second was an apology, Bucky had become so good at silence. Not the brittle, tight-lipped kind. Not the silence that screamed with things unsaid.

This was something else.

This was simply presence.

His fingers drifted to your jaw. He traced a line up to your temple, brushed a damp strand of hair away from your cheek.

“You gonna let me take you to the med bay tomorrow?” he asked.

“Mmm.”

“That a yes?”

“It’s a we’ll see.”

He huffed out a breath. “I’ll take it.”

You shifted slightly, and the movement made something in your ribs twinge. He noticed. Of course he did. His hand immediately steadied you, thumb brushing the edge of your back.

“I keep thinking,” you said, “about how easily this could’ve gone the other way. That if I hadn’t found cover, if I’d been five seconds slower—”

“Don’t,” he said, quiet but firm.

You looked at him again.

“I do, too,” he said. “Every time you leave. I do. But if we live there—in the what-could’ve-happened—we won't make it back either.”

That shut you up.

Because he was right. And it was too true.

You curled tighter into him. Let your forehead rest beneath his jaw. Let his arms bracket you in completely. He didn’t hold too tight, didn’t smother. Just held. Like he’d learned exactly how to without squeezing the breath from your lungs.

“You gonna sleep?” he asked after a while.

“Not yet.”

He nodded. “Me either.”

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Poison of the Spotlight

Pairing: Security Guard!Bucky x Actress!Reader

Summary: Paparazzi have always been the part you hated about fame, but Bucky is there to shield you from the noise.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Paparazzi; media harassment; sensory overload; anxiety; themes of fame; public scrutiny; loss of privacy; protective Bucky

Author’s Note: As an actress myself, this was so interesting to explore. Thank you so much for the request, my love!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

You’re not sure when the crowd doubled in size but the second the venue doors open, it feels like the damn has broken.

Flashes go off like lightning, rapid-fire questions are hurled from all directions, voices overlapping.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the sound of your own name to be swallowed by a hundred voices, spat back out like chewed gum, mangled and glittering and meaningless. You hadn’t expected the bodies to press this close, to squeeze the air out of your lungs with their questions, their cameras, their hunger.

You are smiling because you’re supposed to. Because the dress is perfect and the makeup is flawless and your publicist said just thirty seconds of poses, baby, that’s all they need.

But it’s louder than you thought it’d be.

Hotter, brighter, closer than it should be.

A voice - a thousand voices - explode around you and you can’t tell where they’re coming from. You flinch as someone steps too close, as someone shoves another forward to get the best angle.

But he is here.

“Back up!” Bucky’s voice is suddenly louder than anything else. Firm and sharp. His arm is at your back and you feel the warmth of his hand at your shoulder blades.

A flash pops too close. A mic nearly clips your cheek.

“Hey, back up” Bucky snaps again, voice inpatient.

His hand winds around your waist, his body moving in calculated lines, his face stony and jaw tense.

He maneuvers you expertly, weaving you through the growing knot of bodies with one goal in mind: get you out.

He moves like a storm and a wall and a prayer all at once. He says your name but not like them. Not like a transaction.

You’ve only had him as your bodyguard for a few months now, but somehow, he’s managed to become the only thing in your life that makes sense when the noise gets too loud.

He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t ask for selfies. Doesn’t try to be your friend in the way most people do.

He just shifted in front of you without a word when you flinched at the flash of a camera the very first day. He noticed the way your hands shook after a press junket and handed you water before you asked. He called you by your name, not your character, not the headline version of you.

“Keep moving, sweetheart,” he now says quietly, calmly. As if he’s not being crushed by a wave of shouting strangers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You’re walking but you’re not walking - you’re being guided, steered, protected - his body forming a shield against the frenzied press of paparazzi. He’s bigger than you remember. Broader. He plants himself in front of you when the flashes come too fast. He catches your elbow instantly when you wobble in your heels, and you think he might actually tear someone apart if they touch you again.

You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat hammering under your skin.

You wonder if he hears the way your breath hitches in your chest.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, close to your ear.

You press into his side without thinking, head ducked as he leads you through the mess as though he’s cutting through a warzone.

He’s saying things - short, clipped words to security, to crowd control, to the driver - and then suddenly, miraculously, there’s the car. The door swings open like salvation and Bucky helps you inside, tucking you in with careful hands.

You take a deep breath as if you’ve just broken the surface of the ocean.

Bucky slides in beside you and pulls the door shut. The windows tint. The voices vanish. You feel your heart crashing in your chest, blood singing in your ears, your throat tight and dry and useless.

You’ve always hated this part.

Not the acting. Not the scripts. Not the lights on set or the long rehearsals or the hours spent curled up in a trailer memorizing lines. No. You love that part.

You love disappearing into someone else.

But the moment the cameras turn on you - when it’s your name and your face and your body they want - everything inside you clenches.

Paparazzi have always been the prize of admission. And you’ve never stopped resenting it. They’re everywhere. Always everywhere.

Outside the airport. Outside your home. Outside your life. Their lenses are long-range weapons and their questions are landmines. You can’t move without being watched. Judged. Picked apart as if you’re a crime scene.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun. It’s not part of the job like they always say it is.

It’s invasive. Intrusive. Violent, in a way no one talks about.

Bucky is looking at you.

“Hey,” he says, so soft you nearly miss it. “You okay, doll?”

His voice is honey and gravel and everything safe. His brow is furrowed, the lines around his mouth carved deep with concern. He looks as if he’s ready to go back out there and dismantle the crowd with his bare hands.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you answer in an exhale. “That was just-”

“Too much,” he finishes for you.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure. You feel out of place for a second.

“I should’ve stayed closer,” he says, jaw tight, voice firm and guilty. “I usually- damn it- I didn’t like the layout tonight. Too many press zones. Too many exits. I should’ve pulled you sooner.”

You shake your head at him, almost confused. “You were perfect Bucky.”

He stills.

You see the glimmer of something behind his eyes, something quiet and careful and maybe a little touched, like he’s not used to being told that. As if he doesn’t know how to believe it.

“I brought your water,” he says, as if needing to change the subject. His voice is rough. “And the bar you like. The one with the chocolate and honey.”

He reaches for the cooler under the seat as if he’s done it a thousand times, as if he knew you wouldn’t have time to eat, as if he made a checklist in his mind and checked it twice before the night began.

You take it from him. “You didn’t have to, Bucky,” you say, voice a little weaker than you’d want. But it sounds thankful.

Bucky exhales. “Nah, I did,” he counters easily.

He nods for you to go ahead and drink, as if he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but you see the way his fingers twitch, the way his shoulders don’t relax until you’ve taken a sip, taken a breath, looked at him as though you really are okay.

And you are. Because of him.

Because you’ve spent so long trying to armor yourself against a world that wants to consume you.

And then this man - this silent, serious, steel-spined man - walked into your life and made it his mission to be there for you. To make those situations as comfortable as they can get.

And maybe you fall a little in those moments.

Maybe you’re still falling now.

“I’m getting you something,” you say suddenly.

He blinks over at you, startled. “What?”

You turn toward him, straightening your back in your seat. “You’re always saving me. Protecting me. I need to thank you properly.”

Bucky’s ears go red almost immediately.

He shakes his head, gruff and sheepish all at once. “Nah, doll. You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” you counter fiercely. Fiercely enough that he genuinely looks a little shocked. “You’re the only reason I don’t lose my mind at these things.”

You see the way he swallows, the way he starts to shake his head, so you continue.

“I owe you something. I’m getting you- I don’t know, something big. A car, maybe. Do you need a new one? Or a vacation. You deserve a vacation.”

His eyes go wide. Wide and horrified and - bless him - so bashful.

“No- no, doll, you don’t have to-” he stammers, the words tripping over themselves like newborn deers. His usually so sharp cheeks turn the faintest, most beautiful pink. “You don’t have to do anything. M’ just doing my job.”

You stare at him. At the man who has blocked cameras with his body, shielded you from flying elbows, memorized the foods you like when you’re too stressed to eat.

You lean in, close enough to see the silver flecks in his blue eyes. Close enough to see his breath hitch.

“Let me spoil you a little, okay?” you press softly.

Bucky ducks his head as if he’s embarrassed. Mumbles something under his breath, eyes darting everywhere but to you.

“Come on, Barnes. You know you deserve it.” You smile at him, really smile, for the first time all night as it feels like.

Bucky releases an awkward, breathless laugh. And suddenly he doesn’t look so serious anymore.

Because you know that under all that steel and stubbornness and the wall he can be to shield you against the uncomfortable things of your job you can’t escape, he’s a real ass softy.

And you think, maybe the world outside can keep screaming.

Maybe the cameras can keep flashing.

Maybe the whole damn circus can keep spinning.

But as long as you have him, you'll be okay.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Wear My Heart

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Reader (Soulmate Au)

Summary: Bucky discovers his long-lost match in a client. But is he even meant to have you with the mark erased from his own body?

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: angst; loss of limb (non-graphic); prosthesis; PTSD; lots of self-worth issues; insecurities; mild reference to past violence (non-graphic); mentions of self-isolation; chronic loneliness; Bucky is going through some feels

Author’s Note: We had him as a tattoo artist yesterday and we have him as one today haha. This sweet request comes from my beloved tumblr husband! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

He sees you before you walk in.

A blur of reflection in the glass door, sunlight making your hair beam, fingers adjusting the strap of your bag.

The door opens.

He doesn’t look up right away.

Steve has booked this appointment under your name, and Sam had dropped too many hints over the past few weeks that you’d be coming in soon. Nat had rolled her eyes and told him flatly, that either he’d speak to you or they’d all die of secondhand tension.

So now you are here.

And he’s pretending not to care. Pretending to hear the buzz of the needle. The only thing that grounds him anymore. Pain turned into art. Wounds etched into skin like a creation. And he’s great at this because he’s better at translating pain than he is at speaking.

He prefers ink to people. Needles to names. He prefers silence.

“Bucky?” You’re saying his name as if it’s a question, like maybe you’re still not sure you’re in the right place.

He looks up.

And the moment your eyes meet, there is something inside him that flickers. Like a lightbulb that hasn’t been touched in years. Dusty. Forgotten. Still warm.

He nods. Just once.

You smile. Small. Polite. Nervous.

He doesn’t return it. Can’t.

Because your smile, although timid, is the kind of thing that stays with you - like smoke in his lungs. It fills the spaces where oxygen used to be.

He’s never properly spoken to you, but he’s seen you before - at Steve’s apartment, at Sam’s cookouts, in Nat’s too-casual Instagram stories where he already acknowledged how beautiful your smile is. How beautiful you are.

He remembers thinking you got a laugh like a sunrise, making darkness irrelevant.

He remembers thinking you’d never look at someone like him.

He remembers looking away.

He never said more than a word to you. Never trusted himself to.

You’re too good. Too light. And he’s not.

He knows you are out of his league. And maybe you didn’t even notice him. Maybe all the times he saw you - laughing in Steve’s kitchen, sitting cross-legged on Sam’s couch, reading some ancient paperback by the window - he was just a background blur in your story.

So he kept his distance.

It’s easier that way.

“Uhm, hey,” you start a little nervously, and he could kick himself. “I have a design I've been working on for a while. Steve said you might be the right artist for it.”

You hand him a sketch. He barely glances at it. His fingers don’t fumble but something in his chest does.

And then you move. Rolling your sleeve up. Exposing skin.

And Bucky stops breathing.

It takes a second for his mind to catch up. Another second to realize what he’s looking at.

But when it hits him - it hits.

Like an avalanche in his throat.

There, inked into the soft skin of your upper arm, is a mark he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

His mark.

The same symbol. The same twisted loops of black that curved into his skin when he was six years old. The same mark he stared at for years like it might offer answers. As though it could explain why he always felt like a half-finished sentence. As though it might lead him to someone whole.

It used to be on his left arm. Right over the muscle. He remembers tracing it absently during lectures, during subway rides, during troubled nights when he couldn’t sleep.

It disappeared the day he lost his arm. Gone. Stolen. Scrubbed clean as if he never had a soulmate at all.

He remembers crying - not for the pain, nor for the loss, but because the one thing that tethered him to hope, to someone, was just gone.

He decided then that he was meant to be alone. That fate had made a mistake. That maybe his soulmate was already dead. Or that she had moved on. Married someone else. Tattooed over the mark. Or worse, that the person meant for him would never find him, spending her life thinking she was alone. Marked for no one.

He wonders if you ever felt that way.

He wonders if you still do.

He keeps his face neutral. Professional. He’s good at this. But inside he is crumbling like never before. Collapsing. Splintering into a thousand broken pieces of before and after.

You are talking. He hears the cadence, the warmth, but the words are fog. All he can focus on is the mark. The one thing he never thought he’d see again.

And now you are standing in front of him. And you are real. And the mark is right there on your arm, the exact shape and size of the one that used to be his.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

You’re here. You’re real. You’re his.

And he says nothing.

He stares at it as if it’s a hallucination. But it’s not.

His lungs are tight, cold, hollow. He feels his prosthesis twitch, the phantom ghost of muscle memory in the one he lost.

“This is where I was thinking it would go,” you say, pointing gently to the space around the mark - your mark, his mark, both your marks - “I think it’s one of those soulmate mark things. I got it when I was six. My mom said she always believed in them, that one day I’d meet someone with the same mark. You know, something about being made to match.” You laugh a little awkwardly, tugging your hair behind your ear, probably wondering why you told him this.

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps staring.

You let out another awkward, breathless laugh. “I’ve never actually seen it on anyone else, though. Guess it’s just one of those things.”

Your words bruise him deeply.

He wants to scream. Wants to tell you everything. That you’re walking around unknowingly wearing his heart. That once, when he was a different man, that mark was the only beautiful thing left of him.

But his mouth doesn’t move. It’s dry.

Because how do you tell someone you lost the piece of yourself that was meant to find them?

What do you say to someone who doesn’t know they’ve been saving your life just by existing?

So he nods. Again. Always nodding. Always hiding.

He’s just the weird guy with the metal arm and the bad temper. The broody dude with a shop sitting behind a laundromat and too many shadows in his eyes. You don’t know that he’s been dreaming of you since he was a kid - before he lost everything but the pieces he could still carry in his chest.

You don’t know that he’s already met you in a hundred quiet ways.

Every time you laughed from another room. Every time he caught you humming while helping Steve cook. Every time Sam made a joke and you leaned in toward the warmth of it instead of away.

He almost speaks. Almost. But the words stick.

You don’t push. You sit. You trust.

And he works.

He sets up the station. Puts his gloves on, machine humming. He doesn’t make eye contact again for the rest of the session.

His fingers don’t shake but his soul does. He lets you sit close, lets you talk about what the design means to you and how long you’ve waited.

And all he wants to do is scream.

What do you say to someone who might run, if you told them the truth?

He tattoos the design carefully.

You wince once and his heart jumps like it wants to protect you from everything. He places his metal hand lightly on your shoulder. Usually, he avoids touch, but you don’t flinch.

That alone nearly destroys him.

You’re so close. Your heartbeat. Your breath. And he keeps thinking about the mark, about the fact that it once lived on his body. About how it had to be removed, torn away, for you to finally appear.

Maybe that’s what fate is.

Maybe it’s not a gentle thing.

Maybe it breaks you before it brings you what you need.

He is memorizing you.

Every breath. Every glance. Every shift.

It feels like something long buried is waking up inside of him. Something ancient. Something inevitable.

When it’s over, you thank him. You say it’s perfect. You pay and leave and smile and wave and tell him that you hope to see him at Steve’s soon and he stands there like a ghost.

He can’t tell you.

Maybe he isn’t even meant to tell you. Maybe fate’s hands were clumsy with him. Maybe it’s not that he lost the arm, or the mark, but that he was always meant to. Maybe that’s part of the story.

Maybe the universe never meant for him to find you. Only to know you exist. Only to touch what he could never keep.

Because what if he tells you?

You might look at him with those lovely wide eyes and smile, say finally, say yes.

But you might also tell him no, look at him with disgust, with disbelief, with disappointment that he is the one you get when you could have gotten someone so much better.

He can’t survive that. He knows it. The heart he stitched back together with flayed rope is easily able to snap when pulled too tight. He’s been holding it together with black thread and stubborn silence and ink. Ink. Always ink. The only thing that doesn’t lie.

He breathes as if he’s drowning. He thinks of your hand on his. The way you smiled. The way you trusted him without knowing why.

He didn’t see the way your eyes softened when he touched your arm. As though his hands were made of something other than metal and self-hatred.

He didn’t see how you leaned in a little closer when he spoke, how you tilted your head as if memorizing the sound of his voice.

He doesn’t see your hesitation at the door. The way you linger. The way you open your mouth to say more but then close it again.

He doesn’t see any of it because his mind is too loud. Too cruel. Too consuming.

It’s whispering to him, claiming that he’s not the man you were meant for. He lost his mark. He lost his right. This isn’t his story anymore.

Maybe the universe gave you the mark and took his, on purpose. Maybe it’s symbolic. Maybe it’s a warning.

Maybe you’re supposed to move on.

Maybe he is supposed to stay behind.

So he watches you go.

Only after the door clicks shut does he exhale.

He peels off his gloves with trembling hands. Walks to the back room. Opens the drawer he hasn’t touched in years.

There, under a stack of unused stencils and crumpled paper towels, is a single sheet. A sketch. Faded. Old. Drawn by hand.

The mark.

He lays it flat on the counter.

His chest feels like it’s holding a thunderstorm. Not lightning. No, that would be beautiful. There only are clouds that never break. Rain that never comes.

His eyes close.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself feel it. Everything. Hope. Fear. Longing. Grief. Wonder.

He presses his palm over the place where his mark used to be. Where his flesh used to be.

He found you. It’s you.

And you don’t know.

But he does.

He brushes his thumb over the lines of his sketch and thinks that he could love you.

That he already does.

And then he thinks, that maybe he was never supposed to.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Beneath the constellations

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Scared of needles!Reader

Summary: You are a needle-phobic but somehow agree to get a small, meaningful friendship tattoo with your best friends Darcy and Jane.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Needle phobia; mild panic; anxiety; physical discomfort; descriptions of a tattoo needle; nervous rambling; comfort

Author’s Note: This again is a request from one of my sweetest mutuals! I adore you, my dear and I hope you like what I did with your interesting and so creative idea ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Your knee is bouncing. Your heart is racing. The design is folded up in your hands - a little tattoo that is so simple, tiny, meaningful - but your palms are sweaty and you can’t stop assaulting the inside of your cheek with your teeth.

The walls of the tattoo parlor are soft with shadows. Dark navy paint. There is low music humming along but it’s not soothing anything inside you. Sterilization hangs in the air and there’s also ink and something smoky - cedarwood or sage. It stays at the back of your throat like a ghost you swallowed by accident.

The waiting room is actually pretty aesthetically pleasant but you feel like choking on your own spit.

The cold vinyl bench beneath you vibrates with your leg rapidly moving up and down and up and down.

“I can’t do this,” you mutter lowly. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

Darcy, sitting on your left, gives you a smile that doesn’t ease you at all. “You’re not getting open-heart surgery, babe. You’ve got to chill your beans.”

Jane, sitting on your right, grabs your leg to still its movement. She probably got annoyed at being shaken with the whole bench. “It’s so small, I’m sure you will barely feel it,” she tries to reassure you.

Darcy nudges you. “And it will stay on your body forever.”

“This is not helping at all, Darc,” you half whine, half grumble. “Can’t we just make this temporary, or something? Like, I don’t know, draw it on with a sharpie?”

“Hell nah,” Darcy complains. “This is for life,” she goes on, pointing wildly at all of you three. “We are going to seal the deal. Make it forever, officially.”

You want to laugh. Or scream. Or run. Or disappear.

A part of you thought this would be fine. That you could sit here like a normal adult with a normal nervous system and be needled with grace and honor. That the tattoo you promised you’d get with your best friends - the tiny one, the subtle one, the one you talked about under a summer sky, lying on your backs in a parking lot eating cold fries - would somehow feel like a small ceremony. Like something important.

Instead, your palms are damp and your stomach is a washing machine of dread and iced coffee. It turns round and round and round in circles, making you instinctively look for a nearby trash bin.

The door creaks open.

And then he walks in.

Bucky Barnes, according to the framed certifications on the wall. Also according to Darcy, who not-so-subtly whispered oh my god he’s hot when you walked in earlier and now leans in to your ear, to whisper “oh my god, he’s even hotter in person.”

He’s broad-shouldered and tall. Black tee, black jeans. Arms inked to the wrists in clean, complex lines. Geometric patterns like armor. You spot a white wolf curled around a blooming branch. A forget-me-not. The tattoo work is detailed. Almost luminous. An artwork of constellations on his skin, coiling like a secret he’s allowing the world to glimpse.

He looks at you.

You stop breathing.

“You ready?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

You make a sound that might be English. Might be a prayer. Might be a dying animal.

He blinks, then smiles. Just a little tug at the corner of his lip.

“Maybe one of you should go first,” you say to your friends quietly, voice barely hanging on.

“It’s not the gallows, babe,” Darcy muses, nudging you again.

“I know, but I-”

Jane cuts you a dry look, interrupting. “You made us matching Google Calenders for this.”

“I was drunk on sentiment and pinterest,” you argue but it’s useless.

“No stalling. You can’t back out now.“

“I’m not backing out,” you grumble. “I’m delegating the trauma.”

But they’re not moving. Not budging.

You indignantly get up. Slowly. Darcy leans over and smiles sharply, mischievously. “Hey, just ask if you can hold his hand during the act.”

You choke. On air. On dignity. On the sudden imagine of his fingers wrapped around yours. And you’re up, throwing her a last glare that lacks all the heat.

You turn to Bucky and he is full-on smirking now. Though his voice is not mocking.

“We can take our time,” he says gently, and gestures toward the door that will, as you can imagine, lead you to the torture chamber. Yes, that’s dramatic. Yes, you don’t care. Yes, you are spiraling.

After sending your friends a panicked look and them not that supportively giving you thumbs up in return while grinning brightly, you follow him as if you’re approaching your own funeral.

You walk like you’re made of wires and wet paper. Trailing behind him into the back room, your chest beating out the morse code for panic.

The chair is deceptively comfortable. Everything is clean and neat and doesn’t smell scary but your heart is beating so loud, you think it’s bruising your ribs.

He sits down on a stool, brings it closer to you with one hand, and adjusts his gloves. He moves slowly, most definitely for your sake.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he says, soft and even. “You’d be surprised how many people get nervous.”

You inhale. Exhale. Fail.

“I’m Bucky,” he says easily, glancing at you with eyes the color of melted steel and winter storms. You give him your name and he smiles. “What are we doing today?”

You fumble with the paper in your hands, clumsy movements lifting it to show him.

It’s stupid, honestly. Three tiny constellations in a delicate arc. Only a little bigger than a thumbnail. Barely enough to be called a tattoo.

He leans closer to look. His knee brushes yours and you hold your breath.

“I know it’s small. It’s dumb. I mean, not dumb, like-”

Bucky waits.

Silent. Patient. The corner of his mouth tilts up.

“It’s three constellations.” The words tumble out of you, messy and fast. As if trying to explain your favorite dream to a stranger who wasn’t there. “Mine, Jane’s, and Darcy’s. We got stranded once during a road trip, out in the middle of nowhere, and the car battery died. So we laid on the hood, freezing our asses off, and waited for a tow truck under this crazy clear sky. Jane started pointing out stars and we found our constellations. And we just talked. About everything. So we-”

You stop.

Because you’re talking too much. Because your face is hot. Because he’s watching you as if he’s listening.

And Bucky only smiles. Just this small, warm curve of his mouth that feels like praise.

You blink too hard. Look down at your hands.

“It’s silly.” You just can’t help explaining yourself. “I know it’s barely anything. And it’s not even a real design, really. I’m not even supposed to be here, I mean-”

You stop again. Press your lips together.

He’s still looking at you. Calm. Not judging. Not laughing.

“You were saying?” he asks, voice quiet.

You breathe in a shaky breath.

“I’m scared of needles,” you admit embarrassed. “Like. Deeply, irrationally scared. I had to get a flu shot once and almost took out the poor nurse with my bag.”

Bucky huffs out a short and amused laugh, but his eyes are genuine and sympathetic. He nods like that’s the most normal thing anyone’s ever said.

“It’s not dumb, sweetheart. Nor is it silly.” You’d be on the floor if you were standing up. “I like it,” he says earnestly. “Three stars. Three best friends. Kind of poetic.”

“Yeah, it’s-” you stammer. “It means a lot to us.”

“That’s nice to hear.” His eyes rake over you so intensely, so sincere. “Some of the best tattoos I've done were barely the size of a freckle.”

You don’t know if he’s saying this to make you feel better, but either way, you are not sure it helps.

You feel like your skin is trying to slip off your body.

He opens the packaging with quiet and sure movements that still seem to be a little slower than he would probably be normally.

“I tattoo six-foot-tall dudes who pass out cold,” he starts soothingly. “You’re sittin’ here, scared, and still doing it. That’s brave.” He says it so simply.

You stare at him. Try to believe it.

“May I?” he asks, looking up at you, and gesturing toward your arm.

You nod. Too fast.

He reaches out carefully like you’re glass and holy.

His fingers are warm. Gentle. He adjusts your wrist, turning it slightly toward the light. It feels like gravity has shifted. Like the earth tipped a little, just to watch this happen.

His thumb brushes against the inside of your forearm, where your pulse is having a complete existential crisis. His touch might be absentminded but it sparks something that goes way too deep. A tremor. A stormcloud. A sigh under your skin.

“Right here okay?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The needle glints in the light like a tiny sword ready to tear apart your skin.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say honestly, voice a little unstable. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He chuckles under his breath and his smile changes, gets softer, younger.

You let out a breath. Try to remember the sky that night, the way the stars felt close enough to kiss. But there’s something else you’d rather kiss right no-

“I’ll go slow. And I’ll be gentle. Promise,” he says, almost under his breath. “Just breathe.”

You nod. Let him see the fear. Let him see you choose it away.

He turns on the machine. Your hand is shaking. The buzz rings in your ears.

He touches your arm again. Carefully. Steadying you. Taking in an exaggerated breath for you to follow.

“Tell me if you need a break,” he states softly, but there is something else in his tone. “Or, you know. If you want to hold my hand.”

You freeze. Not sure if you heard that right. Your brain is a flock of birds flapping around your skull.

“I- What?”

He smiles. Not teasing. Not smug. It’s soft. It’s kind.

“Some people do better with a distraction,” he says like it’s no big deal. So casual, but his undertone makes you promise yourself to punch Darcy Lewis later on.

You stare at him for a second too long, not sure if he is even serious. You feel like you’ve been thrown into a different body. One that’s nervous and melting and acutely aware of every square inch of air between you.

His palm lays open as an invitation. Looking so soft and callous at the same time.

“Can you even do this with one hand?” you ask cautiously.

He smirks. “You bet I can, darling.”

After a patient moment, you reach out, fingers finding his, and he shifts just enough to meet you halfway. His grip is loose and open, letting you decide how much to hold on.

And you do. Not tight. But not soft either.

It’s safe.

He starts.

The needle meets your skin sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t feel unbearable. You’re too focused on the fact that you’re literally holding hands with the hottest guy you’ve seen in a long while. Maybe ever. His thumb has started tracing circles on the back of yours.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Minutes stretch and snap and vanish but then it’s over.

The buzz stops. The silence blooms around you.

You blink down at your wrist, skin warm and reddened and wrapped in something tiny and starborn. Three constellations, nestled close.

He wipes it gently, thumb brushing away excess ink with a kind of care that makes you want to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. Quiet. Like it’s just for you.

You don’t even realize he’s still holding your hand until he gives it a squeeze and pulls away to grab a mirror.

You almost say wait.

He places the mirror in your hand.

Your breath is lost somewhere deep when you look down at your inked skin. It’s so small. So perfect. Exactly what you hoped for, only softer now. As if it’s always been there. Meant to stay forever.

You glance up at him.

His eyes are warm. Curious. “Took it like a champ,” he says.

You shrug, a little shyly. “I didn’t faint. So that’s a win.”

He lets out a low chuckle. The sound does things to you.

“I’ve seen people pass out from paper cuts. You’re fine,” he assures.

You don’t know what to do with that or the heat pooling at your neck, so you look down again. Tracing the constellations with your eyes like you’re learning to read a new kind of language.

“Thank you,” you offer, and it’s not just for the ink. It’s for the kindness. The patience. The hand-holding. The compassion. “I love it.”

“No need to thank me, darling.”

He takes a few more moments studying you before peeling off his gloves and standing up.

You stand too. Your legs wobble a little, traitorous and unsure, and his hand hovers near your back.

You don’t say anything.

But you feel it.

All of it.

The warmth.

The hush.

The stars, still burning softly beneath your skin.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Hello love, this is me @marvelstoriesepic ♡

Omg help me I am ACHING!! 😭 the emotional core is so strong, i was lost in my feels and AHHHH I am swept away 💜 I always get so sad when Bucky is insecure about himself, but ugh you wrote his feelings so well and how he grapples with them and tries to come clean but then doesn’t.

Let me just dive a litte deeper into my feels:

If Bucky were a braver man, a better man—one that wasn't weighed down by his history and remorse—maybe he would have told you. Maybe, in another life, Bucky would have charmed you at first sight, claiming you as his before the day could even end. But for now, Bucky was glad to settle for this—for sharing a quiet moment with you, and to bask in your company as though he were worthy of even a fraction of your attention.

Gosh, this got me good. Cracked me open with this. It’s also so accurate, like, that’s totally him. I can picture him thinking like that so well. But it still makes me so sad for our poor guy 🤧

Bucky knew Steve was right—he was being an idiot. A coward, even. It was his own damn foolishness that had kept him avoiding you for weeks, skipping your morning spars, slipping out of any room you occupied before you could even notice his presence. All because he couldn’t handle the feelings that had taken root in his chest, the one that was growing stronger by the minute, infiltrating deeper into his system every time you so much as looked his way.

Oh I get that so much, he's so relatable. And ahh he just can’t deal with all thatnlove in his chest. Has me a little giddy as wrong as it feels lmao

You laughed at his response—a wry, sarcastic laugh that was void of even the smallest hint of your usual warmth. “Then what other possible reason could you have for avoiding me, Bucky? Hm?” Your head turned towards him, and for the first time that night, Bucky finally saw the telltale sign of tears in your eyes, a glassy sheen that erased any remnant of the wits that Bucky had grown to know and love.

Oh I would feel the same way as her. You write all of this so real and authentic omg. I get that feeling so much.

How could I hate you when you are the only source of light I have remaining in this world? How could I hate you when loving you is the only thing about my life that I am absolutely certain of?

AHHHHH MY HEART!! I AM SWOONING!!! Please, this is all I need, all I'm asking for 🤩

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was begging—whether it was you, the universe, or any higher divine power that might have heard his wretched prayer and taken pity on him. A man who had lost everything and asked for nothing, who was now asking for someone—anyone—to save the only thing in this world that made his life worth living, even if it meant having to sacrifice his soul in exchange.

My emotions are sitting in a rollercoaster wow. I can’t take it. My heart will give out. I feel so bad for him omg. Love, what are yoe doing to me.

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice stammered. “God, I love you—I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much.” He pressed his lips against your clammy forehead, again and again, as though he could tether you here, as though his love alone could be enough to keep you from slipping away.

I love how he repeats himself. He held it in for so long and now he can’t stop saying it 🥺 I am aching so bad. This is so tragic, but so beautiful

God, he should have just told you—should have braced past his insecurities and found the courage somehow, should have showered you with every drop of love he had neatly stowed in his heart until he was shriveled and had no else to give. He should have bought you flowers everyday, let you know that you were the most beautiful person Bucky had ever met on this goddamn planet—because you deserved it.

Oh he's carrying so much guilt. It pains me so much. But ahh I am so sure he will shower her with his love and affection and flowers in the future (I am not acceptinger her to be dead). He will literally be the perfect boyfriend, I just know it.

Love, this was awesome! The pacing was amazing, and the YEARNING was just so damn good. His feelings felt so genuine and all their actions were so relatable. It was such an experience to read omg. Thank you so much for this masterpiece. You write in such details, that’s truly a gift. It grounds the scenes so well and amplifies the emotional atmosphere. I felt everything so vividly.

I saw you made a sequel to this and I sure will have to dive into it as well 🤭💜💜

Before I Could Say It

This fic can be read as a standalone or as a prequel to After I Was Too Late.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky almost confessed his love to you, and the one time he finally does.

Word Count: 5.9k

Warning(s): can be read as gn!reader bcs I didn't use any gender-specific words (pls advise me if this isn't true). canon divergence. no use of Y/N. use of the nicknames sugar and sweetheart. insecure thoughts. bucky feeling like he's not good enough. unrequited love (or is it?). alcohol consumption. a bit hurt/comfort. profanities. use of weaponry, including but not limited to guns and knives. depictions of violence, blood, injuries, and murder. (near) death experience. angst. fluff. open ending.

Author's Note: Hii guys. I know I should be focusing all of my energy on Faithfully Yours right now, but I had the idea for this story and just couldn't pass it up!! We have a bit of an open ending here. I wasn't planning on making a part two but I'll see what the general consensus say and will decide whether or not a part two is due from the responses. anywayy hope you enjoy this one xx don't forget to comment, like, and reblog!!

When Bucky tried to think about the beginning, his mind always drew a blank.

It had been five years since the first time destiny orchestrated your paths to cross, six if one were to count the one-year cryogenic sleep that Bucky spent in Wakanda. The Soldat met you first, back when you, Steve, Sam, and Nat fought him on that highway shoot-out that revealed his identity. After that, you were everywhere—in Bucharest with Steve to coax him out of hiding, on the tarmac battle where you went against half of your own family for his sake, and even in Wakanda, where your eyes became one of the last pairs he saw before his body succumbed to the unforgiving clutches of darkness.

And when he was finally woken up, you were there, too, waiting for him.

Since then, Bucky struggled to remember a time when you weren't there. You supervised his deprogramming in Wakanda, becoming Steve's eyes and ears while the Captain roamed the world as both a fugitive and a vigilante. When the Sokovia Accords turned void, and the scientists in Wakanda assured Bucky that his mind wasn't going to betray his heart anymore, you took him back to New York, offering solace in the form of your warmth pressing against his side on the plane ride to the States. 

Even once the two of you landed on the compound's grounds, you never strayed too far—standing between Bucky and a begrudging Tony as if you were ready to launch yourself forward should the billionaire try to do anything untoward. As if the ruthless Winter Soldier needed a human shield to prevent him from shattering into fragile little pieces.

Before Bucky knew it, his entire routine—his entire life—became you.

From your morning spar sessions in the gym, the long walks around Brooklyn in the afternoon, to the weekly movie nights that you roped him into in the name of reacquainting him with pop culture—everything in Bucky’s life started to shape and smell like you. 

It was a constant. 

You were Bucky’s new constant.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky’s little troublemaker of a heart decided, once and for all, to anchor itself to yours.

True to his fashion, Steve was the first person to notice. All of the lingering touches and longing glances, the hard-etched lines of Bucky’s countenance that seemed to soften every time you were near—they spoke of an affection beyond a mere loyalty one might harbor for their teammate. It spoke of love, one that was so unadulteratedly pure and raw that Steve was sure there was no room left in the crevices of Bucky’s heart where a piece of you didn’t reside in.

“You’ve gotta say something, Buck,” Steve said to Bucky one evening.

The two of them were standing in the convention hall of a lavish hotel deep in the heart of Manhattan, surrounded by a guestlist of people that Bucky was assured were some of the most influential figures of the twenty-first century. People tried to swarm him since the moment he entered the party, shoving business cards to his face and dropping names that Bucky knew should have meant something to him. He paid none of them any mind—not when his eyes immediately found you in that sea of ties and ball gowns, just like a moth enticed to a flame.

You were all dolled up for the night, wearing a fancy little number that screams you if only with a little bit of additional sparkles sprinkled on top. Bucky watched you move through the ocean of people, confidence oozing out of every step, a blinding smile as you received each handshake with an indisputable poise. Bucky’s head whipped towards your direction at every echo of laughter, searching for the source, drinking in your infectious glee as if it were the only way to sustain the rhythmic beating of his heart.

Bucky shifted in his feet, Steve’s unprompted advice forcing him to tear his eyes away from where you were standing by Natasha’s side. The blond beside him smiled knowingly, a teasing yet sincere tilt in his voice as he added, “You’ve gotta tell at some point, pal. Better sooner rather than later.”

The line in Bucky’s jaw ticked. He brought the glass of champagne to his lips, tipping the drink back as though the liquid stood a chance against his enhanced metabolism. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Buck.”

“Punk.”

The Captain sighed, reaching for a drink of his own. “At least ask for a dance, will you?”

Before Bucky could register what was happening, Steve had shoved Bucky forward, sending him stumbling forth towards the direction of your canorous laughter. Steve hid his amused smile behind his drink when Bucky flipped him the finger, the latter continuing his steps on wobbly feet, trying to ignore the pounding travelling up his bloodstreams.

“Hey, Bucky,” you greeted as soon as he had reached you. The smile on your face could rival the sun even on its brightest day, and Bucky prayed to every divine being in the universe that he could be on the receiving end of that smile for the rest of his days.

“Barnes.” Natasha nodded. 

“Hey, guys. What’s up?” Bucky attempted a smile, tugging at the ridiculous material of his bow tie that Tony had insisted him to wear. In fact, Tony was the one who forced Bucky to attend this whole shindig in the first place—something about showing a united front to prove to the public that there was no bad blood within the Avengers’ team. 

It was a shit ton of bullshit, in Bucky’s opinion.

But at least, the party gave him a chance to see you all dressed up to the nines.

“Nothing much.” You shrugged, tilting your head slightly to the side. “Did you need something?”

“No. I mean, I do. I was, um, wondering—” Bucky cleared his throat, “—I actually wanted to see if you’d care to join me for a dance?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Natasha’s eyes widen slightly. The redhead immediately scurried to the side, feigning interest in the tower of chocolate fondue just a couple of feet away.

Bucky’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest when you extended your palm towards him. “I would love to, Buck. Lead the way.”

Your fingers emitted warmth inside his hand, and for a moment, Bucky faltered. He kept his composure enough to guide you through the sea of couples on the dancefloor, willing the erratic thumping in his chest to quieten down as he pulled you flush against his body. The scent of your perfume slithered through the air, filling Bucky’s lungs, attacking each part of his senses until everything Bucky saw, heard, smelled, and felt was you.

“You look beautiful tonight, Sugar.”

The admission tumbled from his lips before Bucky had a chance to stop them, before he could thoroughly process the implications of such candor. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, your persistent smile widened ever so slightly, your eyes twinkling under the glimmering lights of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

“Why, you look plenty dashing yourself, Bucky.” You hummed appreciatively, raking your eyes up and down Bucky’s suit-clad figure. “I must say, I was sad to see your long hair gone, but this looks great as well.”

Your fingers skimmed the hard contour of Bucky’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps on their wake, before sneaking through the short tendrils on the nape of his neck. He fought off a groan at the contact, the heavenly feeling of your fingers tugging at his hair sending shivers all throughout his body. Meanwhile, you were still smiling up at him all sweetly, completely oblivious to the rush of heat that you delivered through Bucky’s entire being.

“Sugar,” the nickname fell off Bucky’s lips in a low grunt, and for the first time that night, your composure staggered. 

Your breath hitched around a squeak when Bucky managed to tug you closer, circling his arms around your waist until there was barely room for air between both of your bodies. All around you, the world ceased to exist. The only thing that remained were your bated breaths, a raucous disruption through the electric field buzzing between where you and Bucky were pressed against one another. 

“I need to tell you something,” Bucky revealed, his voice low and sheer, stripped by unease and something akin to fear. 

Your forehead furrowed, undoubtedly sensing the trepidation shining out of the blue of Bucky’s eyes. “What’s the matter, Buck?”

Your palm landed on his stubbled cheek, and Bucky had to fight the urge to lean in, to chase more of your warmth like you were an oasis in the middle of his desert of a life. He grappled for the confession to come, for the feelings in his chest to solidify into something comprehensible. All Bucky had to do was open his mouth and seize the moment.

But just as quickly as it had arrived, the moment splintered through his fingertips.

“Good evening, everyone!”

Bucky's whole body jerked in surprise, his accusatory eyes instantly finding the MC standing on the stage at the front of the room. The music had stopped, replaced by the MC's welcoming remarks addressed towards a dozen supposedly prominent names that Bucky couldn't care less about.

“Hey, let's go find a seat,” you suggested, circling your tender fingers around Bucky's wrist before leading him through the maze of tables.

The two of you sat down just in time for Tony to deliver his opening speech as a representative of the Avengers. You glanced at Bucky in the middle of Tony's heartfelt sentiment about “shaping the future”, your hand finding Bucky's flesh one on his thigh, unaware of the kind of turmoil you have summoned from a single touch.

“You okay, Bucky?” you asked, squeezing his hand. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

I wanted to tell you that I love you, Bucky's heart echoed. I don't know when it started, and I don't know how, all I know is that you're every good thing that I have going on in my life.

Bucky's throat tightened.

He never ended up saying the words out loud. Instead, he smiled thinly. “It's not important, sweetheart. I'll tell you later.”

You assessed him curiously before offering him a small smile and directing your attention back towards the stage. Bucky sighed in the aftermath, feeling the wild beating of his heart settled to a normal one.

And just like that, the truth died on the tip of his tongue.

Weeks passed, and between countless briefings, missions, and reports, Bucky was forced to push all matters concerning his heart to the side. It wasn't easy, not when you occupied every facet of Bucky's otherwise monotone life. Every waking moment was a painful reminder that you were always within reach, but never close enough for him to have.

Following a successful infiltration into an illegal bio-weapon factory in the outskirts of Poland, the team had landed their jet on one of the safehouse grounds somewhere near the border of Poland and Germany. Natasha and Clint disappeared inside the house immediately upon landing, while Sam and Steve stayed on the quinjet to go over a few intels they had managed to gather from the factory.

Bucky's boots scraped softly against the grass as he crossed the distance towards the small lake just a few yards left to the safehouse. The surrounding trees rustled in the wind, a symphony of reds and oranges beneath the solemn autumn sky. On the shore of the lake, Bucky found you sitting, a rare serene look on your face as you closed your eyes to welcome the impending breeze.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted, eyes still shut tightly.

“How'd you know it was me, Sugar?”

“I always know when it's you.”

The moment your eyes opened, Bucky's heart stuttered in its cage. The smile you rewarded him was soft, embellished with a tenderness that a man of his repute would never deserve. He knew he should have looked away, but the selfish part of him wanted to hold your stare in place, to relish in your kindness no matter how much he believed he wasn't worthy of it.

“Come on, sit with me.”

You patted the ground next to you, and Bucky obeyed without further questions. He lowered himself on the grass, damp from the lingering chill of autumn air, and stretched his legs out. For a while, neither of you spoke, opting to enjoy the sound of water lapping lazily against the shore, a stark tranquility to the horrors you faced during the mission earlier.

The sky dimmed a tad darker as the sun ducked behind the cover of trees, leaving behind streaks of purple and gold on the horizon. Beside him, you heaved out a sigh, the remnants of sun casting your skin in an ethereal glow.

“Sometimes I wish moments like this could last forever,” you murmured.

Bucky's eyes slid towards you, studying the contours of your face like a historian would an ancient scripture. His fingers twitched, itching to feel every soft and hard edge of your features under the brush of his touch. 

You're the only thing in this world I want forever with.

The words resonated in his head and all the way down to his chest, settling like stone sinking underwater, slow and heavy. He almost said it out loud—nearly laid his heart bare for you to judge and scrutinize. But at last, he fabricated a grin and nudged his shoulder playfully to yours.

“You always get sentimental when you're tired,” he joked.

You laughed heartily at his jab, a melodic thing that wrested at every coil of Bucky's heartstrings. The two of you proceeded to watch the sunset together, the silence stretching between you, warm and comfortable. The sky burned in more explosions of hues, casting its reflection upon the lake like a dream neither of you dared to disturb. 

If Bucky were a braver man, a better man—one that wasn't weighed down by his history and remorse—maybe he would have told you. Maybe, in another life, Bucky would have charmed you at first sight, claiming you as his before the day could even end. But for now, Bucky was glad to settle for this—for sharing a quiet moment with you, and to bask in your company as though he were worthy of even a fraction of your attention.

For now, Bucky would let the four-letter word wither inside him, locked in a hidden fissure somewhere within his chest, keeping it safe from ever seeing any light of day.

Days flew by, and it was getting increasingly harder for Bucky to ignore the way his heart gravitated towards yours, to ignore the fact that you were always the first person he searched for in the morning and the last one he wanted to talk to before falling asleep. To pretend like the mere mention of your name didn't send a jolt that revived his entire being. Every single day was a battle between wish and logic—the unruly desire to make you his, and the rational reluctance of dragging you into the mess that was his life.

“This is getting ridiculous, Buck,” Steve said as he leaned back against the bar right next to Bucky, following the latter's eyesight to find you standing at the end of it. “You're just gonna avoid it forever? An eternal silent treatment? The two of you need to talk, whether you like it or not.”

Bucky inhaled a long breath, swirling the Asgardian mead in his glass without ever taking his eyes off you. It was your birthday—a joyous occasion that called for this merry yet intimate celebration with the entire team. The common room of the compound had been transformed into something warm and inviting, lit by the soft glow of string lights draped along the walls. A cake sat on the counter, half-eaten, its candles long blown out, but the remnants of your laughter from when you made your wish still lingered in the air.

From across the room, Bucky watched as Sam teased you about getting older, earning the bird-man a playful swat on his arm. Wanda handed you a small, neatly wrapped gift, and your eyes lit up in a way that made Bucky’s chest ache. He didn’t know what was in the box. He didn’t really care. All he knew was that he wanted to be the reason behind that breathtaking smile of yours.

And then, your eyes lifted.

The eye contact was fleeting. Brief. Gone by the time Bucky realized what was happening and forced his gaze away. Even then, Bucky still caught the hint of surprise as your eyes found his, replaced almost immediately by a longing that Bucky understood all too well. It clutched onto his heart, sinking its sharp nails until the life organ in his chest was bruised and brutally torn apart.

The Captain sighed. “You're being an idiot, pal.”

Bucky knew Steve was right—he was being an idiot. A coward, even. It was his own damn foolishness that had kept him avoiding you for weeks, skipping your morning spars, slipping out of any room you occupied before you could even notice his presence. All because he couldn’t handle the feelings that had taken root in his chest, the one that was growing stronger by the minute, infiltrating deeper into his system every time you so much as looked his way.

The party was still in full swing by the time Bucky decided to retire for the night, forgoing the goodbyes, heading straight to the elevator that took him back to his quarters. It was a few hours later when a clumsy knock sounded against his door, breaking through the quiet that had settled in his room.

“Sugar?”

Bucky's hand clenched around the door handle, his eyebrows knitting together at the sight of you in front of his bedroom.

“Hi, Buckyyy,” you greeted, your words slurring into uncontrollable giggles.

 Understanding dawned on Bucky's shoulders. “Sweetheart, are you drunk?”

“Am not!” You huffed, pushing past a stunned Bucky to enter the bedroom. 

You looked around for a moment, humming to yourself every time you came across a familiar token that decorated Bucky's room. There was a photo of you and him on the nightsand, a sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge courtesy of Steve hanging on the wall, and a few vinyl records stacked neatly on the shelf, gifted by various members of the team. At last, your steps halted beside the bed, and without a warning, you dove head first into the mattress, chuckling to yourself as you attempted to make snow angels with his blankets.

“This is sooo niceee,” you mused, burying youself deeper into one of Bucky's pillows. “Smells like you, Buck.”

The super soldier tried not to dwell too much on the sight of you lying on his bed, looking like you had always belonged in the same place that Bucky took his rest. A shiver ran down Bucky's spine as he closed the door behind him, his feet quiet against the carpeted floor before he took a tentative seat on the edge of the bed.

“Sugar?” Bucky took your shoulders in his grasp, turning you around until his eyes locked with yours. His heart staggered. “You wanna get back to your room? I could take you.”

His offer made you sit up in seconds, so fast that Bucky feared you might have given yourself a whiplash. He stared at you as your lips trembled, your whole body turning away from him until you were just a breadth out of his reach.

His fingers contracted in grief.

“Hey, Sugar? What's—”

“Why do you hate me?”

Silence.

Bucky's forehead creased in confusion.

“Hate you?” Bucky tasted the accusation on his tongue—the word being so foreign and farfetched from anything he could associate with you that Bucky had to wonder if he had misheard what you spoke. “Sweetheart, I don't hate you.”

“Liar.” You scoffed, scooting towards the foot of the bed, seemingly adamant to draw as much distance as possible between Bucky and yourself. “You have been avoiding me for weeks. You don't want to talk to me, or do anything with me. You hate me.”

Bucky blinked, stunned into momentary silence before shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the sheer absurdity of your words. “That’s not true,” he murmured, his voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to regret.

You laughed at his response—a wry, sarcastic laugh that was void of even the smallest hint of your usual warmth. “Then what other possible reason could you have for avoiding me, Bucky? Hm?” Your head turned towards him, and for the first time that night, Bucky finally saw the telltale sign of tears in your eyes, a glassy sheen that erased any remnant of the wits that Bucky had grown to know and love.

His stomach churned.

Guilt was eating at him alive. He couldn't believe that his stupidity had caused this—that he had hurt you due to his own incapability of controlling his emotions. Bucky didn't know what he was thinking when he decided that the best course of action would be to completely evade you, but he certainly didn't think that it would result in this.

With you, sitting on his bed, crying your eyes out while simultaneously breaking Bucky's heart in the process.

Bucky exhaled sharply, as if the weight of his own remorse was pressing down on his chest. He couldn't stand it—the way your shoulders quivered, the way you tried so desperately to keep your composure together as tears welled in your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he rasped, reaching for you, his fingers hesitant at first before firming in resolve. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

You stiffened at his touch, your lips parting as if to protest, but Bucky was already pulling you into his embrace, holding you tightly against the muscular panes of his chest. His hands skimmed soothingly along your back, whispers of sweet nothings falling from his lips as he rocked you in the safety of his arms.

“I don't hate you, Sugar,” he murmured, voice shattering around the edges. “I've never hated you. How could I?”

How could I hate you when you are the only source of light I have remaining in this world? How could I hate you when loving you is the only thing about my life that I am absolutely certain of?

Your breath hitched against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Bucky—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing his lips to your temple in a featherlight touch. “Just let me hold you, okay?”

Slowly, he guided the both of you down onto his bed, his arms never loosening from where they were wrapped around your body. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy patterns against your back. The tension in your body melted bit by bit with each gentle word, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something softer—something safe.

“Don't ever do that to me again,” you warned shakily. “Promise me.”

Bucky's hold around you tightened. “I promise.”

“Good.” You sighed, exhaustion wearing down every inch of your bones. “You're my favorite person, Bucky.”

The admission pierced Bucky's chest like a lightning strike. He knew he should not have read too much into it, that the revelation was nothing more than a drunken slip of tongue that you probably would not even remember in the morning. But for now, Bucky chose to let that little detail slide, to let himself pretend that the confession had been made with more purposeful intent behind it—that the words had meant as much to you as it did to Bucky.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I've got you."

Since that night in his bedroom, Bucky had made a vow: he wasn't going to run anymore.

Bucky had learned his lesson. He wasn't going to let his own fears dictate his actions, nor would he allow his emotions ruin the precious friendship he had built with you over the past few years. Whatever he felt—whatever torment clawed at his chest whenever you so much as looked his way—it was his burden to bear. You didn't deserve to suffer for his cowardice, and he swore to himself that he would never let it happen again.

That thought lingered in Bucky's mind as he moved stealthily through the abandoned industrial site, gun drawn, boots scraping silently against the cracked concrete floor. The mission was straightforward: take out remaining hostiles, extract any valuable intel, and regroup. Simple. A basic in and out job that would be done just in time for dinner.

The team had split into pairs, and as fate would have it—or rather, as Steve would have it—Bucky found himself assigned to the west wing of the site alongside you. The direct channel to your comms in Bucky’s earpiece was quiet, and the super soldier took it as a good indication that your side of the mission was going smoothly. Meanwhile, he swept through his own side of hallways with methodical precision, checking every room, muttering a curt “clear” to his comms for each canvassed area. 

The air was eerie with cold and mold when Bucky entered the last remaining room in the hallway. There was nothing particularly different about this one. It was just as empty and as menacing, smelling of rat’s piss and years of abandonment, though his seasoned instinct—one sculpted from years of fighting and survival—warned him that something was amiss. His fingers tightened around his weapon almost instinctively, feeling an immediate unease venture up his spine, raising the very hair on the back of his neck.

The silence was too perfect.

Bucky’s feet skidded to a stop, turning on his heel to retrace his steps back towards the entrance.

Then, it happened.

The ambush struck like lightning on water. One second Bucky was alone, and the next, shadows had flooded the room, faceless figures in tactical gears leaping towards him at the same time. They were fast and ruthless, and even though none seemed to possess enhanced abilities, Bucky was still outnumbered. He dodged the first three attackers easily enough—disarming the blade from the first assailant’s hand, ducking out of the swinging baton of the second’s, and rolling on the floor before redirecting the third one’s bullet with the palm of his vibranium arm.

Bucky dashed out of the room into the one right across, the group of attackers still hot on his tail. He ducked behind a metal table and started opening fires at the entrance, taking out the threats before they even got the chance to enter the room. A curse fell under his breath when Bucky realized that he had worked through his rounds, scrambling to replace the ammunition as footsteps thundered into the room.

Slamming the fresh magazine in place, Bucky inhaled a gearing breath, only to be met with a sudden hush that descended through the air.

He raised his gun.

Instead of finding himself at the end of numerous gun barrels, Bucky was granted the view of bodies scattered all over the floor. The tang of iron meshed detestably with the spoor of grime, fog swirling around the edge of Bucky’s adrenaline-honed mind. When the dust finally stifled, his focus immediately zeroed in on the figure standing amidst the wreckage, rising out of the smoke like a doomsday’s salvation.

“Hi, handsome.” You smiled around a heavy exhale, a crinkle in your eye that seized the very life out of Bucky’s lungs. “Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, somewhere between relief and admiration. The grip around his weapon slackened ever so slightly, his body still thrumming with fight-and-flight, though the sight of your beautiful smile had managed to wash him with the kind of serenity that no other person could compel.

“Was wondering when you’d show up, sweetheart,” Bucky said, rising from his makeshift fortress behind the table.

“Sorry, Sarge.” You hummed, casually brushing the dust off Bucky’s shoulder as though the contact didn’t send him skyrocketing to heaven. “You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

Bucky failed to suppress his grin, nudging your shoulder as the two of you headed towards the entrance. With the hostiles neutralized, and the information uploaded to the flash drive discreetly tucked in the safety of Bucky’s inside pocket, the two of you were prepared for extraction. He redirected his comms to the main channel, alerting the other team members that the two of you were ready to wrap up and get the hell out of this dismal place.

He was barely a foot out of the door when a loud bang resonated in the air.

In a split second, Bucky sprung in retaliation, taking aim at one of the bloody assailants on the ground that had somehow taken hold of a gun, Bucky’s finger pulling at his own weapon’s trigger, assassinating him in place.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky’s heart throbbed in his throat, a silent prayer on his lips at how close of a call it had almost been. His gaze took a quick scan of the pile of bodies on the floor, making sure that none of them would pull a similar stunt, only allowing his shoulders to deflate when he saw no remaining signs of life.

“Bucky?”

Your voice barely reached him, thin despite the echoic air of this dingy site, but something inside Bucky twisted the moment he heard it.

When he turned, the initial relief that had flooded his chest instantly collapsed.

You were standing there, just a breadth out of reach with your gun still tightly clutched between your fingers. But the side of your neck—God, the side of your neck—was slick with red, thick and dark as it ran in angry runnels down your skin, staining the collar of your tactical gear, pooling on your shoulder and drenching everything it touched.

Your whole body swayed.

Bucky’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“No, no, no—” he rasped as he caught you, arms winding around your frame to prevent you from hitting the floor. His knees slammed onto the cold concrete below as he cradled you against his chest, the tremble in his body betraying the steel he was supposed to be made out of.

Bucky blinked, willing this moment to splinter into a dream, willing for his body to be transported back into the comfort of his bedroom where the scene playing out in front of his eyes would be nothing more than a heinous nightmare. But as Bucky’s arms tightened around your limp figure, the awful, gut-wrenching truth settled like ice in his veins. 

This was real. 

The blood seeping through your gear wasn’t imagined. The faint hitch in your breath, the loss of color from your face, the sheer terror clawing its way up his throat—none of it was a dream.

His chest crashed.

“Hey, hey. I got you, Sugar.” His voice cracked as he pressed a palm against your wound, despairingly staunching the warmth from slipping through his fingers. But no matter how hard he was grasping, the blood just kept on flowing—too fast and too much—soaking his hands and every corner of his battered soul.

“Shit. Stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” he begged. “Steve! Nat! Somebody get here now!” he barked into his earpiece, nails digging deeper into your skin. “We need a medic! We need a—fuck—just get down here!”

You made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your breath warm against his cheek as you murmured, “I-It’s gonna… gonna be o-okay.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

And it destroyed him. 

“Don’t do that.” Bucky shook his head, his voice cracking around a choked sob. He forced a smile as he looked down at your pale face. “You always suck at lying.”

Your lips parted, the faintest ghost of a smile trying to make its way through, only to be interrupted by a wet cough that made Bucky’s chest cave in.

“Gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please,” Bucky whimpered. “The team’s coming. Help is on the way. Just gotta hang in there a little more for me, yeah? Just a little longer. Please.”

Bucky wasn’t entirely sure to whom he was begging—whether it was you, the universe, or any higher divine power that might have heard his wretched prayer and taken pity on him. A man who had lost everything and asked for nothing, who was now asking for someone—anyone—to save the only thing in this world that made his life worth living, even if it meant having to sacrifice his soul in exchange.

Your hand reached out tentatively, shakily, gripping the strap of his tactical jacket and giving it the faintest tug. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice dissipating like a wisp of smoke as soon as you had uttered his name. Your eyes, glassy and unfocused, searched for his, and when they finally found him, a weak smile curved at your lips. “I love you.”

A sound tore from his throat, raw and full of despair. His forehead dropped against yours, his entire body rupturing under the weight of your words.

“I love you.” Bucky’s voice stammered. “God, I love you—I love you, sweetheart, I love you so much.” He pressed his lips against your clammy forehead, again and again, as though he could tether you here, as though his love alone could be enough to keep you from slipping away.

He should have been happy—should have felt something else other than this hollow, scorching agony. The person of his dreams, the one he had spent sleepless nights longing for, had just made the one admission that his heart had been wanting to hear, and yet, all he could do was break. His whole being perished under the weight of everything left unsaid, every moment wasted, every regret carving him open from the inside out.

He should have told you sooner.

God, he should have just told you—should have braced past his insecurities and found the courage somehow, should have showered you with every drop of love he had neatly stowed in his heart until he was shriveled and had no else to give. He should have bought you flowers everyday, let you know that you were the most beautiful person Bucky had ever met on this goddamn planet—because you deserved it.

You deserved everything.

Not this.

Not bleeding on the filthy floor of this desolate place, fighting off death that had bludgeoned its way right through your door.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sugar. We’re getting out of here, you hear me?” His breath stuttered, his grip tightening as if he could physically gather all of your fragmented pieces and mend you as new. “I’m gonna treat you so good. You’ll see. Gonna spoil you rotten like I ought to. Just—please, just hold on—”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Your eyes fluttered.

A quivering breath left your lips before your body went completely limp.

Bucky stilled.

“Sugar?”

Nothing.

No soft inhale. No faint murmurs of response.

No squeeze of your fingers against his jacket.

Bucky’s entire world came crashing down in the blink of an eye.

“No. No, no, no, no—”

His hand cupped your face, blood smearing from his skin to yours. Bucky’s fingers trembled as he tapped your cheek, as if the action alone could keep you here, could bring you back to him. His breathing ceased, his whole body shuddering as he rocked you in his arms, your name tumbling over and over again from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea to the universe to undo everything, to give him one more chance, to take him instead.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his face wet with the fractured shards of his heart. “Please.”

The only thing that acknowledged him was silence.

And Bucky Barnes had never hated the quiet more.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Misfire

Pairing: Sergeant!Bucky x Corporal!Reader (Modern Army Au)

Summary: A new transfer to his unit has Bucky utterly distracted from the training simulation he is meant to lead.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: military themes; combat training; simulated violence; weapons/firearms use; higher rank dynamic (respectful/consensual); possible references to death, war, emotional detachment; Bucky is smitten

Author’s Note: Ahh I loved this so much!! It was so much fun to write. This is based on this lovely request!! Thank you my sweet anon for sending me this. I hope you enjoy what I made of it ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The sky is the color of steel and something bruised. It can’t seem to decide whether to rain or burn. It smells of both. Dust kicks up in clouds, collecting at Bucky’s boots and the back of his throat, swirling around the gravel field.

His lungs are full of cold air and caffeine.

The chill of the early morning hasn’t even burned off the mountain air yet, and the base is already alive with motion. Soldiers run drills. Boots pound the dirt. Orders are shouted across the open field.

Bucky stands with his arms crossed, a scowl deeply shadowing his face. He hasn’t gotten much sleep the night before, same with the night before that, and the night before that. It’s hard to get some rest when sharing the same sleeping space with Sam fucking Wilson. So basically, he’s drained, he’s moody, and he’d like to yell at someone already.

Then you enter the line of his vision. You walk right into it. Up to him. Not trudge. Not scuff. Walk. Certain and confident, as if the ground moves for you. As if the noise of the base is just scenery.

Your file said you've been transferred from the South Carolina base. He’s read it many, many times. Much to Steve’s amusement. You are combat-experienced, it said. Highly recommended. All the usual praise.

But the file didn’t say you looked like this. Didn’t say you held your shoulders like command was your middle name. Didn’t say your mouth twitched as though it held back fire.

The file didn’t mention you would be the most beautiful woman he’s ever come across. The most interesting. The most alluring.

His jaw ticks. He feels it and he can’t change it. His fingers jerk. He feels it and still, he can’t make his body stop reacting.

With your head held high, and shoulders squared, you make your way over to him. Your boots meet the ground in clipped footsteps. Until you stop in front of him. Bucky knows he doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second, but he can’t let you acknowledge it. His expression remains stony. You don’t seem deterred.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you say with a respectful tone. Your salute is automatic. “Corporal Y/n, reporting for assignment.”

Voice steady. Gaze steadier.

So many flinch on their first day. Especially when he’s giving them his bitch face as Sam has called it. He waits for it. Watches for the break behind the eyes. Watches for the falter in the stance.

But nothing wavers in you - not fear, not awe. Just something that tells him you are measuring him right back.

He hates that he’s impressed. Hates that he likes it.

He returns the salute formally. “Corporal.”

A pause. A beat held too long. Why can’t he just send you on your way and shut his mouth?

“Hope you packed your appetite.”

A brow of yours lifts. That’s all he gets of you. His pulse picks up. And he doesn’t like that at all.

“For what?” you ask in a calm tone.

His lips curve just like that. “Pain.”

And you smile. Not sweet. Not cocky. Something that’s dangerous for him if he doesn’t turn away right now.

And for the first time all day - maybe all week, hell, probably so much longer - he feels like he could forget how tired he is.

The training field is filled with movements only shortly after. It’s a sprawl of brush and boulder, tree trunks that don’t care if you walk or bleed past them.

Bucky moves, gives orders, feels the mud on his boots, the simulation gear over him. It’s just another habit. Just another training session.

Wind whistles through branches. Leaves scream beneath boots. The drill is half chaos, half choreography. All noise.

Soldiers dart between cover. Voices overlap on comms. Someone misses a callout. Bucky clocks it all.

You move like you never did anything else. No hesitation. Hands move cleanly through checks. Posture sharp. Breathing even. Your presence is rooted.

Most people come into this unit to prove they are good enough. You move as if the question bores you.

He’s distracted. He can even admit that to himself because it’s just a simple fact. He should not be, but he is. You are mesmerizing.

Your uniform is pressed and perfect, shaping over your shoulders, hugging the small of your back, and the muscles of your thighs when you crouch behind cover. He’s looking too close, too long, too hard. He feels it in his blood.

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

Not in the middle of the drill. Not with your voice threading through comms, low and calm and fucking hot. Not with dirt in his teeth and training bullets singing past his head. They couldn’t kill him, of course, but if he lets himself get hit by one in front of you, he might as well die out of embarrassment.

He is trying to track the team’s positions, trying to read the wind, the angles, the threats.

But then you speak and his body misfires.

He finds himself looking for you, watching your mouth when you talk. Watching the shape of it, the precision of your words as if you are folding the world into place one syllable at a time.

There is no room for this. No space for such a thing in his life. And still, he unwillingly finds himself listening not to what you say, but how. That cool clarity. As if your voice is made to lead men into fire.

And he would follow.

God help him.

Frustration rises. He wants to be annoyed. Wants to shove the feeling into a box, slam the lid, move on.

You should be cocky. Should be sloppy. Should be trying too hard.

But you are not.

You are not trying to prove anything. It’s like you already survived a dozen lives and came here just to keep your hands busy.

Maybe that’s what rattles him.

Maybe it’s the way you don’t ask to be seen, and yet he can’t look away.

But there’s a break in the simulation. The right flank stumbles. Someone botches the angle, leaves the unit vulnerable. Shit. He might have lost a little control over his men there. Another is about to call retreat.

“Fall back and sweep right.” Your voice is calm. Sure. But firm. “Cover fire on my mark.”

Not panic. Not doubt. Just command. You take charge without thinking.

It works.

His head turns before he can hold himself back. His eyes narrow slightly, ignoring the way his heartbeat picks up. Whether out of admiration or irritation, he doesn’t know. “You plannin’ to give orders, Corporal?”

You don’t blink. “Only if you want to win.” And suddenly you are already repositioned. Already calculating. Already speaking again.

Bucky doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t correct. Just listens.

And hell, if it had been anyone else, he would feel utterly exasperated. But that feeling won’t come.

Every sound you make goes somewhere dangerous inside him, filling something empty. Every glance, every shift of your weight, the way your fingers curl when you wait, patient and ready - he is memorizing things he has no business remembering.

He watches you crouch low, form poised, posture perfect, the line of your spine curved like poetry in motion. His mouth goes dry.

“You gonna stare all day, Sergeant Barnes,” you say, voice a breath shy of smug, but your tone somehow also dry as bone, “or are we taking that bunker?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You don’t even look at him when you say it.

“They sent you here to test me?” The words slide out low, under his breath, half a joke. Half a confession. He fights the urge to drag his hand down his face.

Finally, you glance his way. That smile again. Slow. Almost cruel in the way it knows. You tilt your head as if you’re listening for more. There is a glint in your eyes.

“Depends,” you say, voice dusted with daring. “Are you passing?”

Something old comes undone in his chest. It’s a choking feeling. Because you say it so damn easily. As if you are not even aware you just reached inside him and touched something he didn’t know was still awake.

Jesus.

His mouth feels like sandpaper. His tongue seems too big behind his teeth. He swallows and tastes adrenaline and longing and the faintest trace of panic.

You are close now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to imagine it. Close enough to smell the faint hint of you - soil, gunpowder, something sweeter. Not perfume. Just skin and fire.

And the uniform. God. Usually, it’s boring. Olive green and gray. But on you, it looks like a goddamn weapon. It pulls along your waist, hugs your biceps, the collar loose enough to show the slope of your throat. And suddenly it’s not just a uniform. It’s a fucking distraction. A challenge. A sin with a name tag.

He blinks hard. Shakes it off. Fails.

“Punk coulda fuckin’ warned me,” he grumbles lowly to himself. Steve already gave him that look when he read your file more times than needed and back then he didn’t even know you looked like a woman not from this world.

He ignored it. Just like always. But he knows that Steve and Sam won’t drop this any time soon.

No one ever warns him about the things that matter until they’re already in his bloodstream.

“That a compliment?” you ask in a way that’s almost sultry. Or maybe he just wants it to be.

Of course, you heard him. Why the fuck not.

And again, you aren’t even looking at him, your eyes scanning the ridge. Beautiful in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful - if you’re just far enough away not to get burned.

And well, he’s way too close. Maybe he won’t ever be far enough away.

He is crouched beside you. Too close. Not close enough. His knees ache. His jaw aches. His thoughts ache.

His throat doesn’t work right the first time. The second, either.

“Depends if we make it outta this sim alive,” he counters, trying his best to put lots and lots of his charm in his voice. Because he is going to need his ability to flirt now more than ever.

“Then keep up,” you say easily, snapping your gaze away, and Bucky feels like whining. Popping up from the cover he watches you signal the rest of the team.

He follows. Of course, he does. Not because he has to. But because he suddenly really, really wants to.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

My 2k drabble challenge is up. I'd be so happy if you checked this out ♡♡

✿ 2k Drabble Challenge ✿

Welcome, my sweet beans!! 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

This is the option of my poll from a week ago that received the most votes, so here we are now. I'm so excited for this!!

I've been feeling a little stuck in a writing slump lately, and I'm hoping this sweet little challenge will help me shake that off and get the words flowing again.

I've had such a strong start into this year and I don’t want it to end yet. This might be exactly the push I need to keep going - and I am so looking forward to creating something with and for you!! ♡

Thank you so much to everyone who voted and congratulated me for this incredible milestone!! If your choice didn’t win, don’t worry. During this poll I've been thinking about doing a writing challenge myself, so I guess you will get to see one within this year. And I know myself, so I believe I will still run a WIP poll soon because I often hit that moment where I don’t know what project to work on next.

Below you will find everything you need to know, how to send a prompt, the guidelines, and a mix-and-match pairing list to help inspire your ideas! Can’t wait to see what you come up with!

Divider by @saradika ♡

What is this?

To celebrate reaching 2k followers I will be writing drabbles (1-2k words) based on prompts that you send me. ❁ ✿ ❀

All of these stories will feature Bucky x Reader

How to participate:

You can leave your prompt in either:

✿ The comments of this post

✿ My inbox

Rules and Guidelines:

✿ I only write for Bucky Barnes.

✿ I'm sorry for this, but to participate I would like you to be a follower of my blog. This is a follower celebration post, after all, and I will only take prompts from my sweethearts. This is not meant to make anyone follow me, but I think it’s fair that way.

✿ I will not write smut, non-con, dub-con, or anything dark - please keep prompts SFW and respectful. It can be slightly suggestive but I will not go into details in that regard. (And please nothing about Bucky and reader being Exes because that is triggering for me as weird as it sounds)

✿ One prompt per follower, but my sweet mutuals can send up to three (because I love y'all and your brains)

✿ Prompts can be a vibe, a scenario, a dynamic, a little scene idea, a quote, anything you creative people come up with.

✿ You are welcome to request:

-> a small scene for a fic of mine that’s already posted

-> something I haven’t explored yet, choosing from the list below

-> something else entirely (your own idea)

✿ Feel free to provide as much detail as you wish regarding what you’d like me to write, but please remember that the story will (likely) not exceed 2k words.

✿ The deadline to send me prompts is April 20th [12pm (EST)/6pm (CEST)]

✿ I'm really not sure how many requests will come in - it could be a handful, or it could be a flood - so I may shorten or extend the deadline depending on what feels right for me and how things go. I will keep you all updated, of course!

For Inspiration:

Pick an AU for Bucky + one for Reader (or make up your own)! Combine them however you want, and give me a prompt to go with it.

You do not have to give me a pairing at all, or choose one from this list! This is simply to provide you with a few suggestions and perhaps spurt some ideas. If you prefer to create something yourself, then you are, of course, very welcome to do that ♡

If you have some more ideas for those pairings, then I would happily take those and add them here. Please let me know in the comments, so if I should miss something, others can see it too.

𑁍 Bucky AUs 𑁍

✿ Mechanic ✿ Lumberjack ✿ Tattoo Artist ✿ Bartender ✿ Florist ✿ Veteran ✿ Store Owner ✿ Customer ✿ Biker ✿ Delivery Guy ✿ Avenger ✿ Librarian ✿ Athlete ✿ College student/athlete ✿ Park Ranger ✿ Cowboy ✿ Thief ✿ Bandit ✿ CEO ✿ Roofer ✿ Ranch owner ✿ Neighbor ✿ Roommate ✿ Doctor ✿ Pilot ✿ Shop Owner ✿ Pirate ✿ Knight ✿ Prince ✿ Bodyguard ✿ Flight Attendant ✿ Photographer ✿ Security Guard ✿ Personal Trainer ✿ Boxer ✿ FBI Agent ✿ Detective ✿ Frat ✿ Police Officer ✿ Outlaw ✿ Racer ✿ Babysitter ✿ Childhood friend ✿ Rival ✿ Stripper ✿ Best friend's brother ✿ Hopeless Romantic ✿ Grumpy ✿ Sunshine ✿ Fake boyfriend ✿ Modern ✿ Life Guard ✿ Bounty Hunter ✿ Fugitive ✿ Farmer ✿ Farm/Ranch Hand ✿ Sheriff ✿ Fuckboy ✿ Gym Trainer ✿ Chef ✿ Ex-Military ✿ Husband ✿ Archangel ✿ Witness to […] ✿ Baker's son ✿ Rancher ✿ DJ ✿ Musician ✿ Actor ✿ Movie Maker ✿ Lawyer ✿ Spy ✿ best friend ✿ 40s ✿ Winter Soldier

𑁍 Reader AUs 𑁍

✿ Cheerleader ✿ Mechanic ✿ Barista ✿ Volunteer at […] ✿ Neighbor ✿ College student/athlete ✿ […] Student ✿ Roommate ✿ Florist ✿ Musician ✿ (Hobby) Singer ✿ Therapist ✿ Librarian ✿ Nurse ✿ Vet ✿ Doctor ✿ Witch ✿ Nymph ✿ Healer ✿ Shop/Store Owner ✿ Customer ✿ Seamstress ✿ Time Traveler ✿ FBI Agent ✿ Detective ✿ Police Officer ✿ Personal Assistent ✿ Racer ✿ Civilian ✿ Widow ✿ SHIELD Agent ✿ Journalist ✿ VIP ✿ Babysitter ✿ Rival ✿ Enhanced ✿ Pet Owner ✿ Villain ✿ Hopeless Romantic ✿ Grumpy ✿ Sunshine ✿ Fake girlfriend ✿ Pilot ✿ Flight attendant ✿ Bounty Hunter ✿ Fugitive ✿ Medic ✿ Bartender ✿ Waitress ✿ Ranch Owner's Daughter ✿ Model ✿ Gym Trainer ✿ Wedding Planner ✿ Teacher ✿ Divorced ✿ Married ✿ Wife ✿ Childhood friends ✿ Witness to […] ✿ Princess ✿ Maid ✿ Baker's daughter ✿ Horse Whisperer ✿ Nail tech ✿ Event Planner ✿ Stripper ✿ Farmer ✿ Rancher ✿ Siren ✿ Underground Hacker ✿ Bounty Hunter ✿ Vigilante ✿ Actress ✿ Spy ✿ Servant ✿ Pirate

After the Challenge:

Once the deadline has passed and I've finished writing, I'll post a Masterlist of all the drabbles so everything is in one place for you to read through and hopefully enjoy! ♡ ♡

This gives you time to put thought into your prompt, and it gives me the time I need to write.

If you have any questions, please please please ask me. There may have been something I missed mentioning, or you’re not sure about a certain point. I'm always here to answer.

Thank you for everything! I'm so grateful to be in this space with you all. I love you, my honeybuns!! Stay save and heathy!! I can’t wait to see what you send me. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

This sounds so interesting!! Definitely looking forward to it 💜

Every Devil Mini-Series Masterlist

Read on A03! (coming soon)

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, mental health issues, and sexual content.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, soulmates, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending.

Mini-Series Summary

There are a few things that simply aren't understandable in the universe. Things that push the boundaries of what we know, and understand.

Things like how, even through the Winter Soldier programming, Bucky was still able to find you.

Think like how, no matter how hard the world tried, they were never to keep you apart.

Author's Note

I'm going through stuff so you guys get another mini-series. We're starting in 2010s Winter Solider era, and then we'll be going over the years with some canon divergence.

Chapter List

Chapter 1 - The Sins (4/6) Chapter 2 - The Limbo (4/13) Chapter 3 - The Purgatory (4/20) Chapter 4 - The Ascent (4/27) Chapter 5 - The Paradise (5/4)

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

⋆✴︎2k celebration✴︎⋆

YOU GUYS!!! I AM HAVING OVER 2000 MINIONS!! I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude AHHHH!! 💜🧁

Thank you so much for embracing my fics and my ramblings and for being interested in me as a person!! You've encouraged me to keep writing and to keep sharing my stories. Thank you for connecting with my characters, for sharing your own interpretations, and for making this space so cozy and engaging. Every single one of you has helped me so much to be myself, to explore my creativity, and to connect with others who share my passions.

Thank you from the deepest part of my heart for being here with me!! 💜💜

To truly celebrate 2k followers, I wanted to do something special for you all. And I think the best way to do that is to let you decide. So I’ve come up with a few ideas, and I'd love to hear what you prefer.

ღ ღ ღ

A: WIP poll! I am currently working on a few different projects, and if you choose this I will let you decide which one I should focus on and potentially post first.

B: Snippet Marathon! Get ready for a sneak peek into all my wips. I will be sharing snippets from as many fics as I can.

C: Q&A Session! I will host a text based Q&A where you can ask me anything about my writing process, characters, myself, behind-the-scenes, AUs, etc.

D: Writing Challenge! I will host my first writing challenge with prompts of my own. (This will take me some time, though)

E: 2k Drabble Challenge! I will take short prompts of my lovely followers and write mini-stories based on them.

ღ ღ ღ

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Oh damn, as an actress myself, I am so excited for this!!! It looks so captivating already ❤

💫 For Your Consideration Masterlist 💫

It's the Hollywood 🎬 / Awards Season / Social Media AU you - and I - didn't know we needed!

actor!Bucky x fem!actress!Reader (no use of y/n, l/n, reader is not described in any great detail. I save that for the gowns 💃)

Warnings: Hollywood AU, language, internet nasties, flirty!Bucky, a little power imbalance, age-gap (Bucky is around 40, actress reader is closer to 30 or younger if you prefer 🤭)... more to be added later.

This is entirely inspired by the sight of Sebastian Stan on many red carpets and at allll of the awards ceremonies this awards season. He looked so good my brain cooked up this AU, which went from a tiny idea into a huge monster consisting of Insta posts, DMs, tweets, faux articles, interview transcripts... 🤭 It's fully tested my skills as a creator, let me tell ya!

Bucky Barnes, the suave and talented leading man of the 'Winter Soldier' movie series, finds himself on the red carpet circuit during awards season with his latest film 'The Howling Commandos'. But the season takes an unexpected turn when he crosses paths with a mesmerizing newcomer - the actress who has become the talk of Tinseltown with her captivating performance in her most recent film. Sparks fly as they navigate silly season in Hollywood, with a spotlight on their every move will their chemistry ignite a real life romance?

Previews

Act 1 - September 2025

Act 2 - October 2025

Act 3 - November 2025

Act 4 - December 2025

Act 5 - January 2026

Act 6 - February 2026

Act 7 - March 2026

Post Credits

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

tui la | chapter index

summary: the clock hits midnight, and it’s time to run. this story is about the race.

pairing: bucky barnes x bender!reader

genre: atla!au, strangers/enemies to lovers, pining, slow-burn

series tags/warnings: death (not main character), icky wounds, fire and burns, amputation (it’s a bucky fic lads), persecution, loneliness, depression, violence. canon-level stuff. 

status: incomplete

part one | the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions  09.06.22

© @aeaean–bliss​​; please do not copy, repost or translate any of my works.

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

This is some of the most compelling writing I've been gifted to read on here. I know it's been long and this will probably not be continued - which I find incredibly sad, but I totally get you - but I needed to give it a go anyways and it’s just truly amazing, wow! The setting is described so visceral, and I am totally in awe of that world you built here. And the lore of the Spirits and Elements - it's all so seamless and natural and has me so wrapped around your finger. I don’t know if you will even see this, but to everyone who comes across, please give this a read although it might likely not be continued, but it truly is a work of art and it deserves to be cherished 💜💜

Don’t let your writers down and show them some love, please 💕

tui la | part one: the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions

summary: the clock hits midnight, and it’s time to run. this story is about the race.

pairing: bucky barnes x bender!reader

genre: atla!au, strangers/enemies to lovers, pining, slow-burn

word count: 6.2k

warnings/tags: this one’s a bit tame, but things will kick off and get a bit gorey/violent later on. canon level stuff, though. loneliness, depression, all that good stuff. later tags include, fire, burns, death (not main character), amputation (it’s a bucky fic lads), icky wounds, would not recommend reading if overly squeamish. lmk if i’ve missed any.

a/n: been working on this for a while now, really excited to have it up. please consider telling me what you think about it!

masterlist

chapter index

part one | part two

part one | the unforeseen consequences of arbitrary decisions

First, there were Spirits. 

They manifested in mortal realms, roaming the uninhabited territories of the Spirit Wilds with a fervour only the unworldly can muster.

When mankind appeared and sought refuge from these dangerous territories, its protector granted them sanctuary. Isolated from each other, these communities of men developed distinct cultures and forwent their common origins. 

When necessity forced men to wander beyond the boundaries of their asylum, their protector granted them the ability to command and bend one of the four great elements to their will. This power was reserved for protection, and was to be returned upon re-entry to the sanctuary. 

And so, man and his protector had established an amicable relationship. When the Spirits were driven into the Spirit Worlds, mankind’s protectors renounced their titles, leaving mankind to go about its business as it pleased.

What followed developed sporadically. Some learned the art of bending the elements from the natural creatures, such as badgermoles, dragons, and flying bison. Some stole it from their protectors. Others learned from observing the forces from the moon on the ocean tides. 

Push, and pull. 

Tuī lā.

Tales of the battles of warlords, avatars, benders, and Spirits were the bread and butter of any child’s upbringing in the Realm. Awesome, unfathomable, terrifying, and inspiring great reverence, they formed the intricately woven history of the fabric of the world, centred around the four pivotal elements:

Water,

Fire, 

Earth, and

Air.

Weiterlesen

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

I love you and I will always support you!!! Keep doing what you do 'cause I love it and it’s amazing!!! 💜💜

introduction + masterlist

greetings merfolk (and land dwellers), welcome to my depths (a mediocre tumblr blog).

you can call me sinew, ceru (or occasionally cheeto),i’m nineteen and my pronouns are he/him. I’ll be writing here and there, maybe posting some drawings, and i’m curating a clean, more positive slate on tumblr for myself.

everyone is welcome to send requests or just converse about my blog or other topics.

MASTERLIST

any works marked with an asterisk * are explicit and are for 18+ audiences only

HANNIBAL NBC

a collective of drabbles/fics based on the hannibal nbc series

AVATAR

a collective of drabbles/fics based on the avatar (james cameron) movies

MARVEL

a collective of drabbles/fics based on the marvel franchise

BALDURS GATE 3

a collective of drabbles/fics based on the third installation of baldur's gate

CONTENT CREATORS

a collective of drabbles/fics based on content creators

DIVIDERS

dividers i’ve made to be used only WITH credit.

most of my writing will focus solely on trans masc readers or alternatively, my own oc’s (that will be trans 99% of the time). Mostly self indulgent but, i think there deserves to be more queer rep in writing out there, even if it’s my little fanfics yet to come.

boundaries:

—i do not consent to anyone stealing or republishing my work

—do not misgender me or request me to write anything with she/her readers, there are more than enough stories that cater to you all (saying this affectionately)

—just don’t be weird or discriminatory !! tumblr is one of the only spaces i can openly say my gender isn’t linear