safetypinxtales
219 posts
hi, I’m Em! 22 y/oshe/her
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safetypinxtales · 2 days ago
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imma show u my fave notes cause i can
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Those are so funny! Thanks for sharing!!
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safetypinxtales · 5 days ago
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Good luck to you too!!
We’ll both crush it, trust
Grandmother cells
Spencer Reid x gn!reader / 570 words / fluff
Summary: Spencer explains grandmother cells to reader and it leads to a confession
Warnings: None, this is pure fluff.
My masterlist
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You were at Spencer's apartment, cuddling on his couch as was routine for your after work relaxation. You were so close to dozing off while Spencer talked about the visual cortex of the brain. You didn't mean to, of course. It's not that you didn't find his ramblings interesting, you were just exhausted from the workday.
You were pretty sure you would have fallen asleep if it weren't for something Spencer said that piqued your interest.
“-but they're also called Jennifer Aniston neurons and-” he managed to say before you cut him off with a “What?”
“Yeah they're sometimes called Jennifer Aniston neurons because-”
“Can you rewind a little bit? I wasn't paying attention, sorry” you say as you look up at him, trying to convey genuine interest with your facial expression.
“Well how do I know you'll actually listen this time?” Spencer says half jokingly
You pause and think for a moment about what to say next. You decide the right plan of action is to sit up and kiss his cheek, to soften his mood a little bit. You know he isn't actually hurt that you weren't listening but you still want to reassure him.
“How about a pinky promise?” you suggest. 
Still blushing from the kiss, Spencer concedes “I suppose that’ll do” a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as you take his pinky finger in yours and make a pinky promise before he continues talking.
“Alright so there are these hypothetical cells that are in your visual cortex called grandmother cells. They are these cells that are specialized to activate and react when you see, hear or sense a specific person, like your grandmother, hence the name “grandmother” cells.”
“Well what does Jennifer Aniston have to do with that?” you ask
“I'm getting to that part.” Spencer answers before continuing on “So, the neurosurgeon who made the discovery of grandmother cells discovered that, upon showing his patients a picture of Jennifer Aniston a particular neuron responded strongly. But when the patients were shown a picture of a non-famous person the neuron did not respond.”
“Wow that's actually really interesting” you say genuinely
“I know right!” Spencer says, clearly fascinated by the subject. “The neurosurgeon went on to discover that there are countless more neurons like this, each person has their own neurons in your brain. But not just anyone you meet on the street has their own neurons in your brain, the neurons only become specialized to people you have strong feelings for, and the stronger the feelings, the more amount of specialized neurons”
“I guess those patients must have really liked Jennifer Aniston then” you joke. Spencer chuckles lightly before he goes quiet and makes a face. 
You'd know that face anywhere, his thinking face. You would give anything to know what was going on in that head of his. But before you can trade a penny for his thoughts he gives you them, free of charge.
“I bet that all my neurons are specialized to you” he admits in a half whisper.
“Oh? I bet you have pretty strong feelings for me then.” you tease him, trying to cut away some of the awkwardness that his prolonged silence left. 
Spencer smiles at your teasing before answering: “very”
“And what kind of feelings are they?” you ask, continuing the teasing although you desperately want to know the answer.
Spencer hesitates for a bit before answering “Love.”
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A/n: This is the first fic i've ever written for Spencer Reid so i'm sorry if this is very ooc. Feedback is always appreciated.
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safetypinxtales · 5 days ago
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First of all this is adorable, second of all,
What are the odds that this appears on my dash literally like 30 minutes after I read up about Jennifer Aniston neurons for my neuro exam this Friday?
I thought I was hallucinating do a moment lol
Anyways, Spencer talking about shit I’m really interested in is always gonna hit different, ty for this I loved it <3
Grandmother cells
Spencer Reid x gn!reader / 570 words / fluff
Summary: Spencer explains grandmother cells to reader and it leads to a confession
Warnings: None, this is pure fluff.
My masterlist
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You were at Spencer's apartment, cuddling on his couch as was routine for your after work relaxation. You were so close to dozing off while Spencer talked about the visual cortex of the brain. You didn't mean to, of course. It's not that you didn't find his ramblings interesting, you were just exhausted from the workday.
You were pretty sure you would have fallen asleep if it weren't for something Spencer said that piqued your interest.
“-but they're also called Jennifer Aniston neurons and-” he managed to say before you cut him off with a “What?”
“Yeah they're sometimes called Jennifer Aniston neurons because-”
“Can you rewind a little bit? I wasn't paying attention, sorry” you say as you look up at him, trying to convey genuine interest with your facial expression.
“Well how do I know you'll actually listen this time?” Spencer says half jokingly
You pause and think for a moment about what to say next. You decide the right plan of action is to sit up and kiss his cheek, to soften his mood a little bit. You know he isn't actually hurt that you weren't listening but you still want to reassure him.
“How about a pinky promise?” you suggest. 
Still blushing from the kiss, Spencer concedes “I suppose that’ll do” a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as you take his pinky finger in yours and make a pinky promise before he continues talking.
“Alright so there are these hypothetical cells that are in your visual cortex called grandmother cells. They are these cells that are specialized to activate and react when you see, hear or sense a specific person, like your grandmother, hence the name “grandmother” cells.”
“Well what does Jennifer Aniston have to do with that?” you ask
“I'm getting to that part.” Spencer answers before continuing on “So, the neurosurgeon who made the discovery of grandmother cells discovered that, upon showing his patients a picture of Jennifer Aniston a particular neuron responded strongly. But when the patients were shown a picture of a non-famous person the neuron did not respond.”
“Wow that's actually really interesting” you say genuinely
“I know right!” Spencer says, clearly fascinated by the subject. “The neurosurgeon went on to discover that there are countless more neurons like this, each person has their own neurons in your brain. But not just anyone you meet on the street has their own neurons in your brain, the neurons only become specialized to people you have strong feelings for, and the stronger the feelings, the more amount of specialized neurons”
“I guess those patients must have really liked Jennifer Aniston then” you joke. Spencer chuckles lightly before he goes quiet and makes a face. 
You'd know that face anywhere, his thinking face. You would give anything to know what was going on in that head of his. But before you can trade a penny for his thoughts he gives you them, free of charge.
“I bet that all my neurons are specialized to you” he admits in a half whisper.
“Oh? I bet you have pretty strong feelings for me then.” you tease him, trying to cut away some of the awkwardness that his prolonged silence left. 
Spencer smiles at your teasing before answering: “very”
“And what kind of feelings are they?” you ask, continuing the teasing although you desperately want to know the answer.
Spencer hesitates for a bit before answering “Love.”
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A/n: This is the first fic i've ever written for Spencer Reid so i'm sorry if this is very ooc. Feedback is always appreciated.
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safetypinxtales · 28 days ago
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me, logging into ao3 5 minutes before bedtime: WAITER! bring me your finest enemies to lovers!
ao3 tag search function: excellent choice, sir! how would you like it cooked?
me: explicit. with a side of hurt/comfort
ao3: lovely! and may i suggest a drizzle of mutual pining?
me: of course, and can you add a spritz of angst? make it a 100k slowburn for good measure
ao3: coming right up, sir
me: thank you. oh, and waiter?
ao3: yes, sir?
me: make it gay
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safetypinxtales · 29 days ago
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For all the things said about Azriel's private life, freak or no, BDSM Dom or Rope bunny subby boy himself, I think we can all agree that love or hate him, we wouldn't say no to an Azriel hug.
Warm leathers and that cool, chilled, night mist scent? Shivers.
So, sooo tall and well muscled, but with that slutty little waist you can wrap your hands around as he holds your head to his heart? Sigh.
Cacooned in shadows so no busybody eyes are looking at JUST how long he holds you? Yes please.
Silent, gentle breaths from him- he just needs this hug and is unrushed in letting you go? A firm grip- it's a needy hug that lets you know you're not going anywhere anytime soon, so just deal with it? I Surrender.
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safetypinxtales · 29 days ago
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I think most of my problems would be solved if l could watch Azriel and Cassian spar (shirtless)(sweaty)
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
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It’s been snowing all evening and it’s so cosy being inside watching the snowfall and it just makes me want to writeee
Like imagine waiting out a snowstorm with azriel, maybe super impromptu in a cave, or in a small (but freezing cold) inn with only one available bed
Whatever scenario it involves lots of cuddling for body warmth
Maybe cuddling for other reasons too
He’s a literal furnace under his wet and cold leathers and so it only makes sense that a bit of skin to skin contact is a necessary move to make. We don’t want you freezing to death, you know?
And maybe it’s still cold and snowy and miserable the next day when you continue your trek, but it doesn’t really matter.
Because you don’t quite feel as cold inside anymore
Not when you’re walking beside him
Not when every smile you share and every step you take feels as feathery light as the freshly fallen powder blanketing the ground
:)
I wish I wasn’t in the middle of moving and simultaneously falling further and further behind on my coursework
I wish I had time to write
But alas, I’m at least putting this out there hoping I’ll have the time to write it some other time
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
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Lover’s Rock~ S. Reid
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Spencer Reid x Fem Reader
Summary: Spencer isn’t the only one that stands out in the crowd, but maybe that’s a good thing, because that’s what leads him to you.
Warnings: I didn’t really proof read, I’ll do it later lol. 18+ content towards the end. Um Reid is such a dweeb and adorable???? Fluff, mentions of alcohol and embarrassment. Reader is so twee (can we bring twee back or no?) idk she makes questionable fashion choices.
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Really, this wasn’t your thing.
The bar scene, the club dresses all the girls where, the high heels and the whole game of cat and mouse that all the guys want to play. But you’re here, you made an effort to appease your best friends who claim you have no social life.
The entire night so far, they watched you strike out with the guys they motioned over because in their mind, you’re desperate and lonely and lame.
Okay, maybe that’s more of your headspace than theirs, but they’ve been offering you pity glances this whole time.
You’ve made a decision a while ago that maybe there was no romance out there for you. You were just born with some aspect that made normal, sane guys physically run away, and maybe that’s fine. You were really good on your own. And it never did feel right when you had a guy, if it didn’t feel like the movies, it wasn’t worth it.
Right?
Okay, maybe you should settle, at some point, you’ll be too old to marry and you’ll just keep working, with no real life and take care of Shelly, your goldfish. Maybe it won’t be perfect, but it’ll be someone to share things with.
You let out a huff and watch the ice melt in your drink, not bothering to smile when your friend tells you to brighten up.
Normally, you’re a ray of sunshine, but something about getting rejected four consecutive times is raining on your parade.
An entire bar full of happy people in their element, and it’s just you, sticking out like a sore thumb, especially when your friends go dance with a few guys they hit it off with.
Too busy looking at the buckle on the ankle strap of your heel, you are sinking somewhere in your mind, to a place where you aren’t listening to cheap song lyrics of and realizing that table is stickier than you thought.
“Where’s Reid?”
“Reid.”
“Spencer!” Penelope smacks his shoulder, pulling him from the trance of his eyes on the book pages.
He looks up from the corner booth, seeing his team has returned with drinks.
“Are you seriously reading right now?” Morgan criticizes, placing a beer in front of the younger agent.
Spencer doesn’t know why he does this, beer tastes like a plowed hay field in his opinion. But he takes the drink in gratitude and before he can explain that he was just trying to finish the Russian publishing of ‘Crime and Punishment’, Morgan rips the book from his hands and tosses it to Emily for safe keeping.
“I- what was that for?” Spencer questions with a unjust squeak, feeling rather sad.
“Look around, kid, do you see how many fine ladies are here? You don’t need to be sitting here with your nose between the pages of Little Women.” Morgan states as a matter of fact.
“Yeah, nobody puts baby in the corner.” Penelope agrees.
With an airy scoff, Spencer looks to the other members for help, but they all seem to side with Derek.
He gains a defeated frown.
Spencer didn’t want to be here in the first place, now he’s being forced out into the public to socialize. There has to be a law against this, he knows there’s not because he knows everything, but he is certainly going to try and create one.
“Oh come on, Spence, why don’t you try to get a date?” JJ asks, meaning well, but the laugh that comes from Emily makes him want to recoil.
“C’mon, I’ll help you.” Morgan offers, pulling him from the booth seat.
“Yeah, that never really works well when you try to be my wingman, you usually end up with all the phone numbers.” Spencer claims, pressing his lips into a line.
But like some mock savior, Morgan stands behind Reid as they wait by the bar.
“What about her?” Morgan would point out.
To which Reid would respond with some variation of ‘she’s too much’ or ‘she definitely has a boyfriend three times my size’.
After fifteen minutes of this back and forth, Morgan is seriously regretting he forced the hermit out of his shell.
And that’s when a rowdy group finally leaves and clears the path of vision to you.
Still sat at a high table with one leg crossed over the other, you wiggle your foot as you doodle on a drink napkin.
Reid misses whatever Morgan says, and in that air of silence, the agent follows the vision.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Derek chuckles, clapping Reid on the shoulder. “She’s pretty. Go talk to her.”
“What?” Reid looks away. “No, no, I don’t want to disturb her.”
You let out a very bored sigh.
Derek’s brows furrow. “I know you’re some boy genius but you really are dumb sometimes. Everything about that girl is screaming ‘put me outa my misery’.”
Spencer tilts his head slightly, watching you rub your eye and then frown at the way you smudged your already smudged eye liner.
“Okay, maybe you’re right.” He nods. “But…what do I say?”
Derek grins. “Compliment her, ask if she wants another drink, strike up a conversation. It’s easy, man.”
Spencer gets an uneasy feeling in him, but he still braves through it. “Easy for you, maybe.” He mumbles before running a hand through his hair and takes a step towards you.
“Go get her, tiger!” Morgan encourages.
When he returns to the team with the happy news, Penelope asks if Spencer’s gonna do good.
“Oh, definitely not, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t trip over his own feet on the way over there.” Derek answers, laughing.
But Spencer makes it to you without a stumble, yet his whole plan leaves his mind when he gets to you.
You’re gorgeous, too pretty for him.
“Nice legs.”
Did he just say that?
You look up at him upon hearing his voice, your wide eyes confused.
“I’m sorry?” You question, not sure if you heard this stranger correctly.
He’s a rather handsome stranger.
“No- I mean I like your legs- tights! Not your legs, you have nice legs of course but that’s not- your tights are nice- cool! Different?”
Oh god, he should just walk away now. He’s already messed this whole thing up and surely you think he’s an idiot.
While he’s got an embarrassed look on his face, you look down at the red lace tights you wear under your skirt, something your friends questioned as a fashion choice.
“You really like them?” You ask, voice soft to his ears.
He stops his rambling.
“Yeah, of course I do, I think they’re cool.” He smiles softly.
You can’t help but grin bashfully.
“Every guy I’ve talked to tonight thought they were a little weird, but that’s okay, I kinda like weird.” You admit, watching as he shakes his head.
“People say my socks are weird all the time, don’t feel bad.” He comforts, pulling the material of his pants up so you can see his mismatched socks with funky colors and prints on them.
“Those are cool.” Your approval eases him, giving him just enough reassurance that you aren’t going to scream for help in the next two minutes.
“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid- sorry, force of habit, uh, just Spencer. I-I’m Spencer.” He introduces with the smallest of wave.
Still smiling more than you have the entire night, you greet him. He repeats your name like it has some special meaning, and you’ve never loved the sound of it more.
“I was going to get a drink, what are you having?” He asks, looking at your sweating glass. “Vodka soda? Cherry sour?”
You blush. “It’s actually a shirley temple…I just ate all the cherries out of it already.”
Without hesitation, he nods. “Okay, I’ll be back.”
He leaves you at your table, and then your brief moment of sunshine is clouded once more by doubt. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he drugs your drink and then you wake up in an alley somewhere, missing your wallet and phone and your tights that he thinks are so cool?
This was a bad idea. Dating isn’t for you. He seemed so nice and he’s so attractive but that should have been your first red flag and-
Oh. He’s coming back.
With two shirley temples.
He places them on the table and waits for you to grab one, then he grabs the other and takes a sip.
“You mind if I sit?” He asks.
Feeling a little silly for assuming he was out to maim you, you nod.
“I seriously doubt my friends remember I’m over here, so feel free to stay.” You joke at your expense.
He sits across from you, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his team who make it very obvious that they’re staring.
You study his profile, a shaggy haircut that falls across his forehead, all tousled in an effortless way. His jaw line is defined, round brown eyes that flick back to you. When he catches you looking, he grins once more.
It’s never been so…easy, having a ‘get to know you’ conversation. Questions come without second thoughts, you find yourself laughing, actually laughing.
Playing with your straw, you try to calm your facial expressions, your cheeks are starting to hurt from beaming so much.
“So, Dr. Reid, huh?” You ask, making him let out a small huff of embarrassment.
“That’s what the PhD’s say, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling really dorky about his immense amount of education.
It’s not dorky to you. Every guy you’ve talked to tonight dropped out of community college because ‘it didn’t align with their career paths’ of selling protein smoothies or working in some ‘underground’ record store.
But here Spencer is, explaining he’s on the behavioral analysis unit for the FBI and he tells you about all the degrees he has. All you can think about as he talks of universities and the academy is, knowledge is such a sexy look on a guy. Sure, you’ve never really liked the underachieving stoners, but usually you’ve been with guys who seem to say “you like school?” when you talk about working towards your Masters degree.
“Wow.” Is all you can say for a moment, clearly shocked and, well, impressed. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”
“That’s what most people say.” He nods, picking the cherry in his drink out by the stem and offering it to you.
By your thankful eyes batting up at him, he’s tempted on going behind the bar and bringing you all the maraschino cherries they have. He quickly turns the conversation around to focus on you so he can focus on something other than the stained color on your lips.
“What about you? What do you do?” He asks.
Compared to his job, yours seems too normal, too mundane. You almost want to avoid the question, never once have you been unsatisfied with your career but now you can’t help it. What if Spencer doesn’t like you because you don’t work for NASA?
That’s ridiculous, because to Spencer, your job makes his adoration grow.
“Oh, I’m just a teacher.” You say, fiddling with a stem in your mouth.
Spencer gains a soft smile. “You could never just be a teacher, teacher’s are important. Well, unless you’re a sucky teacher.”
His joke earns a bubbly giggle and he decides he’d like to hear that sound forever. It’s moments like this that he’s glad to have an eidetic memory.
“I don’t think I’m a sucky teacher so that’s good, my students seem to like me.” You state, pushing your hair behind your ear and dropping the knotted stem onto a napkin.
Spencer finds himself leaning a little closer, body naturally gravitating to your pull. “What do you teach?” He asks.
“I work for my schools gifted children program, so I basically teach kid geniuses advanced core curriculum because they’ve tested out of their normal classes.” You chuckle, oblivious to the way Spencer’s heart warms.
He remains quiet for a bit too long, just staring at you with an honest look, one that makes you feel like you’re turned inside out and bared for him. The panic rises again, you think you must have said something to ruin it.
“I know it’s nothing special-” You begin to say.
“No.” He interrupts, a sure tone. “I-I think it’s great. Really, that’s not an easy job.”
Deep breath out, you’re put at ease.
“I constantly have imposter syndrome, these kids are twelve and bringing up philosophies and mathematical formulas I have to go home and study because I haven’t even learned them yet. Honestly, sometimes I don’t even think they need me there.” You joke lightly, half meaning it but masking that slight insecurity by finishing off your drink.
“They need you.” Spencer assures, an expression showing he’s never been more sure of something. “Believe me, you’re probably the only person they see in a school day that understands them.”
Brows creased, you shake your head, holding his rather intimidating gaze for such puppy dog eyes.
“What makes you so sure?” You question.
Spencer takes in a breath. “Because I know what it’s like to be twelve years old and telling a grown adult about Fermat’s Last Theorem.”
Sometimes, the world has a funny way of putting two people together. For years, you’ve wandered through life and on a random Friday night, feeling a little flushed from the Summer air, here is Spencer Reid, the man of your dreams.
Your friends left some time ago after you assured them you were fine to be left at the place you were just complaining about being. You don’t mind being left with Spencer, in fact, you’re dreading the time you have to go home because it means this moment is over.
“I really would like to live in New York.” You exclaim, somehow have fallen into the rabbit hole of dreams for the future.
“New York’s really cool!” He agrees. “Did you know that they have a homicide rate of 4.48 percent right now? It’s been declining since the nineties.”
You must make some sort of surprised face because his eyes go wide and he quickly tried to recover his odd statement.
“Sorry, my job isn’t really full of happy statistics. But mostly we just find dead prostitutes in alleys in New York.”
His blushed cheeks make your heart flutter in its beats.
“I’m glad I’m not a prostitute.” You giggle, making him chew his bottom lip for a moment.
“Yeah, I’m glad you’re not either.”
By the time the team gets their coats back on with the intention of heading home, they look across the room to see their quirky doctor friend is partaking in very friendly body language.
“Oh my god, look at him.” Emily laughs. “He’s finally using that big IQ of his.”
Penelope, who comes to hold onto Morgan’s arm, grins rather proudly. “It’s like a butterfly finally coming out of its cocoon. It’s…beautiful, actually.”
Derek laughs down at her. “I think that last long island ice tea was a bad idea. Come on, baby, let’s get you home.”
“Good luck, my fine friend.” She calls in the general direction of you and Spencer, but the two of you don’t notice.
JJ ties her hair up and starts to take a few steps forward.
“Where are you going?” Penelope questions.
“To let him know we’re leaving?”
“No!” The team seems to exclaim, all shouting that she cannot disturb the moment Spencer worked rather hard to get to.
She just holds her hands up in defense, then follows after Emily as they leave the bar.
Spencer of course notices the way Prentiss leaves him with an encouraging thumbs up. It makes his get a little bashful, but he nods a goodbye and watches the door shut once more. His attention is brought back to his hand on the table, well, more to the way your pinky brushes against his. You continue to talk about mutual interests and what your apartment in New York would look like, a slight ramble to you that shows you’re very aware of the slight contact.
With some kind of placebo courage he can’t even blame on alcohol, he lets his fingers crawl between yours like that’s where they belong.
The team would definitely laugh at this teenage display, but to the both of you, it’s the perfect amount of reassurance, soft enough to not be too scary.
The attraction is there, Spencer forces himself to profile it just so his negative thoughts can’t prove him wrong. You’re smiling at every word, your eyes seem to stay dilated and focused on his, and he isn’t sure if you even realize the way your heel brushes his ankle every so often.
His profile, often never wrong, is what helps him reach across the slight space to tuck your hair behind your ear so casually as he tells you about his minuscule music taste.
After a few flirty comments, you force yourself yo look away from him just so you can het your breathing under control. Upon this action, you read the watch on his wrist and a frown sets on your lipstick stained lips.
“I should go home before it’s too late to walk.” You sigh, not wanting this moment to end.
He nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Those round eyes he’s starting to really adore look up at him and you chew your lip, almost like you’re waiting for him to do something. Say something.
It takes him entirely too long to figure out what to do. Morgan would be ashamed.
“C-Can I walk you home?” He asks in a rush and in eagerness.
You nod like that’s the best idea you’ve ever heard.
That’s how it leads to you leaning against him like it’s something you do often, walking in step as you ramble on and on about what you have to do to get your classroom ready for the new school year. He listens without annoyance like most guys would, then tells you about books he has that he thinks you might enjoy, books he could part with so you could give them to the students whose reading levels are above what the school provides.
He’s so caring and considerate, making sure he walks closest to the street, lets you be off in your own world and makes sure you don’t run into anything as you constantly gaze up at him. All the way to your building and up the stairs to your apartment door, the two of you are as comfortable with each other like two old friends would be.
That’s what makes your head spin. You just met Spencer and already feel like he’s been in your life for hundreds of years.
You pull your keys from your purse, you unlock the door but don’t make a move to open it.
“I’m really, really, happy that I met you.” You whisper to him as he slightly crowds your space in the door way.
“I am too.” He agrees, heart beating a little faster as your hand presses gently to his chest.
Don’t be crazy, you just met her, she doesn’t want a stranger trying to kiss her, tell her good night, call her tomorrow, maybe you can plan for something next weekend-
His thoughts don’t stand a chance when you wrap your fingers around his tie and gently tug him to your lips.
It’s smooth and warm and has your eyes shutting and your lungs exhaling. His gentle hand cradles your face while the other flexes against your hip.
It just feels so…
So right.
With the slight tilt of your head, the goodnight kiss deepens, you’re molded against him.
His lips part, coaxing yours to do the same, and the feeling of your tongue against his has you slightly teetering backwards. You lean against the door for support, hands roaming into his hair.
You’ve been wanting to run your hands through it all night.
He’s desperate in his movements, like he’s a starved man and you’re enjoying every second of it. His thumb runs over your jaw, you’re pushing away any space between you.
When you decide you’re going to pass out from the lack of oxygen, you pull away, sucking your bottom lip to savor the taste. Spencer still holds your face in his large hands and matches your shallow pants.
It’s all so much. You’re hot, brain a little foggy, but still so sure of this situation.
And you soon find yourself saying something you’ve never ever said after just meeting a guy.
“Do you want to come inside?”
Spencer seriously thinks he misheard you.
“Yeah- yes. Yes, I do.” He nods.
A laugh escapes your lips, one he swallows up as he embraces you once more, trying to help you open the door. His arm around your waist makes sure you don’t stumble and fall as the two of you finally get inside.
He looks around the space. “I like your apartment, it’s nice.”
“Thank you.” You mumble against his lips, pulling at your jean jacket and tossing it to the couch.
It’s dark, causing you to back into a side table. The both of you laugh, but neither of you bother to reach for the light switch.
You guid him towards your bedroom, pushing him through the ajar door. The open window leaves the room painted in a low light, the breeze is cool as you clumsily fall onto the mattress with him.
“I never do this.” You state, a huff leaving your lips as he rolls you onto your back.
“I don’t either.” He agrees, mouth wandering down your jaw to your neck.
You fiddling hands make a home in his hair. “Like I really don’t do this. I don’t even go to bars, let alone take home strange men- not that you’re strange. But don’t think I am a casual hookup girl, because I’m not, I just- there’s a connection, right? I’m not alone in this?”
He pulls away, looking down at you with a loopy grin. “You’re rambling, that’s a sign of nervousness.”
“I am nervous!” You exclaim with a breathy laugh. “You’re just…you’re really great.”
His thumb traces your bottom lip. “You’re really great too.” He whispers. “But we don’t have to do anything.”
“No!” You say a little too boldly. “I mean, no, no I want this. Do you want this?”
With a nod, he assures you. “I want this too.”
Maybe you should be more shy and self conscious about this, but when he’s being so kind, all your nervousness leaves. The two of you stumble through the awkward bits with laughter and jokes, and it makes you realize that something so serious doesn’t have to be so uniform.
Really, you’re having more fun than you’ve ever had.
“Spencer?” You gasp, dangerously close to falling off the bed at how the two of you have rolled around.
“Yeah?” He asks, head buried in your neck, trying not to get too ahead of himself as he continues his deep pace between your legs.
“You’re kinda pulling my hair.”
Immediately he moves his hand, apologetic.
Hands dragging up his chest, you try to shimmy away from the mattress ledge. Spencer notices the tragedy that’s about to strike, opting to back off of you completely so you can readjust.
You gasp at the loss of contact. “A little warning next time would be appreciated.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He stammers, gripping you in a feverish way, mouth back to yours.
You don’t exactly know how you ended up on top, but you look at him slightly frightened eyes.
“Is this a no?” He questions, only concerned with making you comfortable.
He’s the complete opposite of selfish, he proved that the second he started you off with his tongue against your core.
“No, not if you like this? I just…I don’t know if I’m good at this.”
He nods in understanding. “Okay, no problem.”
You protest as he goes to move you. “Can I try? Will-will you help me?”
God, he could marry you.
“Yeah, of course sweetheart.” He whispers, kissing you gently.
The butterflies in your stomach are all twitter pated.
Or maybe you’re just extremely turned on.
Spencer is a great teacher, it’s you who jumps the gun at things.
“There you go, angel, slow.” He breathes in your ear, finger tips pressing into your hips as you slowly push down, letting his tip enter you. “Just go really slow, okay?”
You try to do as he says, easing him into you slowly, but by some urge to rush satisfaction, you sink all the way onto him without warning.
“Fuck! That wasn’t slow.” He grits, a hoarse moan escaping from the back of his throat, his grip on you almost bruising.
“S-sorry.” You try to say, but the sheer pressure you feel at this sudden angle has you shuddering and crying out softly. “I’m an overachiever.” You try to joke.
“Holy shit, you want an A+ or something?” He chuckles, trying to calm himself down, running through mathematical formulas in his head so he doesn’t finish just like this.
“Spence, I need- it’s a lot, I need-” You whine out, not having the heart to feel embarrassed for sounding so needy.
“I know, I know. Fuck, do you have any idea how good you feel?” He questions, swallowing hard as he guides your hips forward slightly.
“I can’t really think at all when you’re sitting in my cervix right now.” You claim, quickly overwhelmed by pleasure as you find a rhythm against him.
Sucking on your throat, he mutters something you don’t care to listen to.
“This is- is it supposed to be this good?” You moan, trying not to dig your finger nails into his shoulders.
“I think we just fit perfectly.”
With each movement, you become more comfortable and confident, soon that friendly softness is replaced by lustful roughness. Through it all, Spencer remains caring, even when you tell him he can be a little rough with you.
Never in your sex life have you wanted more and more, even when it finishes.
Even after the two of you can’t find the strength to pull any more orgasms from each other, you lay beside each other, Spencer hasn’t bothered to pull out of you yet, perhaps he’s too spent.
“So.” You clear your throat, tracing his features. “How do you want to play this?”
He hums, dragging his fingers up and down your side. “What do you mean?”
“Guys usually leave after this stuff, right?”
His brows furrow, anxiety comes to ripple through him. “Do you want me to leave?”
Staring at his tired eyes, you shake your head. “No, I want you to stay. Forever. I’m thinking about chaining you to the headboard.”
He chuckles. “I’ll save you the effort, I will gladly stay.”
A sweet smile is returned to him.
At some point, the two of you clean up and fall asleep the second the sheets are pulled over you.
Spencer is convinced it’s all a dream until he wakes up to the sun warm over his skin. He rubs his blurry eyes and rolls over in the bed that is not his, met with your bare back. Slowly, he reaches for you, kissing your shoulder to rouse you.
His phone, still in the pocket of his discarded pants, rings again and again, forcing him to retrieve it in his boxers.
Of course it’s Hotch.
Of course he needs to get to the office. On a Saturday. After the night he just had.
“I should call the authorities, there’s a cute intruder in my room.” Your sleepy voice says from bed. “Oh wait…you are the authorities.”
He likes the way you can make yourself giggle.
“I have bad news.” He says, tracking down his clothes. “My boss just called me in.”
He hates the frown you have.
“That’s a very unfortunate thing.” You nod.
He buttons his pants, then slides his shirt on as he comes to your bedside.
“I should get going so I can go home and change.”
His warm hand presses to your cheek.
You turn to kiss his palm. “Is this goodbye?”
“No. Definitely no.” He assures. “I’ll call when I can, okay? Maybe we can get dinner or something?”
You could sigh heavenly at the way he’s just so dreamy.
“That sounds nice. I’d kiss you but I might have morning breath.” You smile.
He kisses you anyway.
And after leaving the team waiting in the round table room, he appears refreshed and in a very good mood.
He takes his seat, all eyes on him.
“Sorry I’m late, good morning.” He clears his throat.
“Good morning indeed.” Morgan chuckles, sliding him a cup of coffee.
“You okay, Reid?” Rossi asks, eyeing the agent.
“I’m great.” He smiles.
“Is that a hickey?” JJ exclaims, reveling in the way he quickly grabs for his neck, only to realize she’s joking.
“Real mature.” He mutters, knowing the entire day is going to be jokes made at his expense.
He doesn’t mind though, not when he knows his reward for all of this is you.
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
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Sam & Bucky (part 65)
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
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Waste a Moment / Part 8
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum. Descriptions of sex (not graphic)
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 3.9k
Note : Loved the new Thunderbolts trailer. I am so excited to see Buck and Yelena interact in MCU canon! I will also be posting a thunderbolts! Bucky one shot soon so keep your eyes peeled! Also I know I uploaded yesterday but I have this locked and loaded and ready to go so this chapter’s early! 🫶
Series Masterlist
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"Cursed By the Crown"
Friday.
You had already left the compound, exhausted from the day’s session. Bucky had stayed behind, as he often did, cleaning up the equipment and keeping to himself.
Yelena leaned on the doorway, watching him for a moment.
“Up for a spar?” Her tone was light, though her eyes had a stormy darkness to them.
Bucky exhaled, not even looking up. “It’s late.”
“Oh, come on.” She sauntered in, shrugging off her jacket and rolling her shoulders, settling into a loose stance. “Scared, Barnes?”
He shook his head, though his eyes never met hers. “Fine,” he said, almost to himself, moving into a ready position.
Bucky tightened his fists, his knuckles cracking under the pressure.
They began circling each other, slowly, like predators circling prey.
Yelena struck first, swift and precise. 
He blocked it, barely, the impact reverberating up his arm.
Yelena was relentless today. She pivoted, her leg sweeping out in a low arc, forcing him to jump back. She didn’t give him time to reset; she was on him again, fists flying in a controlled, practiced fury.
“You know, before she lost her memory,” Yelena’s voice emerged between punches, “she always thought you hated her.”
Bucky’s eyes widened.
She capitalized on it, her fist slamming into his ribs. He gasped, the pain sharp and immediate.
He forced himself to push back, retaliating with a swift punch aimed at her shoulder. 
She staggered back. 
“Now’s not the time,” he growled.
She threw another punch, this one grazing his jaw, just over the bruise you had given him when you punched him in your sleep. 
Yelena ignored his warning.
“You pushed her away. You were cold. Distant,” she said, words punctuated by each blow she landed, as if each strike was meant to drive home her accusation. 
Bucky could feel his temper rising, a familiar rage simmering beneath his touch skin.
Bucky caught her wrist with his metal arm mid-punch and twisting it, but careful not to break it. He shoved her back, but only for her to use the momentum to spring up again, her heel catching him across the jaw in a brutal arc. 
He could taste the metallic tang of blood from his lip, but he didn’t back down.
“Stop it,” he snapped. But she ignored him, her strikes coming harder. Faster.
“But you were always so protective of her,” she continued as she threw another punch, this one catching his shoulder. “Even when you pretended not to care, you watched over her. You noticed everything— the way she liked her coffee. Her favourite colour, the way she played with the ends of her hair when she was nervous.” She landed another blow, a quick jab to his gut that left him gasping. “Everyone noticed how much you cared. Everyone but her. But you pushed her away.”
Bucky swallowed, barely managing to hold back the waves of emotion threatening to break the surface. 
This time, he punched harder, knowing Yelena wasn’t going to hold back. 
He brought his knees up to her head. He didn’t put enough force to give her a concussion, but enough to draw blood from her forehead. 
Yelena blocked a hit from his human arm.
“Don’t tell her,” he said abruptly, his voice harsher than he intended.
“Why not?” She gripped his forearm.
He broke free, striking a punch that she couldn’t dodge, throwing her off balance. 
“I don’t want her to think of me like that,” Bucky replied.
Yelena’s eyebrows furrowed. 
“She’s not going to remember it on her own, Barnes.” Her knee shot up, catching him in the side. He staggered back, pain flaring through his ribs. “You’re the only one who can tell her how you were before and why.”
He blocked her next punch, gripping her arm tightly. He shoved her back.
Yelena stumbled, but she recovered quickly.
“What good is it going to do?” he bit out in frustration.
“If you don’t tell her, you’re going to carry that guilt forever,” she hissed. She aimed a punch at his jaw, but he ducked, countering with a brutal blow to her side. She gasped, wincing in pain. “N-not everybody—“ she spat a bit of blood on the mat— “It’s not everyday you get a second chance like this.”
“Second chances?” he echoed, throwing a punch that she narrowly avoided. “You want to talk to me about second chances, Belova?”
He watched as her usually flawless stance faltered.
“Sam told me,” he continued, his words venomous. “That you were too scared to see her. That you locked yourself up and whined and cried or whatever you did— when she was dying.”
Yelena’s face paled, her fists curling at her sides. Bucky saw the hurt behind her eyes, and maybe even a familiar guilt that followed him, too.
Yelena’s expression faltered. She opened her mouth to protest, but Bucky cut her off, putting another jab at the sides.
“At least I was there,” he said, his voice a mixture of frustration and pain as he dodged a side kick. “I sat by her bedside. I watched watched her fight just to breathe. I couldn’t— wouldn’t want her to be alone when she woke up. You think it was easy, watching her hooked up to all those machines just to stay alive?”
The words hit their mark; Yelena flinched as Bucky caught her in a headlock. Lucky for her, she knew how to outsmart a stronger opponent. She reached over in a desperate attempt to jab a finger close to his eyes as she could without blinding him.
When she broke free of his grip, she landed a vicious punch to his ribs, hard enough to make him double over.
“You think I didn’t want to be there?” she shouted, her voice cracked. She struck again, her fist connecting with his jaw, splitting the skin just below his cheekbone. Blood trickled down his face, mingling with the salty sting of sweat. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t lose another sister.”
“Excuses,” Bucky stumbled before catching himself. “I might have been cold. I might have kept my distance. But when she ran out of the compound, I tracked her. I offered her a place to stay. I was there when it mattered.”
“It’s doesn’t matter if I hurt her now,” Yelena’s voice rose now, almost a scream. “I am nothing. A friend, at most. I’m no longer a sister to her because she doesn’t fucking remember!” She took a breath, shoving Bucky down to the mat. “But you? You should hear the way she talks about you, Bucky. It’s like you hung the stars for her.”
He got up and turned away, chest heaving. 
He was done. 
Done with Yelena’s accusations. Her demands. Her criticism.
Mostly because he knew she was right.
Before he could storm out, she grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her again, her eyes ablaze with a mixture of hurt and desperation.
“If she finds out that I wasn’t there, it wouldn’t fucking matter,” she spat, her voice trembling in her Russian accent, dripping thicker now that she was shaking. “But if she finds out about you? It would break her. Because right now, you mean more to her than I ever did. Or ever could.”
Bucky’s breath caught, the words hitting harder than any punch she’d thrown. 
“You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Yelena’s grip tightened.
“No, you don’t get it,” she snapped, “She deserves to know who she’s falling in love with. All of you. Not just the parts you think are good enough for her.”
She’s falling in love with me? 
His fists loosened, his shoulders slumped. He looked at her swollen lip, her cut forehead, and realised what he’d done.
Yelena took a shaky breath, stepping back, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Just… think about it,” she pleaded.
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, alone. 
Bucky watched her, his face smeared with blood.
His blank stare flooded his mind back with memories—the moments where he had pushed you away, where he had convinced himself he wasn’t good enough for you, that you deserved someone better.
But now, he had a clean slate. He could be the person he always wanted to be for you. 
Maybe Yelena was right. Maybe he should tell you. But for now, he kept it to himself, wondering if he was making a mistake.
The door creaked open in your apartment.
Bucky tried to slip in quietly, but the minute you heard his footsteps, you emerged from the kitchen. You saw him standing near the small lamp, bruised and bloodied.
Your heart leapt into your throat, rushing over immediately.
“Bucky!” you gasped. You saw his split lip, the bruising above his cheekbone, the cuy along his jawline. He stood there, looking like he wanted the walls to swallow him whole.
You reached for him, guiding him toward the couch.
“What happened?” you asked, hands fluttering over his injuries as if you could somehow will them to disappear. The fear in your voice made him drop his gaze, his jaw clenching before he answered.
“Yelena,” he said, dismissively quick. “We were just sparring.” He tried to brush it off, but you knew Bucky’s little tells now— the way his eyebrows knitted when he had a lot on his mind. 
You eyed the bruises and the dried blood on his knuckles. “Just sparring?” you frowned. “You shouldn’t be training this… violently.”
He huffed, a weak smile tugging at his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. He started to say something, maybe to brush it off again, but the concern on your face made him go quiet.
You grabbed the first-aid kit Bruce had left— since he had been showing you teaching you basics over the last few days— you know, how to tend to a bullet wound. How to dislodge an arrow safely. 
He watched you open the box. His breath hitched as you rifled through it, muttering under your breath about “reckless idiots” and “grown ass spies who should know better.” Every so often, you glanced up, checking him with worried eyes.
He realized then just how much you truly cared. Just how deeply your concern ran. 
She looks at you like you hung the stars for her, Yelena had said. 
For the first time in a long time, he let himself be cared for—really cared for, not as a soldier, not as a mission.
“Maybe… I’ll have to talk to her about going easy on you,” you murmured with a small, gentle smile.
Never, he thought to himself, Yelena will never go easy on me. Not if I don’t tell you.
You pulled out antiseptic wipes and gauze, pulling him down on the cushions, letting him place his duffel bag on the floor. 
You kneeled down in front of him, taking his face in your hands with a tenderness that made his heart skip a beat. He felt the gentle kindness in your touch, the careful way you pressed against each wound.
“Hold still,” you whispered. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes. It was so unexpected that it sent your heart racing a thousand miles an hour.
Your fingers brushed the cut on his jaw, sending a dull ache through his skin, though he didn’t flinch. He just watched you, eyes tracing every line of your face. He studied the determination in your eyes, the way your lips parted in focus as you pressed the fabric against his swollen lip.
He felt his pulse race, fighting back the urge to reach for you.
You were so close, so painfully close.
You were so kind, partly because you didn’t know— didn’t know how he treated you then.
But now, you were looking at him with that delicate stare, with a warmth that felt like forgiveness for sins you didn’t even remember… it was too much. 
And fuck, he was so deeply, desperately in love with you. Every careful touch of your hands, every time your eyes met his— it made his chest ache.
He knew he had to have you now. Before Yelena could take you away from him.
Before Yelena could ruin this.
The words escaped him, hoarse, almost a whisper. 
“Kiss me.”
Your hands froze, your eyes widened. 
The words echoed in your mind. Time felt like it had slowed to a stop, your thoughts scrambled.
You had wanted this—wanted him—for so long, but had always held back. You did not want to cross that line.
But now… now, he was asking you to, almost pleading.
He swallowed, suddenly fearing he’d overstepped. 
But before he could apologize or take the words back, you leaned in, crashing your lips on to his, mindful of the bruise he had.
He was hesitant at first, waiting for you to pull back, to change your mind. When you didn’t, when you wrapped your arms around his neck, his restraint shattered.
His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer.
Your lips deepened into his, turning desperate, urgent, and he drank every part of you in. His metal hand roamed up your back, pressing against you as though he were trying to memorize every curve, every inch of you. 
Your fingers slid into his hair, and he groaned low in his throat. He sounded rough, needy. His hands found your waist, pulling you on his lap. You straddled him, inching closer. He felt your heartbeat against his chest, wild and frantic, just like his.
You grew hungrier, his mouth moving against yours with a fierce, aching desperation that left him dizzy. He found himself lost in you, his hands gripping you tighter, scared that you would slip away.
“I don’t know if I loved you then,” You broke away just long enough to gasp, “but I love you now.”
Bucky’s breath hitched as he pressed his forehead against yours. 
Yours. He thought. I am yours now. No matter what Yelena says.
“I love you too,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a ragged whisper.
For a moment, nothing else existed but the two of you, the world slipping away as he kissed again.
It was rougher this time, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his human fingers. You arched into his touch, gasping, and he kissed the hollow of your throat, breathing in the scent of you, feeling the way you clung to him.
And then, through the haze, a thought crept in, sharp and unwelcome, cutting through the bliss.
She deserves to know who she’s falling in love with, Yelena had said.
His hands stilled, the words rattling in his mind. He couldn’t ignore the truth—he was selfishly keeping you in the dark, shielding you from his mistakes, his regrets. 
He knew, deep down, that Yelena was right. 
But as you looked at him, eyes half-lidded and love drunk, fingers tracing his jaw lovingly, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter the moment. 
He cupped your face, brushing his thumb along your cheek, pulling you back into another kiss. It was soft this time, as if you were fragile. He thought could bury the guilt in the taste of you, and it did, if only for a while.
For now, he would keep this to himself, whatever the cost. He would let himself have this piece of you, even if it meant carrying the weight of the past alone.
Because, holding you like this, witnessing your love, he knew he’d sacrifice anything to keep you in his arms. 
Monday. 
The morning dawned in soft, golden light spilling through your curtains, and the warmth of it brought a gentle wakefulness that was better than any alarm. 
You were still tucked in Bucky’s arms. Even in sleep, he had held you close.
You stayed there for a few moments, enjoying the quiet before the day began, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady under your cheek.
You gently stirred, and Bucky’s arm tightened slightly.
His eyes slowly fluttered open to meet yours. Still hazy with sleep and a little unfocused, a small, sleepy smile pulled at his lips. 
For a while, he just looked at you. He had a tender quiet, tender awe in his expression that made your heart skip. His hand brushed lightly through your hair, his thumb tracing soft, absent-minded patterns against your shoulder as if he were memorizing the feel of you there beside him.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice still thick and warm from sleep.
You smiled. "Good morning."
"I hope last night was… okay." There was a slight pink to his cheeks, as if he hadn’t quite processed what happened.
Last night had begun slowly. 
It had started with soft, teasing kisses, and grew heated, electric. His hands began to explore, gliding down your back. The need was there—gentle yet unmistakable. 
Each touch had been a gentle question, asking if you wanted him to keep going, and each time, your answer had come in the way you tugged him closer, the way your hands wandered over his skin, over his metal arm as if it was flesh and bone.
As you moved to the bed, his lips found their way down your neck. He had pressed slow, tender kisses that left you trembling, soft gasps escaping your mouth. His hands had traveled down your sides. He had to let you feel how long he had wanted this for, yet never rushing.
The two of you had found a rhythm that felt like it was only yours and yours alone. You had laid there with him, moving together in a seamless, gentle flow. His gaze hadn’t left yours, even as his breaths grew heavier and his grip tightened. He had needed you to know how much he wanted you.
Your fingers had threaded through his hair, his name a soft whisper on your lips as you both grasped for each other’s high.
After cleaning and washing up, you had laid in your his and drifted off to sleep. The concrete had fallen on you in your dreams again, but this time you had been calm. This time, you had known it was going to pass. 
“It was more than okay,” you whispered, leaning closer, feeling his fingers tighten around you in response. 
Shyly, you gave a chaste kiss on his lips.
He returned it with a gentle smile.
Eventually, you both made your way to the kitchen, the usual morning routine feeling new and intimate now. 
He brewed coffee while you prepped breakfast, and though you both moved around in comfortable silence.
Every time you reached for something on the counter, his hand would brush against yours, and every time, he’d give you a playful grin.
After breakfast, he grabbed his jacket and raised an eyebrow. “Want to take a walk?”
The air outside was fresh with the early morning scent of dew on grass. The two of you walked side by side, his fingers brushing against yours with a sweet, hesitant touch, as if he were testing the waters. Finally, he slipped his hand into yours. 
You felt your cheeks warming, but you laced your fingers together without hesitation. 
Wednesday.
You woke up in Bucky’s arms again, and that night, the nightmares didn’t even come for you.
You did your morning routine, opting for a walk a little closer to lunch.
He pulled you into a tiny bookstore nestled into the corner of a quiet street, the cozy little shop bathed in soft, amber light and filled with the scent of dusty old pages. You wandered through the aisles, hands still entwined, occasionally stopping to point out interesting titles or laugh at the oddball covers on some of the paperbacks. 
He picked out a book that you loved, holding it out with an encouraging smile. “This one’s supposed to be great,” he said, the excitement in his voice contagious.
“Oh, really?” you replied, grinning as you took the book and added it to your stack. 
The walk back to your place was even better, both of you lost in soft laughter as he pointed out small things around the neighborhood you’d only noticed noticed now—a tiny coffee shop you’d walked by countless times, a mural tucked behind an old theater.
Back at your apartment, you settled on the couch, sipping water as you thumbed through the pages of your new book. Bucky leaned back beside you, stretching an arm around your shoulders, and you leaned into him without a second thought. 
His fingers traced gentle patterns on your shoulder as you read, and it took everything in you to keep your focus on the words in front of you, though you found yourself glancing over at him every few minutes, catching him watching you with that soft, steady gaze.
“Something on your mind?” you teased, nudging him slightly.
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice soft, sincere. “Just… you.” His words were so earnest that you felt yourself melt, unable to keep from smiling as you leaned in closer, your head resting on his shoulder.
The evening drifted in, you’d both fallen into a comfortable routine of watching a movie after dinner, and tonight was no different. As the movie started, Bucky wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close against him.
Halfway through, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. You looked up as he brushed a strand of hair from your face before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally, your lips. It was a sweet, lingering kiss, slow and filled with an unspoken promise that made your heart ache in the best way.
You settled back against him, resting your head on his chest.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured.
“Me too,” you whispered.
Sunday.
Some nights, in the last couple of days, Bucky would find himself wide awake, sitting in silence on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. The room was steeped in darkness, but there was just enough moonlight to illuminate the soft rise and fall of your chest.
The sight of you in gentle slumber, after all those weeks of struggling with the nightmares, should have reassured him, should have brought him comfort. But instead, it made his heart ache with a strange longing. 
Regret.
He sat there, hunched forward. Often, his hands clasped tightly together. His mind would wander, as it usually did in these quiet hours.
It drifted to the way he’d been with you before. Cold. Guarded. Pushing you away, convincing himself that he was doing the right thing by keeping his distance. 
He’d been so convinced you’d be better off without him, that he was doing you a favor by holding back, by shutting you out whenever you got too close.
But now… now you were giving him a second chance without even knowing it.
He wondered, night after night, if he was good enough for you now.
He couldn’t quite shake the fear that he was still falling short. That, one day, you’d remember everything, and this fragile happiness he’d found would shatter.
Part of him wanted to tell you, to open up, to confess everything about the person he’d been. The part of him that wanted you to know the truth, even if it hurt, even if it meant risking what he had with you now. But every time he got close to imagining what that conversation might look like, he’d stop himself. He would imagine your face filled with hurt, with betrayal.
Could he be the person you thought he was without telling you the truth about who he’d been?
-to be continued...
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
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Waste a Moment / Part 7
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.9k
Note : This chapter was quite nice to write. I’ve never had siblings but I’ve had people who I thought of as siblings so I hope the work translates to the reader and Yelena. Enjoy! 
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“How did You Find Me?”
Tuesday.
Eventually, it was time for you to move back to your apartment. You knew it was coming, but the knowledge didn’t make it easier. 
You had spent far more time at Bucky’s than you intended. His presence had become a comfort to the quiet confusion you occupied.
The day of the move, Bucky was there, as he had always been.
As you stood in the foreign space of your apartment, he was there— helping you rebuild the space a version of you once called home.
The two of you worked in near silence, the kind that had become comfortable. 
Every now and then, he’d ask where something should go. You wouldn’t know, so you just pointed at where you thought made the most sense.
There was something methodical about the process of unpacking and rearranging. Back at the museum, you loved cataloging, so this should have been soothing. But it wasn’t. 
As you placed your clothes back into drawers and rearranged ornamental things on the shelves, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were putting together a puzzle with missing pieces.
Bucky didn’t ask how you were, didn’t try to force a conversation you weren’t ready for. 
He just helped. 
He dusted the shelves you hadn’t touched in months. He wiped down the counters that gathered layers of dust. Every now and then, you caught him checking to make sure you were okay. 
By the time the apartment was mostly back in order, the sun had set. 
This space, once yours, felt like it belonged to a stranger. This sense of detachment was unsettling, like you were an outsider looking in.
Bucky moved towards the door, though he hadn’t opened it yet. He stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slightly torn jacket.
“It looks like it used to,” he said quietly. You glanced at him, then back at the room. You nodded, trusting that it did.
Bucky took a small step toward the door. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say goodbye, but his eyes told you he didn’t really want to go. 
“I’m gonna miss you,” he said finally. He stood there, one foot in your apartment and the other in the hallway.
You felt a flutter of panic that made your chest tighten. The thought of him leaving— of being alone in this empty space— was unbearable. 
Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Do you think… Can you stay? M-maybe for a couple weeks?”
Bucky blinked, surprised by your request. 
For a moment, you worried you’d said too much, that you’d crossed a line.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to be alone yet,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. 
The tension in his muscles melted away as he took a slow step toward you.  
When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “Of course.” He said, “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Wednesday.
Exhaustion finally pulled you into a restless sleep, but you didn't find any peace. 
It was the concrete again, heavy against your body. It collapsed around you, trapping you in a suffocating darkness. The cold scrape of rubble, the crushing weight, your muffled screams—  it was too much to process. You were desperate to escape. You were struggling to breathe. 
Then, you saw a tall figure walking towards you— Bucky! 
But the walls began to close in completely before he could get to you.
Suddenly, you felt rough hands on your shoulders, shaking you firmly. The world around you started to dissolve. 
You found yourself fighting against the intrusion.
You swung in self defense, fist connecting with something solid. A sharp grunt of pain finally pulled you back into the present. 
Jolting awake, you realized you were in your bedroom. Bucky crouched next to you, clutching his jaw.
“Oh, God—Bucky! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” you stammered, horrified.
His eyes softened relieved that you were awake, despite the slight bruise. 
He waved it off.” It’s okay,” he murmured, taking the punch surprisingly well. “I’ve had worse.”
You looked at the clock on your bedside table that read 01.00 AM. 
Had you only been asleep for two hours? 
“You were having a nightmare,” he told you.
You sat up, clutching the blankets to your chest. You couldn’t remember all the details, but terror settled in your bones anyway.
“I’m gonna stay here,” he said. His voice was calm, almost casual, almost waiting for your permission. “Just in case.”
Maybe you should just tell him to go back to the guest room, brush it all off with a forced laugh, or apologize profusely for punching him.
But the idea of being alone again, left to wrestle with the dark corners of your mind, was unbearable. 
You managed a nod. 
He eased himself beside you. He stayed above the covers, respecting the boundary between your space and his.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Bucky simply leaned back, propping himself on one arm, his other hand close to yours but not quite touching.
Eventually, he broke the silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You shook your head. It was too soon to put the fear into words. Bucky nodded, and you were grateful for it. He leaned back, his head resting against the headboard.
After a few moments, you let out a shaky breath.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
Slowly, hesitantly, you let your eyes shut, listening to the calm, reassuring sound of his breathing. Each rise and fall of his chest became an anchor, something to focus on beyond the remnants of your nightmare. 
The bed dipped slightly as he adjusted, inching closer. His human hand laid next to yours, a quiet offer of comfort if you wanted it.
Finally, you shifted closer, curling into the warmth of his presence. His arm wrapped around you, gentle and protective.
You didn’t think you could fall asleep again, but with him there, the crushing weight in your chest began to ease.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.
Saturday.
You started feeling at home again. 
As your eyes drifted to the former winter soldier readjusting flowers in your vase, you started to think that  maybe home didn't mean a place. Maybe home, to you, was a person.
Each morning he made you coffee, handing you a mug without a word. He offered to help with laundry. Slowly, he started moving his things here. His clothes. His toothbrush. His shoes.
He didn’t hover, but he was always around, as if he could tell when the walls began to feel like they were closing in. Sometimes, he’d catch you staring out the window, lost in thought, and he’d nudge you gently. Other times, he’d suggest small things to keep you anchored—a walk around the block, a stop at the corner store for groceries, or a quiet evening watching old movies. 
Today, you had trailed your fingers on his jaw, looking at the spot you had punched him in your sleep several days ago. You were amazed at how the bruise that formed was no longer there. Guess it made sense— super soldier healing and all. 
If only the bruises in your mind healed that quickly.
The nightmares didn’t vanish, but they started to lose their edge. When they came, they didn’t feel quite as suffocating, partly because when you’d wake, he’d be there.
He stayed in the guest room most nights, but if you needed him, he’d be there without question, laying with you until morning.
He tried to act as if he was happy with this being casual, being platonic. 
Sure.
Sunday.
Today, you found yourselves on the couch after a long day of training. Bucky had brought over a couple of old records he’d picked up from his storage room, and you both took turns picking the next one to play. 
At one point, you caught him watching you. 
When you looked over, he didn’t look away, didn’t try to hide the way he was studying your how your eyes lingered on his. 
After a moment, Bucky’s expression grew thoughtful.
“You know, that nightmare you keep having... with the concrete ?” He paused, meeting your eyes, weighing whether he should continue. “That’s actually what happened during the mission.”
You felt your chest tighten. "What do you mean?"
“I was part of the rescue team that went in to get you out.” He took a steadying breath. “I was the one who found you underneath the rubble.”
“You… saved me,” you whispered, trying to piece everything together. “I must’ve hit my head before you got there. I think I— I’ve lost them by then..”
He nodded, “You said you see me in your dreams sometimes,” His voice softened. “I was probably the first person you saw after hitting your head.”
Oh.
Bucky had been your first new memory in four years, the first face you’d seen after the darkness. All the quiet pull you’d felt toward him suddenly made sense. 
The strange safety you felt with Bucky—finally made sense. For once, something made sense.
It’s been so fucking long since anything made sense.
Tears slid down your cheeks, slow at first, then everything spilled over. 
The sobs came hard. When your shoulders shook, Bucky pulled you into his arms without hesitation. His hand moved gently along your back as the record skipped quietly in the background. 
He didn’t say a word. He just held you, knowing how much you needed this release. 
When the tears finally eased, you managed a weak, watery laugh. “So,” you joked. “I basically imprinted on you like a little gosling.”
He chuckled. “Lucky me.”
Monday.
The museum was unusually quiet, just the soft hum of ventilation and the muffled steps of a few wandering visitors. Maybe the laugh of a couple school kids pointing at the Homo Erectus display. 
You said hi to Alex before making your way in. 
You and Yelena moved through the halls. She had suggested the museum for your post-training catch-up today, knowing how familiar this place was to you. 
As you strolled through the Ancient Greek exhibit, you pointed at a sculpture that caught your attention.
"That's Mnemosyne," you said, "The goddess of memory."
Yelena looked at the statue with a curious squint. “There’s actually one for that?”
You nodded, feeling a faint sense of purpose as you explained. “In Orphism, which is this really interesting ancient Greek tradition, they believed the newly dead would drink from the River Lethe, which would make them forget their past lives. But if you drank from the river of memory—Mnemosyne—you’d remember everything and be free from the cycle of reincarnation.”
She turned to you, giving a small, almost mischievous smile. “And here you are, teaching me about memory after you’ve lost four years of it. Irony’s got a sense of humour.”
You chuckled, though the joke stung. “Drinking from Mnemosyne’s river would be pretty useful right about now.” Your tone was light, but the longing was unmistakable.
Yelena looked back at the statue. “Maybe you’re not supposed to get those years back,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe… they’re not important.”
There was a comfort in her words, as if forgetting allowed you to live in the present. To be new. To be whoever you decided you wanted to be.
After a while, you both settled on a bench in a quieter part of the gallery. The moment felt calm, with only the gaze of painted portraits and ancient relics to overhear you. 
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” you started, the words slipping out quietly. “It’s about Bucky.”
Her brow lifted slightly, leaning in. “Oh?”
“He’s been staying with me.” You took a deep breath. “Sometimes he stays in my room. He’s been helping me regulate my nightmares.”
Yelena listened, her features falling as she gave you a small nod of encouragement.
"I think…” you trailed off, heart fluttering nervously, “I think I’m falling in love with him.”
Yelena’s expression stayed steady, but her eyes sharpened a bit. She nodded, but her face was unreadable.
“I’m happy for you,” she said, though there was a hint of hesitation that you didn’t catch. “You sound… at peace with him.”
Relief washed over you in waves. Yelena’s support mattered to you in ways you didn’t quite understand.
“I feel safe with him,” you admitted, a smile spreading across your face. “I don’t know how to tell him yet, but… it’s just nice to feel… something real.”
She reached across, giving your hand a small squeeze. “You deserve to feel safe.” 
Her fingers lingered hesitantly before she let go.
An edge flicked behind Yelena’s eyes, a tension you couldn’t quite place. You thought it was just worry, the way she’d been looking out for you ever since everything went blank. 
But her mind was piecing together things she knew about Bucky that you’d forgotten— that she wasn’t sure you were ready to hear.
As you shared more— about how Bucky had held you through the worst of your nightmares, how he stayed without ever asking anything in return— she listened. 
She didn’t want to shatter the peace you’d found, not when you were finally beginning to reclaim your life. 
Still, she knew there were parts of Bucky that could change everything if they came to light.
She had thought, naively, that Bucky would tell you. Maybe he was just waiting for the right moment
But the way you spoke about him made it clear he wouldn’t.
Wednesday.
Yelena found Sam in the gym, his back to her as he worked through the last of his reps. 
Sam took a seat on the bench, ready to hear her out. 
She didn’t waste any time. She said your name, voice barely above a whisper.
Sam knew Yelena was protective of you, especially now, after everything you’d been through. "Go on," he coaxed.
Yelena’s hands clenched into fists. 
"She’s falling in love with Barnes, Sam." Her voice wavered, and she looked away for a second, like the thought of you being hurt was something she couldn’t bear. "But she doesn’t know what he was like before."
Sam’s shoulders slumped.
“I know,” he started. “But I don’t think he’s just pretending to care."
“But she doesn’t know.” Yelena’s voice cracked. "She doesn’t know he’s… he’s just trying to undo the damage he caused in the first place. I can’t let her fall for someone who’s hiding her own past from her." She took a shaky breath, blinking back the tears. 
You were the first person who came as close as a sister to her since Natasha... and losing the last four years you had together had been harder on her than she'd like to admit. Losing you to grief, losing your trust? That would break Yelena.  "She deserves the whole story. She deserves a choice.”
“It’s not that simple.” Sam looked away, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I saw him. In the hospital, before she woke up. He was there, holding her hand, talking to her for days as if she could hear. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t let her be alone."
Bucky had faced what she couldn’t bring herself to — he’d seen you at your lowest, at the brink of death. When Yelena first heard what had happened, she had locked herself to waste away in her apartment, sinking to the floor as sobs destroyed her body. 
She couldn’t go to see you— how could she?
She couldn’t bring herself to see even a hint of bruising on you. Couldn’t bear to witness the blood pooling on your head, the cuts on your limbs.
Hearing Sam tell her what happened to you had reminded her of losing Natasha.
The fear had paralyzed her. She couldn’t bear to see you unconscious, clinging to life by a fragile thread.
She hadn’t been there then, but Bucky had.
"It doesn’t change what he’s hiding.” She murmured, barely audible. “If he really cares about her, then he should be brave enough to tell her the truth.” Her voice trembled. “If she finds out he’s only with her to make up for his mistakes, to… to fix some guilt inside him, it’ll destroy her.”
No one’s allowed to destroy her, she thought, not after everything she had been through. 
“It's not just guilt.” Sam insisted. "Every time I see them together, it doesn’t look like he’s trying to atone. I know Bucky much better than you do. It looks like he’d finally realised what he’d— that he’d… that he loves her.”
No, Yelena thought. She knew he always had feelings for you but there's no way he loves you more than I do. 
She’d been there first; she knew you better than anyone, knew the sound of your laughter and the quiet sadness you tried to hide. She had loved you, the way she’d loved Natasha—like family. You were her sister in every way but blood.
But now, watching the way you talked about Bucky, the way he seemed to carry your pain as if it were his own... 
Maybe he did love you more, in ways she couldn’t, in ways she’d never even considered. 
“He still needs to tell her the truth,” her voice was much softer now,  though no less fierce. “He owes her that much."
“Then talk to him,” Sam nodded. “Make him see what’s at stake.”
“And if he doesn’t tell her?” Yelena blinked. "I can’t watch her fall apart. Not again."
“Neither can I.” Sam’s voice strained as he packed his things into his duffel bag, "But let him try. Give him more time.”
Time.
Yelena knew better than most people that time was just a cruel joke running circles around mortals like her.
And she was getting impatient.
-to be continued…
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
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Waste a Moment / Part 6
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.7k
Note : I am a sucker for slow burn, I apologise. Best friend!Yelena is in this one! Enjoy! (I’m still uploading every other day!)
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“Live Wire”
Thursday.
Rejoining the training sessions was… something.
It felt strange, like stepping into a role that was made for you, if only you were better. 
You knew (or at least everyone told you) that you were a part of this team, that you were once strong and capable. But now you couldn’t recall why or how.
The familiar scent of the training facility, the clang of metal, the faint buzz of conversation from otherworldly superheroes— it felt like a stage, and you were just an actor. 
Every step forward felt like the foundation beneath you would crumble any second. The memories of missions and battles shared with these people were just another fog you couldn’t seem to see through. 
The visits from your teammates, your friends, were nice. They just didn’t help. 
The memories weren't coming back, so they were never gonna help.
But you weren’t here to dwell on the gaps in your mind— you were here to train and fight.
Bucky and Clint took the lead in helping you regain your strength, your muscle memory, and your instincts. They started with the basics: hand-to-hand combat, endurance sessions, and weapons training. 
I should be able to do this with my eyes closed, you told yourself. 
The reality was far more frustrating.
You found yourself stumbling over things that should come naturally. A punch that should have landed easily got lost in the air. A knife that once felt like an extension of your arm now felt slippery in your grip. 
You missed, you faltered. 
Each time you failed, a small voice in the back of your mind whispered: You’re not the hero you used to be. You are not who they say you were.
Every mistake seemed to put a distance between who you were and who you are now. You wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand answers from your fractured memory. But no matter how hard you pushed yourself, the pieces never came back together.
And yet, Bucky was patient.
You weren’t blind to the soft and protective looks he gave you.
“You’re doing great,” he said after a particularly gruelling session. He handed you a towel as you sat on the bench, panting in short breaths and dripping with sweat.
Your brows furrowed. “I missed half my shots, Buck. That’s not great.”
He crouched down in front of you, holding your hand in ressurance. “It’s only your first day.” 
Friday.
The second day felt a little less foreign, though the frustration was still there. You walked into the training room with muscles sore from yesterday’s efforts, but there was a quiet determination there now.
Clint was already there, arms crossed after you took a short water break. He gave you a small, reassuring nod. “Ready for round two?” he asked, his voice warm.
You nodded.
The drill began, and while you still missed more than you hit, something felt different today. You were far from perfect, but every punch and every kick felt a little sharper. 
Wednesday.
It wasn’t long until you began to see real progress. The hits landed more frequently, your stance more grounded, your reflexes sharper. 
This morning, during an intense sparring session, you felt everything click into place. The sound of fists meeting flesh, the heavy breaths, the rhythm of footwork— all of it felt like a dance you once knew all the steps to. 
Then it happened.
With a swift motion, you knocked Bucky off balance. His eyes widened briefly in surprise as he stumbled back, hitting the mat with a soft thud. 
For a moment, you stared at him, stunned, your hands still raised in a defensive position. 
“Did I just—”
Bucky looked up at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was a rare sight of pure joy that made your heart skip. “You did,” he chuckled, brushing himself off as he stood. 
A wide grin spread across your face, the rush of adrenaline making your heart race. 
You had not believed Clint when he said muscle memory would kick in eventually, but now you might.
Friday.
Over the week, you started throwing yourself deeper into training. At times, it bordered on obsession. The confusion, the gaps in your memory, they hurt in a way you couldn’t quite explain, so you drowned yourself in the physical pain of training to distract yourself.
Working with Rhodey and Bruce became your daily escape. 
Together, they taught you new tactics and strategies, methods that felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. 
They were cautious at first, as if handling fragile glass. But when you kept pushing, they began to push back, giving you a challenge they knew you were ready for. 
You noticed the shift in their eyes— recognition, even respect.
Each combat session left you drenched in sweat and aching everywhere, but there was a satisfaction in the exhaustion. 
It gave you purpose.
Monday.
After a particularly gruelling training session, you collapsed onto the edge of the mat. Sweat dripped from your forehead as you tried to catch your breath. Every muscle in your body welt like it was on fire, reminding you just how much work it took to push past the limits of your body and mind. 
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rhodey heading your way. With a half smile, he tossed a towel to you. 
"You're starting to look like the old you," he teased encouragingly.
You smiled softly, wiping the sweat from your face. "I don’t feel like her yet," you admitted.
It was true. The person you once were seemed so distant, like a ghost you couldn’t quite reach. “I don't think I ever will.” You said. “Not entirely.”
Rhodey sat down beside you, leaning forward. He rested his elbows on his knees. 
"You don’t have to be," he said, "If anything, you’re better." 
Better. Could that really be true? 
Friday.
You were in the middle of a heated sparring session with Yelena. Like always, she wasn’t going easy on you. Her precise movements kept you on your toes. She pushed you to your limits, and that was exactly what you needed.
Every dodge, every counterattack she made was technically perfect, and you had to stay extra focused just to keep up.
She ducked under one of your punches, twisting her body smoothly as she lashed out with a quick kick aimed at your ribs. But this time, you saw it coming. 
You blocked the strike with your arm, feeling the force of the impact reverberate in your bones. Without hesitation, you swept low, catching Yelena off-guard. Her feet left the ground as she fell hard onto the mat.
For a second, she stared up at you in surprise.
Then, she broke into laughter. 
“Maybe you are back,” she said between chuckles, the happiest you’ve seen her since you returned back to training.
You couldn’t help but smile as you reached down to offer her a hand. "Maybe," you said, pulling her to her feet.
She was beaming at you.
She was proud of you.
Yelena dusted herself off. “You used to do that move all the time,” she said absentmindedly. “It always caught me off guard.”
You tried to search for the memory she described, but there was only emptiness where it should have been.
Your smile faltered. “I… I don’t remember that,” you admitted quietly.
Yelena’s eyebrows softened.
“Look,” Yelena said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “I’m not going to get all sentimental on you, but you’re still kicking my ass. That’s a good sign.” 
You managed a small laugh, shaking your head. “I guess so.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t just a teasing grin this time— it was softer, more understanding. “Besides, who needs the old stuff when we can make better memories?”
Her optimism was contagious. You found yourself nodding, though the ache in your chest hadn’t entirely disappeared. 
Yelena glanced at you. “What do you say we grab some lunch? I can remind you of all the stories you’ve conveniently forgotten.”
You laughed, the sound coming easier now. “I’m in.”
Lunch with Yelena started off light and easy. You both sat in a small diner, the kind of place with cosy booths and mismatched mugs. For the first time in a while, you felt a little more relaxed. The sparring session had left you tired, but pleasantly so. 
“So, do you remember the time I convinced you to try those disgusting energy bars Natasha used to swear by?” Yelena started, a sly grin spreading across her face as she picked at her food. “You gagged so hard you nearly threw up.”
You blinked, trying to dig into a memory again, but it came up blank. “I… can’t say I do,” you said with an apologetic shrug, though her laughter made you smile, despite the emptiness.
“It’s fine,” Yelena waved it off. “Just trust me, you looked ridiculous.” Her grin widened, enjoying the memory enough for both of you.
Yelena launched into a couple more stories, trying to paint you vivid pictures of missions and moments that felt so far away. You could hear the fondness in her voice as she spoke, you could see the gleam in her eyes when she talked about how you used to bicker with her over ridiculous things, like the right way to disarm someone or who was faster at sneaking through security. Of course she claimed she was always right.
It made you feel… connected, even if the memories were missing. It gave you hope that maybe, you could rebuild these relationships from the ground up. 
Just as you started to feel more settled, Yelena’s tone shifted ever so slightly. She leaned back, her voice casual.
“So,” she began slowly, “how’s it going with Bucky? I heard you’re still staying with him.”
It seemed to come out of nowhere. 
You blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. Brushing it off as bluntness, you quickly recovered.
The warmth in your voice was unmistakable. “He’s been incredible.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow, her fork pausing mid-air. “Incredible?” 
There was something about her tone—something you couldn’t quite place—but you didn’t think too much of it. Instead, you nodded, your mind drifting back to Bucky. 
“He’s sweet,” you continued, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Caring.” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I don’t think I’d be managing as well as I have without him.”
Yelena’s gaze didn’t move. If anything, her eyes seemed to narrow slightly.
“Interesting,” she murmured, more to herself than to you.
You didn’t catch the shift in her demeanour, too lost in your own thoughts about Bucky. But Yelena’s mind was racing, almost as quickly as her heart. 
She knew Bucky well. 
She had seen him around you before your memory loss, had seen the way he’d acted toward you— distant, cold, even cruel at times. 
Bucky had always been in love with you; that had always been obvious to Yelena. But he had never let himself get close to you. He didn’t think he deserved you, didn’t think he was worthy of anything or anyone good in his life. 
Yelena had watched as he pushed you away time and time again, putting up walls whenever you got too close. She’d seen the way he kept you out, how he said things that were hurtful things that had made you question whether he even liked you at all. 
Yelena remembered that night with perfect clarity. 
It had been the night before everything changed— before the mission that took your memories.
She could still see the way you looked when you knocked on her apartment door that night— tired, heartbroken. Your knock had been soft, hesitant, like you didn’t really want to be there but had nowhere else to go. 
Yelena had opened the door to find you standing there, looking like a shell of yourself.
“He said he didn’t want my company.” Your voice had been shaky, small, barely above a whisper. “Bucky said he felt like he couldn’t breathe around me.”
Yelena had rolled her eyes, more out of frustration with Bucky than anything else. 
“Boys,” she had muttered under her breath, motioning for you to come inside, not knowing then that this was the last time she would see you like this—the last time you’d even remember the pain he had caused.
You had slumped down onto her couch, hands trembling slightly as you wiped your eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling. 
She had seen this pattern before. 
Bucky pushed you away, lashed out, cutting himself off from you just when you were trying to get close. 
“I don’t know why he does this,” you had said, your voice cracking. “All I do is try. All I ever do is fucking try, and he just… he just hates me. I just want him to at least tolerate me. We work together, don't we?”
That had gotten to Yelena the most—that wounded look in your eyes, the disbelief in your voice. 
You had slumped back further into the couch. “I swear,” you had muttered that day, voice thick with exhaustion and anger. “I’m not gonna fucking try anymore. I’m done.”
Yelena hadn’t known what to say back then. Part of her had wanted to tell you to forget about him, to let Bucky sort out his own mess, but she’d known you too well. She’d seen the way you looked at him—the way you cared deeply, despite everything. 
She had settled for sitting beside you in silence. 
She had never imagined that the next day, everything would spiral out of control—that the mission you went on would end with you in a hospital bed, your mind wiped clean of so much of what made you you. 
And now, watching you across the table, smiling so easily as if Bucky had always been this kind version of himself, Yelena felt that same frustration.
She wanted to tell you what he’d done, how he had pushed you away—hurt you. But looking at you now, seeing the way you spoke about him with admiration, Yelena bit her tongue. She couldn’t destroy that peace for you.
Not yet. 
But what is this?
Bucky was suddenly different? You were telling her that he was sweet and caring? That he was doting on you? It didn’t make sense. Why was Bucky suddenly so attentive, so affectionate? What changed? 
Now that you didn’t remember, why was he this perfect version of himself, the one you had always wanted him to be? 
Yelena couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. 
Was Bucky taking advantage of the fact that you couldn’t remember the way he’d treated you before? 
Yelena took a deep breath. She offered you a small, tight smile, masking the anger bubbling beneath her skin. 
She would confront Bucky eventually, but she would give him time to come clean on his own. 
But she wouldn’t let him rewrite the past just because you couldn’t remember it. 
Not when it was her best friend.
Not when it was you.
-to be continued…
Taglist : @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x @lomlbuckybarnes 
@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa 
@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07 
@florie1 @nyutasgirl @coraliix @harrysgothicbitch @jules-and-gemss
@infqnitysblog @isnow-0r-never @roofwitty779 @baw1066 @wasalreadyhere
@cjand10 @greatmistakes @winterslove1917 @calwitch @sebastians-love
@gyllord @brckenmemories @ethereal-witch24 @diffidentphantom
@avatarofthetimelords @lumidotexe @oscarissac2099 @currentfacination @pono-pura-vida
@blackbirdwitch22 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @ayayaeyato @btssaysstudy @unaxv
@otterlycanadian @lifeisbutadream444 @mostlymarvelgirl @ozwriterchick @m1cky-y-y
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@sunnyhummingbee @onelonelybitch @angelichwv
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
Text
Waste a Moment / Part 5
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.7k
Note : I’ve got this queued up so if you asked to be tagged in the last 12 hours, I have not added you but will add you to the next one! It’s my masters graduation ceremony and I have a lot of people to catch up with so won't be very active today. Enjoy!
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“From Behind Your Eyes”
Monday.
Things began to shift between you and Bucky in subtle ways. 
It started with small moments. Today, during a walk through the city, he asked if you wanted to stop by a bakery. 
“Your favourite," he said with a soft smile.
You blinked at him, caught off guard. You didn’t know it was your favourite bakery—it had only opened a year ago
You had no recollection of it existing, let  alone stepping inside.
Yet, when you stood outside the little shop, taking in the scent of freshly baked bread and buttery pastries, you sighed in recognition. Like your senses were telling you that this was the place, even though your mind was blank. 
Bucky held the door open, letting you step inside. The bell above the door jingled, and that sound struck something deep within you. Was it... loss? Or comfort? You weren’t sure. 
He handed you a croissant without a word. 
When you took your first bite, something clicked. It felt right, the taste, the texture—the buttery flakiness melting on your tongue. It was comforting, familiar, even if the memories that should accompany it weren’t there. 
You couldn’t explain why, but for the first time, a puzzle piece fell into place.
You glanced up at Bucky. His eyes were fixed on you, watching your reaction closely. 
"Good?" he asked, his voice careful, almost too casual.
"Yeah.” You nodded, swallowing the pastry.
It was more than good—it felt like home. Whatever that meant these days.
Wednesday.
The scent of pancakes filled the air on Wednesday morning.
You heard the sound of sizzling batter before seeing Bucky standing over the stove, smiling at you.
"A whole tablespoon of butter and two of maple syrup," he said, placing a plate in front of you. He was busying himself with the last touches, but you could see the concentration in his movements, the care he had put into even something so simple.
You stared down at the plate, your fork hovering just above the fluffy stack. It looked perfect, like it had been made specifically for you, and in a way, it had. You couldn’t remember ever eating this combination of specific measurements before— you always thought you were a cereal eater. But somehow, the moment you took that first bite, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
A comfortable silence settled between you two as you ate.  The pancakes were soft, the butter melting, and the syrup soaked through just enough to make each bite rich but not overwhelming. It was perfect. 
He was perfect.
A soft smile tugged at your lips as you watched him out of the corner of your eye. There was something endearing about how well he knew you, even when you didn’t know yourself. 
The more time you spent with him, the more you found yourself drawn to him— not just because he was familiar, but because he made you feel safe. 
And somewhere along the way, that safety began to shift into something else.
Your heart started to skip a beat when he laughed. Your stomach fluttered when he’d touched you. You found yourself looking for more and more excuses to be around him. 
You caught yourself staring at him more than once—like now, as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. 
Your chest tightening in ways that were starting to feel dangerously familiar. A crush. 
Bucky looked up and caught your gaze, and you quickly focused back on your plate, heat rising to your cheeks. 
Friday.
Today, you were curled up in the living room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders when he handed you a book. 
"You read this a couple of years ago," he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. He held out the worn copy of a short book, fingers brushing against the frayed edges. "Thought you might want to read it again."
You took it from him, your eyes skimming the cover. The title stirred nothing at first—just another gap in your mind. 
There was a quiet confidence in the way he handed you the book that maybe, just maybe, this small thing would help. 
As you read, something unlocked within you. The words slipped into place like they belonged.
Like they had always belonged.
Sunday.
By the time you finished, it had become your favourite book once again.
"You knew," you said, feeling a little shy, admitting how easily you'd fallen back in love with it.
Bucky smiled, the kind of smile that reached his eyes, though there was always a hint of something dark behind it. "Some things don’t change."
You wanted to believe him, but you knew better.
The truth was, so much had changed. The pieces of your life felt scattered, rearranged in ways you didn’t always understand. 
Bucky… he was a constant. It was as though he saw parts of you that you hadn’t yet rediscovered.
You noticed it in the quiet moments—the way Bucky would linger in doorways, watching you, or how his voice softened whenever he said your name, like he was holding onto a precious gem. 
You weren’t the person you had been before, and yet, with Bucky, you started to feel like maybe you didn’t have to be. 
Still, there was an unspoken thing that hung between you, something that Bucky carried but never fully acknowledged. 
Monday.
Bucky had trouble sleeping, as he would do when he was under a lot of stress.
He laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could feel his racing heart, as if it wanted to claw its way out.
In his mind, he replayed the moment that haunted him every night—the words he’d said to you.
“I feel like I can’t breathe around you.”
He had said it with a cold finality, and regretted it immediately.  
He’d only ever driven you away to spare you from the darkness he dragged around like ankle weights. You deserved so much more— someone free from shadows that never seemed to leave.
Even if you’d forgotten, he couldn’t unburden himself from the knowledge that he’d pushed you away when he should have held you close.
And when he did finally fall asleep, nightmares haunted him. 
In the dream, he watched realisation dawning on your face— as you remembered the things he’d said, the hurt he’d caused. You looked at him with that same raw, wounded expression he’d seen before, the same one that haunted him on sleepless nights.
In the dream, you turned away, just as you had before, only this time you were walking into the dark embrace of death. He reached for you, desperate to take it all back, but the distance between you grew. 
He’d run and run, trying to follow you, but at the end of the tunnel, he’d see you limp body lying underneath the rubble.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He laid in bed, trembling, drenched in sweat.
Unable to stay there, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. He found himself heading down the hall toward your room. 
The light in the guest room was dim, the door left slightly ajar, as it always was. You told him it made you feel less alone, that someone was nearby if you needed them.
Bucky found himself standing just outside, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest.
You looked so peaceful, so innocent in sleep, untouched by the memories that plagued him. 
Quietly, he leaned against the doorframe. The words slipped out before he could stop them.
“I feel like I can’t breathe around you,” he whispered.
It was true then, and it was true now—though for different reasons.
Back then, he’d said it to drive you away, to keep you from seeing the broken parts of him he didn’t want you to know. 
But now, every small smile, every lingering glance, every hesitant touch stole his breath, until he was choking on the overwhelming affection he felt for you and on the regret of what he’d said to you.
“I thought I didn’t deserve you.” He swallowed. “I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping you away.” His eyes studied you, memorising every scar, every curve. “But I was wrong. and you’ll never know…”
All he wanted was to tell you the truth, to give you the choice to stay or to go. But the thought of you choosing to go… he couldn’t bear it.
You shifted slightly in your sleep, and Bucky’s heart skipped a bit. For a split second, he thought he’d woken you, but you settled back against your pillow, your cute snores filling the air again. 
He let out a small sigh of relief.
He lingered a moment longer, allowing himself this one selfish moment to simply be there, watching over you.
He stayed for ten minutes.
Ten turned to thirty.
And thirty minutes turned to an hour.   
Then, he started noticing things.
At first, it was subtle— his enhanced hearing noticed that your breathing quickened. He then saw your brows knitting together.
He knew the signs by heart— a nightmare.
His chest tightened as he watched, his metal fingers curling around the doorframe. He wanted to reach out, to wake you before the horrors took hold. But he froze, unsure if his presence would be a comfort or if it would only make things worse.
You whimpered softly, The sound was like a bullet to his brain, slicing through the peace he had found watching over you.
Bucky knew— perhaps too well— all the ways a nightmare could lay you bare, exposing the things you wanted no one else to see. Who was he to interfere, to try drag you out of the darkness when he himself lived in it?
Then you whispered his name. The sound sent a chill down his spine. His name, spoken with a tone so raw and broken it made his heart ache. Were you dreaming of him? Of the words he had said, the pain he had caused?
He didn’t know why he stayed as he watched you wrestle with whatever horrors your mind had conjured. He took a small, shaky step forward. His mouth opened but nothing came out. 
Your breathing grew ragged, your hands clutching at the blanket. Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, shame brewing inside him. 
He knew he should be there for you, but he couldn't bring himself to cross that threshold, to invade the fragile privacy of your dreams.
Finally, your breathing steadied, the nightmare subsiding. Bucky released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
He took a step back.
He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t tried to help.
He watched a second longer, making sure you’d found peaceful sleep again. When he was certain you had, he turned and left for his room.
As he closed his door behind him, Bucky let out a shaky sigh. His body slid on the floor, pressing his palms against his eyes as he tried to block out the image of you—fragile, broken, and alone in a nightmare he might have caused.
He wrapped his hand around his knees, rocking slightly in an attempt to keep himself sane.
He shifted slightly, feeling an odd dampness against his skin. It was only when he brought a hand to his face that he realised his cheeks were wet, his shirt damp where the tears had dropped. 
He hadn't even realised he started crying.
The tears kept coming, slow and steady, trickling down on his face.
He thought of you, peaceful again now, but still vulnerable, left to face nightmares he was too afraid to pull you from. He thought of the words he’d spoken to you, the ones he could never take back. The ones that had hurt you more than he’d ever wanted. 
The tears were relentless, a silent admission of all the things he’d buried—his regret, his self-loathing, his desperation for forgiveness he was too afraid to ask for. His body shook with quiet sobs, his breaths shallow and uneven.
And for the first time since he thought he’d lost you, Bucky let himself cry for everything he’d lost. 
For the moments he’d missed, the chances he’d thrown away, the love he’d pushed aside out of fear. And as his tears finally slowed, leaving him a hollow shell of himself, he realised that this was the price he’d paid for pushing you away all those years.
Tuesday.
“Do you ever have nightmares?” you asked between breakfast bites, trying to sound casual as you picked at your food.
You didn’t know how to admit it at first, but even when you slept through all of last night, you hadn’t slept very well. Every time you’d close your eyes, you’d find yourself trapped under layers of crushing weight, and the fear would trap you in unconsciousness, unable to wake up, unable to separate what’s real or fake.
Bucky paused just slightly before he looked up. For a moment, he didn’t know how much to say.
“Yeah,” he replied finally, cautiously. “It used to be worse.” 
You nodded, encouraged by his honesty. “Mine are… strange. They’re just pieces. I don't remember them all.” You looked down at your hands, unsure how to continue. “It doesn’t even feel like they’re mine.”
“How come?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.
“It’s… I—I feel like I’m trapped under something heavy. I can’t breathe, and when I try to move, it just…”
You stopped in your tracks, the nightmares slipping away just as your memory had. 
“And I see you sometimes,” you admitted sheepishly, “I feel you pulling me out of the dark.”
Bucky’s hand brushed yours across the table. 
He swallowed hard, knowing that was where he found you. How he found you. Crushed under the rubble, barely alive.
Still, a wave of relief washed over him. If there was any comfort to cling to in all of this, it was that he hadn’t caused your nightmares. You hadn’t heard his quiet confession from the night before, those fragile words spoken in the darkness while you slept. You didn’t know.
You didn’t know what he said.
You didn’t know. 
You can’t ever know.
A twisting guilt formed in his stomach— would I really rather have her dream of a crushing pain over the painful words I said?
“They can’t hurt you,” he said finally, his voice stern with conviction. He was convincing himself, really, more than you. 
You felt the cold of his metal hand, but your cheeks started burning. 
You met his eyes, and for a moment, the vulnerability between you was tangible.
“Thank you, Bucky.” Your voice was barely a whisper. “For making me feel like I’m not alone.”
He looked down. A small, shy smile tugged at his lips. “Anytime.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. His hand lingered on yours, fingers tracing small circles against your skin. 
You didn’t even realise you were leaning in until you felt his breath against your lips—warm, shallow, like he was fighting the same internal battle you were. His eyes flicked down to your mouth for the briefest second.
The pull between you was magnetic.
His fingers trailed up your arm, lingering at your forearm, and it was that touch—the coolness of his skin against tour veins—that undid you. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst from your chest. 
And then, without thinking, you started closing the gap.
His lips hovered over yours, not quite touching, the tension so thick it was suffocating.
It was a heartbeat away. 
But then—
The sound of your phone shattered the moment, vibrating against the table.
Sam’s name flashed on the screen, his timing almost painfully ironic.
“Hey,” you answered, forcing your voice to stay steady.
“Hey!” Sam was his usual chipper self, oblivious to what he’d interrupted. “We’re discussing a training program for you if you want to come back on Thursday?”
You glanced at Bucky. He had turned away slightly, focusing on his half-eaten plate. “I— I’ll think about it,” you replied, feeling a pang of disappointment as you hung up.
You glanced at Bucky, wondering if he felt the same strange disconnect.
He didn’t say anything. His expression had shifted back to that neutral calm he so often wore.
You wished you had the courage to say something, that you could break the silence and address what had nearly happened between you. 
You were too unsure, too awkward to bring it up. You weren’t sure what it even meant—whether it was a lapse in judgement, a moment of weakness, or if it was something more that neither of you were brave enough to confront.
“I think I’m gonna start training again on Thursday.”
-to be continued...
Taglist : @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x @lomlbuckybarnes 
@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa 
@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07 
@florie1 @nyutasgirl @coraliix @harrysgothicbitch @jules-and-gemss
@infqnitysblog @isnow-0r-never @roofwitty779 @baw1066 @wasalreadyhere
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@gyllord @brckenmemories @ethereal-witch24 @diffidentphantom
@avatarofthetimelords @lumidotexe @oscarissac2099 @currentfacination @pono-pura-vida
@blackbirdwitch22 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @ayayaeyato @btssaysstudy @unaxv
@otterlycanadian @lifeisbutadream444 @mostlymarvelgirl @ozwriterchick @m1cky-y-y
@ordelixx @jadeofspadesxp @generousmiraclebread @jeremyrennermakesmesmile@titasweetandsour 
@one-lengthiness36 @chimchoom @waitingformysandman @blackhawkfanatic @chaotic-taco-collector-blog
@aurysartstudio @olive-main
324 notes · View notes
safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
Text
Waste a Moment / Part 4
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.3k
Note : thank you for all the love for this series. Please let me know if I’ve missed tags because I’m currently doing it on mobile and I’m not used to it!
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“Porcelain Smile”
Monday, the next week.
"We can take today slow," Bucky said, as if reading your thoughts. "No pressure, alright?"
It was your first visit, and a mixture of fear and excitement knotted in your stomach. Maybe this would help… maybe it would bring something back.
You nodded, grateful for his patience. He’d been so sweet all week, giving you space even though it was clear he’d been hurting too.
After a while, you get out of bed. As you make your way to the living room, you’re greeted by a familiar face. 
A former widow you could’ve sworn you’ve only seen in newspapers.
Yelena Belova was leaning against the kitchen counter, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw you.
"There she is," Yelena said with a hesitant grin, though there wasa softness in her voice. 
You smiled weakly, feeling both comforted and awkward. Yelena walked over, pulling you into a hug without hesitation. When Yelena hugged you, her arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, you felt safe for a moment—until the smell of her perfume hit you. It was too familiar, too personal, and suddenly you couldn’t breathe. 
She let go, stepping back with a smile, but you could only manage a weak nod in return. You had no idea what to say to a person who clearly loved you when you didn’t know if you loved her back.
"Don’t worry, you’ll remember soon," she murmured into your ear, though the words sound like more of a hope than a certainty.
Tuesday.
Scott Lang and Hope Van Dyne stopped by today. 
Scott was his usual self—at least that was what Bucky said—casually confident, cracking jokes the moment he stepped into the room like he was on stage at a comedy club, performing just for you. His humour was a welcome distraction, even though the memories he dredged up were cloudy at best.
“Hey, remember when we accidentally got you stuck in the quantum realm?” Scott said with a wide grin, nudging Hope as if the memory was a shared inside joke. 
He laughed at the absurdity of it, but when you shook your head with a soft, apologetic smile, his grin faltered just a bit— enough for you to notice.
“Right,” he stumbled, “That’s alright! we’ll make new memories”
Hope, ever the more grounded of the two, caught the slight shift in his tone and gently jabbed his side with her elbow. 
She turned to you, her eyes soft and sincere, her presence was calming in a way that let you breathe just a little easier. 
“We’re just glad you’re here,” she said gently. She didn’t try to fill the silence with more words, didn’t push for you to remember or laugh at the right moments. 
Scott shot you a thumbs up, his grin slowly returning as Hope rolled her eyes.
“Hey, at least I didn’t try to shrink the furniture this time,” Scott joked, trying once more. And this time, you found yourself smiling—just a little. A new memory, however small, was already in the making.
Wednesday.
Clint Barton dropped by this afternoon, a lopsided smile on his face and a pie in his hands, the warm scent of cinnamon and baked apples filled the room even before he walked in the door. 
The flaky golden crust shimmered slightly in the light, and your stomach gave a quiet grumble in response.
As soon as you took a bite, you slumped back on the couch and hummed, satisfied. It was perfect. 
The sweetness wasn’t overpowering, the spices were just right, You couldn't help but take another bite. 
“Laura baked it for you," Clint said with a casual shrug, as if bringing over perfect pies was an everyday thing.
And maybe it was. Maybe you just didn’t remember.
He lingered in Bucky’s apartment for a while, longer than you thought he would
“You know," he said after a pause, "if you ever want to talk, or just need someone to listen... I’m around." There was no rush to his words, no pressure, just a simple offer.
Thursday. 
Rhodey and Happy dropped by on Thursday, their presence steady and comforting. They didn’t say much about the memory loss, but somehow their casual banter helped ease the tension in the room.
Rhodey leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You still remember how to fight, right?" he teased, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Happy chuckled from the other side of the room, finishing off a sandwich. "And drive. You better still remember how to drive. You’re not the kind of Avenger who has access to flying suits."
You smiled, even though you weren’t certain. "I think so," you said softly.
Rhodey nodded. "If you ever need a laugh, we’ve got plenty of embarrassing stories about you."
"Yeah," Happy chimed in, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Like that time at Clint’s old apartment. You remember that?"
You shook your head, laughing. "Do I want to remember?"
"Maybe not," Rhodey said, exchanging a knowing look with Happy. "But trust me, it was a good time."
Friday.
And then there was Bruce Banner. His visit was calming, his presence measured and kind. As he approached, squeezing in the low-ish ceiling of Bucky’s apartment, he gave you a small, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
“It’s going to take time,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, almost clinical in its precision. “But you’ll adjust. And the most important thing to remember is—” he paused, meeting your eyes, “we’re all here for you.”
Saturday.
It had been two weeks since you first arrived at Bucky’s apartment, two weeks since your life had spiralled into uncertainty.
More than two weeks now since the mission that went wrong. 
In that short span of time, the unfamiliar walls around that belonged to Bucky had started to feel strangely like home. The corners of his space, once sparse and distinctly his, had now woven pieces of you into their strands—a small bracelet Bucky brought from your apartment to fiddle on when your anxious laid the bathroom sink, a mug he designated to you sitting half-full on the coffee table, a pair of slippers you didn’t know you had was lined up next to his by the door. Even the necessary things were a sweet reminder that you were welcome here— your toothbrush set next to his, the extra towels draped behind the door.
These were everything Bucky had picked up from your apartment to bring here. 
It wasn’t much, but these little fragments of your life had started to make his apartment feel like a haven—a sanctuary. A place where you could at least try to slowly untangle the web of intricacies that had made its way into your life.
You might never untangle them fully, but at least you weren’t alone.
He had sensed your hesitation early on, of course. Bucky wasn’t one to miss even the subtlest of signs. He studied the way your shoulders tensed when you crossed this threshold of his home. He saw uncertainty in your eyes as you set your keys down (he had made a copy for you last week). 
You’d tried to talk yourself out of this reliance, tried to convince yourself that staying longer would be too much for him, too invasive. But each time he brought you more things from your place, you couldn’t help but feel he was gently insisting you to stay, as if this was his silent way of reminding you that you were exactly where he wanted you to be.
That evening, as you both sat nestled together on the couch, a familiar warmth blossomed in your chest, one that you have been getting more and more of over the last week or so. The soft glow from the single lamp bathed the room in golden hues, casting soft shadows that danced in rhythm with the flicker of the TV. 
You were both wrapped in a cosy blanket, watching a movie that neither of you could focus on. The sound of distant traffic outside mixed with the gentle hum of the film. 
You glanced over at him, his face half-illuminated by the artificial lighting. You saw the way his gaze seemed to soften when it fell on you. The corner of his mouth lifted in the smallest smile as he reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. It was such a simple gesture, but the tenderness in it made your heart flip in a way you hadn’t expected it to
It was then that he spoke, as if he could sense the unease beneath your soft exhales. As if he could sense the doubt that maybe you were taking up too much of his space, too much of his time. 
“You never wanted me to be alone,” he said, “I’m just doing the same for you.”
You felt the sincerity in his words settle over you. The way he looked at you, not a single doubt or flinch in his eyes, so gently—it was as if he was trying to make you understand that there was no place he’d rather be than right here, with you, and he hoped that you felt that way, too.
For the first time in weeks, you let yourself on him, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. You rested your head on his shoulder, letting his steady presence ease the ache in your chest, if only a little. And in that small, fragile moment, you found a sliver of peace.
Saturday, the next week.
Before you knew it, another week had blurred into nothingness, each day slipping away like sand through your fingers. The visits had become a regular rhythm, a parade of familiar faces that felt both comforting and unsettling. They arrived with smiles and stories, eager to reignite the memories you couldn’t quite grasp, the moments that felt just out of reach.
You thought this week would be different. Maybe the warmth of their voices would spark something—a flicker of recognition, a flash of the last four years of your life. They shared tales of laughter, love, and loss, hoping to draw you back into their world. 
Each narrative should’ve woven together like threads of connection, moments you should remember. Instead, they felt like echoes in an empty room.
“Remember when we...” they would begin, their eyes bright with anticipation. But all you could do was smile weakly, nodding along.
It wasn’t long before you felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on you. People kept implying that you would eventually remember, that the fog would lift.
Deep down, you felt the truth settle like a knot in your heart.
But you won’t. 
It’s not coming back. 
You knew it.
Even the doctors had delivered their verdict with grim professionalism just earlier today, their words lingering like a bitter aftertaste. "It would take a miracle," they had said with a mix of sympathy and resignation.
They had pitied you. 
You sat in the guest room for a while, the faint sounds of Bucky cooking dinner drifting in from the kitchen. He was taking care of you, doing his best to help.
How do you even begin to tell him it’s not coming back?
Sunday.
That evening, his apartment felt quieter than ever.
Bucky sat beside you on the couch, his hand resting gently on your knee as you both watched. The sun sunk below the horizon through the window. 
You take a deep breath, trying to push the words past the lump in your throat. "Bucky, I..." Your voice faltered.
Bucky’s fingers tightened around the handle of his mug, his knuckles turning white for a brief moment. You watched him closely, noting the way he tensed whenever you mentioned the past, as if he were bracing for a blow you couldn’t deliver.
"I don’t think it’s ever coming back."
The admission hangs in the air, the verdict final. You've been trying to push that thought away for days, clinging to the hope that things would somehow snap back into place, that your mind would unlock the memories of the last four years. 
Deep down, you knew that’s not going to happen. And now, saying it out loud makes it feel real. Permanent.
Tears stung your eyes. Your voice started cracking as you continued, "I feel like everyone has been waiting for me, and I’m just letting everyone down."
Bucky pulled you closer, his strong arms wrapping around you protectively. At first, the tears came slow, unwilling, as if your body was fighting against it. 
Then, after a shaky breath, the sobs ripped through you before you could stop them, your body folding in on itself.
Bucky’s arms were around you in an instant, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You clung to him, but he didn’t flinch. His grip only tightened, his voice a low murmur in your ear, promising you were safe even as the world around you crumbled.
He rested his chin on top of your head, rocking you ever so slightly, trying to soothe the ache inside you. 
"You don’t owe anyone anything.” His voice was soft, steady.
You bury your face deeper into his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp with your tears. "But I feel like I’ve lost something important."
Bucky tightened his grip on you, his heart breaking. He held back his thoughts, not telling you that part of him was glad you didn’t remember. 
An ache that had been building for two weeks appeared again in his chest— relief mixed with shame. He hated himself for even thinking that way, but he couldn’t deny that the clean slate, this second chance, felt like a small mercy settling in the middle of all this dust. 
But he couldn’t tell you that. He only held you closer, whispering reassurances you deserved to hear.
-to be continued…
Taglist : @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x @lomlbuckybarnes 
@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa 
@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07 
@florie1 @nyutasgirl @coraliix @harrysgothicbitch @jules-and-gemss
@infqnitysblog @isnow-0r-never @roofwitty779 @baw1066 @wasalreadyhere
@cjand10 @greatmistakes @winterslove1917 @calwitch @sebastians-love
@gyllord @brckenmemories @ethereal-witch24 @diffidentphantom
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@blackbirdwitch22 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @ayayaeyato @btssaysstudy @unaxv
@otterlycanadian @lifeisbutadream444 @mostlymarvelgirl @ozwriterchick @m1cky-y-y
@ordelixx @jadeofspadesxp @generousmiraclebread @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @titasweetandsour 
@one-lengthiness36
@chimchoom @waitingformysandman
365 notes · View notes
safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
Text
Waste a moment / Part 3
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.5k
Note : I’ve got so many people requesting to be tagged and for that I love you all! Please let me know if you wanna be tagged! P.s. I am just about to watch Agatha and I’m so nervous and excited at the same time!
Series Masterlist
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“The Wandering Man”
Tuesday night.
When you got to Bucky’s place, it was quiet. 
Too quiet.
The lights were too dim, the air felt too still. The apartment had been waiting for something, or someone, to breathe life into it.
Bucky led you inside without saying much, only a few words of reassurance, and a few how are you holding up?s here and there.
He showed you to the guest room, small but comfortable and cosy. A soft bed was tucked into the corner under a window that overlooked the city lights. It felt both safe and strange, for reasons you could not quite comprehend yet.
You stood there, unsure of what to do with yourself. You didn’t know if you were supposed to feel relieved, maybe grateful? All you felt was confusion. 
Before long, he returned with a familiar-smelling cup of tea. It was your favourite tea, even though you could not recall ever telling him before.
Bucky he set the cup on the table. His smile was soft, almost practised, as if he had rehearsed how to be gentle with you. 
You stared at it for a moment, then back at him, before picking it up. The tea was hot in your hands, the steam curling in a way that should have felt comforting— but instead, the scent of it haunted you like a ghost haunted an abandoned house.
You took a sip. “You knew.”
“You always liked it.” Bucky offered a small, almost shy smile. “You used to make it for me when I had trouble sleeping.”
I wouldn’t accept it. I didn't think I deserved this, Bucky thought to himself, but he decided not to tell you. Yet. 
“You should get some rest,” Bucky said, his voice gentle. “It’s been a long day.”
You nodded, but the moment you sat on the centre of the bed, you knew sleep wasn’t going to come easily. The gravity of everything—the missing years, the lost memories— pressed down on your shoulders, making your chest constrict.
Bucky's quiet support, staying with a friend,  should have soothed you, but his kindness felt like an intrusion—a reminder that you were a stranger in your own life, occupying a space you no longer belonged in.
Wednesday.
The next morning, you woke to the scent of coffee. 
Bucky knocked lightly on your door before stepping inside, holding a mug. His smile was hesitant as he handed it to you.
You accepted it with a quiet “thanks.”
“Everything can be as slow or as quick as you like. Some of the others want to see you, but you don’t have to unless you’re ready.” He paused for a second, before saying, “You can stay with me as long as you want.”
His voice was calm, steady, trying to keep your world from spinning too fast. You nodded, weighing his offer.
As you sipped the coffee, warmth spread through your chest. It was perfect. The perfect amount of milk. The perfect amount of sugar.
He knew.
The conversation unfolded slowly throughout the day, a gentle ebb and flow that mirrored the tentative trust being rebuilt between you and him. 
At first, it was just small talk, safe topics that didn’t demand too much of either of you—things like the weather, the view from his apartment, the streets below. As the day wore on, the conversations grew a little deeper.
“You’ve lived here a while?” you asked, glancing around the living room, noting how sparsely decorated it was. There was a sense of calm in the simplicity, but with it a hint of reluctance to make this space feel truly like home.
“Yeah, a couple of years now,” Bucky replied. “It’s not much, but it’s quiet.”
You nodded, sensing the weight of his words. “Quiet can be good,” you chuckled, almost cathartic. “I guess I don’t really know what I need right now.”
His blue eyes were understanding, though you could tell there was something hidden behind them. “That’s okay.”
You offered a small, grateful smile. 
The longer it stretched, the more peaceful the silence became. You were not friends yet, not really. Not him and this version of you.
But if you trusted him before— and your instincts told you that you did— he must be a good person. 
So far, you enjoyed his company, and he did not demand friend out of you, not the same way Sam did. 
He was not disappointed by your lack of acknowledgement. He just seemed to be happy you were there.
For now, you could just live in the present, as if standing at the edge of a doorway without needing to cross it just yet.
Then, after sensing your ease, he shared a memory, trying to fill the gaps that were left in your mind. 
“Do you remember the time we went hiking outside the city? I think it was after Happy’s birthday party. Everyone else was hungover, but you dragged me out at the crack of dawn.”
You blinked, trying to pull the threads together, but nothing came. “I don’t... I don’t remember.”
“We got lost for hours.” Bucky smiled faintly, a touch of sadness in his eyes. “You swore you knew the way, so I didn’t bother questioning you. I just followed.”
“I-I’m sorry.” you said quietly, unsure of what the nature of the memory was.
“No, no.” He chuckled lightly. “We ended up finding this little stream. We just sat there for a while, didn’t talk much, just... listened.”
You tried to picture it, to feel that day as vividly as Bucky seemed to, but all you could grasp were shadows. “I wish I could remember.”
“You will. Or you won��t. Either way, it’s okay,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. But beneath the calm mask he put on, Bucky’s thoughts churned. 
He had secretly loved that hike. But when you coaxed him out that day, he had been cold, distant, as always. He had criticised everything you did, grumbled when you got lost. 
But you? You were calm that day, as you had been every other day. You were patient with him. You had seen that he needed to get out of his apartment, see the world that he inhabited for once. 
You pulled him out of the darkness that day. Kept him sane. 
God, I’m sorry... for everything you don’t remember. For everything I said and for everything I didn’t, he thought to himself. 
He didn’t let it show, though, didn’t let his guilt fade into the background. Instead, he focused on the present, the small victories of connection that he made with you, hoping it would make up for all the distance he put there before.
Later, after ordering dinner and eating quietly, you sat together on the couch. 
You mustered up all the courage you could find asked him something that had been on your mind. “What was I like?”
Bucky hesitated for a moment, knowing he needed to choose his words carefully. “Strong. Stubborn,” he told you. “Kind. You always saw the good in people.”
You stared at him, searching for any clues of insincerity and found none, though the tremble in his lips suggested there was more to his answer than he was letting on. 
Still, it was hard to reconcile the person he described with the emptiness you felt now. Hearing him talk about you—about her—you began to understand why everyone seemed so hurt about losing who you became in the last four years.
You nodded, trying to imagine that version of yourself. “It’s hard to picture.”
Bucky glanced down. He found it hard to picture who he was before all this, too. 
He had changed so much in the past few days. He had changed so drastically in the way he treated you, that he was torn between whether he should remind you of what he'd said before your mission.
His own words echoed in his head: ‘I feel like I can't breathe around you.’
Seeing you like this, disoriented and vulnerable, he questioned if you really needed to know how cruel he'd been before.
For now, the guilt of it now belonged to him alone. 
He knew he would have trouble hiding the ache in his chest, knowing that he had hurt you, knowing that he had pushed you away when all you had ever offered was kindness.
But maybe that thrumming pain was worth it.
This was his second chance. 
He could be better. He could finally be the friend you deserved, even if you never remembered what had happened between you. 
He could be patient, he could be there for you, without the burden of the past hovering over every word. Bucky didn’t know if you would ever regain your memories, but for once, he didn’t need to fix things. 
All he had to do was be there.
“You don’t have to picture it,” he said gently, “you’re still that person.”
As you spent the rest of the evening getting to know him, he realised how much he had missed this—your presence, your laughter, even the way you furrowed your brow when you were lost in thought. He had been so afraid of it before, afraid of getting too close. 
Almost losing you had shaken him to his core. This time, he wasn’t sure he could survive pushing you away again.
So, he didn’t.
Thursday. 
Bucky stood by the door of the medical bay, his posture tense. He watched carefully as the doctor completed the exam. 
He had taken you back to the compound to see a doctor, to get you properly discharged. You did run out, after all. 
You sat on the table, blinking against the harsh lights, your mind struggling to clear the fog that clung to your thoughts.
The doctor's explanation confirmed what Bucky had already suspected. The confusion, the disorientation—it was all normal after what you'd been through. He had said it was a good thing you were staying with a familiar face, though you didn't have the heart to tell him he wasn’t familiar to you.
Everyone around you just told you that he was.
When the doctor finished, Bucky gently helped you down from the table. He guided you through the sterile hallways, bringing you home to his apartment.
Friday. 
Bucky’s bathroom was dimly lit, a faint glow from mirror nightlight casting uneasy shadows against the walls. You stood in front of the mirror, hesitating to look at the reflection that would greet you. 
You’d avoided it until now, not wanting to confront the parts of yourself that didn’t make sense. The parts that didn’t look like it belonged. That didn’t look feel it belonged.
But today, after hours of consideration and glancing at your reflection, you dared to lift your eyes to meet the unfamiliar person staring back at you.
The image of your own face was uncanny. 
The ends of your hair were frayed and split, the wear of weeks without proper care was evident. 
There were the scars. Angry, jagged lines that trailed down the side of your face, ghosting over your cheekbone, one disappearing into your hairline. Those were the scars from the last mission, they had said. The head injury that cost you your memories. 
Your eyes trailed down, seeing bruises scattered across your shoulders, deeper marks that told stories your mind couldn’t piece together.
You lifted your hand, making sure your reflection followed you. Making sure this was still you— and it was.
You didn’t recognize this person.
You didn’t recognize yourself.
The grief that you had been avoiding for days struck like lightning— the years stolen from you. The friends you couldn’t remember, the disconnect your soul felt from your body. Your chest tightened as tears spilled over, and you clutched the sink, knuckles hurting.
Keep yourself together.
You’re stronger than this, dammit.
The bathroom door was barely ajar, but it was just enough for Bucky to catch the muffled sound of your quiet sobs. 
He knew how disorienting it was— how painful it could be, waking up and not recognizing your own life. 
He stepped closer, knocking on the door before opening it. "You okay?"
You quickly wiped your eyes, straightening your posture. You tried to compose yourself before he could notice, but you didn’t know you were too late.
“Yeah,” you sniffled, forcing a shaky laugh. “It’s just… I think I need a trim. My hair’s a mess.”
Bucky nodded, the lines of his forehead softening. He knew that wasn’t why you were crying, but he didn’t pry, didn’t push. If you needed time to admit to him— or to yourself— how much you were hurting, he would wait, even if it meant waiting forever.
“I can help,” he offered quietly. "I trim my own hair. I’ve got the scissors for it."
You hesitated, biting your lip. “That would be good.”
Bucky left for a moment, returning with a small set of scissors and a comb. The nothingness between you was gentle, not awkward at all. 
Bucky stood behind you, his touch careful as he gathered your hair, brushing through the tangled strands.
His hands, though large, moved with a delicacy that you didn’t realise he was capable of. He barely spoke as he worked on your hair, methodical and focused. 
You couldn’t help but notice how close he was, the soft sound of his breath on your ears. His metal fingers occasionally grazed the back of your neck, sending a slight shiver through you.
"The scars and bruises," he said softly after a few moments, as if he could sense your tension. “They’re a part of you. Doesn’t mean they’re all of you.”
You wanted to believe him, but it was hard to see anything beyond the damage when you didn’t know where it came from. 
It was hard to accept the version of yourself that had come out of that mission that had ruined your life, though you didn’t even remember how.
“I don’t even remember how I got them,” you whispered, your voice thick. 
“But that doesn’t change who you are.” Bucky paused, his hands still in your hair for a brief moment. “It doesn’t change what you mean to me.”
Your breath hitched at the implication of his words, but you didn’t say anything. 
He resumed trimming, the sound of the scissors snipping through the strands echoing in the room. 
“You’ve got a lot of split ends,” he said. "I’ll take care of them."
You managed a soft laugh, despite the tears still burning at the corners of your eyes. “Thanks, Bucky.”
He continued working in silence until he finished. 
“There,” he said, setting the scissors down and stepping back to admire his work. “I think you look beautiful.”
As you once again looked into the mirror, you looked a bit more familiar. 
Bucky had trimmed your hair from memory, from what he remembered it looked like when you first joined the team, hoping it would help. 
“Bucky?” You called after a moment of silence.
“Hm?” He replied.
“Do you think our friends can start visiting next week?”
-to be continued…
Taglist: @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x @lomlbuckybarnes 
@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa 
@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07 
@florie1 @nyutasgirl @coraliix @harrysgothicbitch @jules-and-gemss
@infqnitysblog @isnow-0r-never @roofwitty779 @baw1066 @wasalreadyhere
@cjand10 @greatmistakes @winterslove1917 @calwitch @sebastians-love
@gyllord @brckenmemories @ethereal-witch24 @diffidentphantom
@avatarofthetimelords @lumidotexe @oscarissac2099 @currentfacination @pono-pura-vida
@blackbirdwitch22 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @ayayaeyato @btssaysstudy @unaxv
431 notes · View notes
safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
Text
Waste a Moment / Part 2
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.7k 
Note : Thank you so much for all the love ya’ll! Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part!
Series Masterlist
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“No Kin”
Monday morning.
The next couple of hours were a blur.
The harsh, sterile scent of antiseptic filled your lungs, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, burning a too-bright, clinical glow in your corneas. Sam's voice faded in and out, his words distant, like they were filtering through a thick fog. Everything felt disconnected, alien, as though you were drifting underwater. The reality around you belonged to someone else.
In a way, it did.
You blinked, trying to focus, but even the sharp edges of the medical bay seemed to blur at the corners. The walls seemed to close in with a claustrophobic pressure that made it hard to breathe.
You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands as Sam stood in front of you. To his credit, he had been sympathetic— but he was also mourning.
He was mourning a friend he had lost in you.
Still, he tried.
He told you about the last four years—how you had left the museum to train with the Avengers after an expedition to recover a powerful object in an archeological site three years ago. He told you how you had become a hero, fighting alongside some of the world's most powerful beings. He showed you pictures of you standing side by side with the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, who you swore only knew by reputation. 
It sounded surreal, like he was describing someone else's life, not yours. 
Sam’s words drifted around you like a static charge. You nodded when you were supposed to, said the awkward yes here and there. 
Sam hesitated every other second, his gaze soft but uncertain as he searched your face for some glimmer of recognition. His voice was steady, but there was a quiet strain as he forced himself to hold it together. 
Every time you failed to react to something that should have meant something to you, you noticed the brief hurt in his eyes, quickly masked. He pushed forward, pausing longer between sentences.
Deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t your life. You were supposed to be at the museum, curating exhibitions, setting up tours for students.
“You’re safe,” Sam had reassured. “We’re keeping you here until we know more about what happened. Until we can help you remember.”
But you couldn’t remember any of it—this life, this version of you that everyone else was all so sure of. 
Bucky had been by your bedside for days, but even looking at him made your head spin. You knew him, of course you did—everyone knew Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the reformed hero. 
But the way he looked at you, with so much pain and familiarity, made your stomach churn. 
Why was he so devastated? What had you meant to him?
You needed answers, and you knew you wouldn’t find them in the clean, white, sterile room they kept you in.
Monday afternoon.
As the compound grew quiet, you decided you couldn’t stay there any longer. You didn’t trust yourself, didn’t trust this world they said belonged to you. 
So you slipped out, wearing whatever clothes you could find that fit you— black jeans and a white shirt. 
As you slipped through the compound's corridors, the faint hum of security cameras buzzing overhead felt like an accusation. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a reminder of how wrong everything felt. The shadows wrapped around you, familiar but unsettling, your muscles tensed with a mixture of fear and instinct that you didn’t fully understand. Your hands trembled as they brushed against the cold metal doors, the sound of your shallow breaths loud in your ears, blending with the adrenaline that coursed through your veins.
Sneaking past the security measures was easier than it should have been. It made sense, the more you thought of it. The compound was made to stop people from coming in, not prevent people from getting out.
Muscle memory guided your steps, an invisible map in your head kicking in without you understanding where they had come from. You moved through the halls like a ghost, heart pounding as you made your escape.
Your destination was clear—the museum. The place where your real life had been. The place that made sense.
When you arrived, using the staff entrance which you knew the code to, everything was wrong.
The exhibits were slightly different, the lobby had been renovated, and even the lighting felt a bit brighter than it should’ve been. 
You wandered the halls in a daze, your breath catching in your throat as you stumbled through what felt like someone else’s reality. How could everything have changed so much in such a short time?
Four years—they said you’d lost the last four years, but it didn’t feel like four years to you. It felt like a blink. A gap you couldn’t explain.
And then you saw her— a young woman with long black hair and a suit.
Alex!
You knew Alex! She was the intern you had hired what felt like just a month ago. 
She was older than you remembered, taller, with a hint of maturity in her features. 
Alex froze for a moment, her eyes widening as though she had just seen a ghost. Her smile faltered, the shock on her face poorly hidden behind an awkward attempt at casualness. 
She whispered your name.
"I—I haven’t seen you in so long," she stammered, her voice tinged with confusion. There was a pause as the distance between you felt like it had stretched for miles.
The version of Alex you remembered, eager but shy, was worlds away from the composed woman standing in front of you. The gap between what you thought you knew and what was real now felt more disorienting with every passing second.
She gave you a sisterly hug, squeezing you tight. When she pulled back, she asked. “What are you doing here? You—”
“I work here,” you interrupted, your voice shaky, your grip on reality slipping on thin ice. “I—I hired you. Last month.”
Alex’s expression shifted to shock. “You quit. Four years ago. You left to train with the Avengers. I thought you were on some mission.”
Your heart sank.
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. You backed up a step, your mind whirling, trying to reconcile the reality facing you with the one you remembered.
“I quit?” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.
Alex nodded slowly, confused. “Yeah, you… you told us you had to go help save the world or something. We thought you were pretty badass, actually.”
The realisation of it hit you then, hard and fast. The truth that everyone had been telling you, the facts you had refused to believe—it was all real.
You had been gone for four years. You had left behind the life you thought was yours, and now you were standing in the ruins of what was once familiar, a stranger in your own world.
You finally believed them.
Your legs felt weak, and you reached for a nearby display case to steady yourself. The room spun around you, the shock sinking in with every beat of your heart.
You had become someone else, someone you didn’t recognise.
Tears pricked at your eyes, and you didn’t know if they were from the overwhelming grief of losing the life you thought you had or the fear of the unknown that now lie ahead you.
You looked back at Alex, who stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say.
“I—” you started, but the words wouldn’t come. How could you explain the gap in your memory? How could you make sense of a life you couldn’t remember living?
“Do you want to tell me?” Alex asked gently, sitting you down on a bench to the side of the main hall.
Alex had her hands folded in front of her, fingers tense, her eyes searching your face as if trying to read something in your expression that wasn't truly present. The familiarity in her gaze was unnerving, as though she saw something in you that you couldn’t find in yourself.
Taking a slow breath, you began. The words felt heavy, tangled in your throat, but you forced them out, piecing together the fractured shards of memory. You told her what you knew—or rather, what you didn’t. 
You spoke of waking up in the compound, of how nothing seemed to fit, the way the people around you treated you like a ghost of someone you couldn't remember being. Each sentence seemed to echo with uncertainty, the fragments of your life splintering as you said them out loud.
Alex’s face shifted as you spoke, her initial composure cracking. Her eyes grew darker with every word, her mouth tightening at the corners as she tried to hold onto the version of you she knew. Her hands trembled slightly as they unfolded, offering to hold your hand.
You watched her as you spoke, the silence between your sentences growing uncomfortable. The pain in her eyes mirrored the unease inside of you, a recognition of everything that had been lost, even if you couldn’t name it. When you finally finished, there was nothing left but the soft sound of echoes throughout the halls.
Finally, Alex shuddered, before giving you a small, sad smile. This must be so difficult for her to take in, and yet she was still here, as a friend.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re always welcome here.”
You weren’t sure if that was comforting or not, but you nodded anyway, swallowing the lump in your throat.
It was real. All of it. And now, you had no choice but to face the truth.
You weren’t the person you thought you were anymore.
You wandered through the museum in a haze, your footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit corridors. It was after hours now, the building nearly silent except for the distant hum of air conditioning and the muffled sounds of your breathing. You didn’t know why you stayed, but something kept pulling you forward, drawing you deeper into the heart of the exhibits. The old, familiar halls felt like a sanctuary, a place where time had paused, even if your own life had raced ahead without you.
That’s when you found it—the World War II exhibit.
The dark wood floors and vintage lighting gave the room a nostalgic feel, a place frozen in time, just like the stories held within it. You wandered past the displays of uniforms, medals, and grainy black-and-white photographs of soldiers who had once fought for a future they believed in. Then you stopped.
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.
His name was etched in bronze on a plaque beneath a glass display case. Besides his photograph was a set of his old military clothing, neatly arranged—his jacket, trousers, and a pair of worn boots, remnants of a life long past. 
You didn’t remember him, not really. But standing there, looking at that face, you felt a pull. Something deep and bittersweet. Something that said this man, whoever he was, mattered.
You stayed there, frozen, for what felt like hours. Trying to piece together a past that didn’t feel like yours. A life you had lived but couldn’t remember. The weight of it all pressed down on you, leaving you feeling untethered, lost.
You felt a tug in your chest as you stared at the sepia-toned image of Bucky once again—the Bucky from another time, another world. His boyish grin was a far cry from the man you’d seen at the compound, a man worn by time and experience. 
Your own breath sounded too loud in the quiet of the exhibit, and the steady thrum of your heartbeat made the walls feel closer than they were.
Then came the voice that broke the silence. Low, hesitant. “I thought I might find you here.”
You turned sharply, your pulse quickening. Bucky stood in the doorway of the exhibit, his figure half-shadowed by the dim light. His face, though calmer now, held that same unreadable look from earlier—like he was carrying something heavy, something aching. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, as if he didn’t trust himself to move them.
“I—uh, yeah,” you stammered, the edges of your voice shaky as you tried to steady yourself.
Bucky took a few steps forward, his movements careful, as if he feared he would you. His gaze drifted to the display, lingering on the younger version of himself. For a moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes—a glimpse of the man he once was.
“You found me,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.
You nodded, swallowing hard. 
When you tried to speak, your voice faltered, the words catching in your throat. Bucky didn’t seem to notice, too focused on the shadow of his past. 
“I don’t remember,” you finally whispered. The words tumbled out before you could stop it, the guilt that followed sinking deep in your chest. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky’s face didn’t change much, but you saw the slight tightening of his jaw. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly, his voice calm, with a rough edge.
“But I should,” you said, frustration slipping into your voice. “I don’t know where I fit in any of this.”
Bucky stood beside you now, not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that you felt the warmth of his presence. He let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if he’d been holding it in since the moment he’d walked in. “I know what that’s like,” he said, his voice soft, almost too quiet. “More than you think.”
His words hung between you, and you could feel the truth he carried. He didn’t have to say more—you knew he’d been through this, lost in a world that didn’t fit him anymore.
You had lost 4 years of your life.
They took nearly a century of his.
“How did you deal with it?” you asked, your voice a fragile thread, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Bucky glanced at you, his eyes softened, but you could see the battle behind them—the countless days of grappling with the man he used to be and the man he was now. He looked back at the display, his shoulders tense. “I didn’t… not at first. But there were people who reminded me I wasn’t alone.”
If only you knew, he thought, that one of them was you.
His words made your throat tighten. You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. The man you were standing next to wasn’t just a stranger—he was someone who had known you, helped you, maybe even saved you. And now, you were the stranger in your own life.
You felt a lump form in your throat, your heart aching with a mix of confusion and fear. “I don’t know where to start,” you whispered. 
Bucky’s gaze softened, his voice gentle when he spoke. “You have an apartment not far from here,” he said, “Yelena and I helped you move in last year. I could take you home?”
That was kind of true. Yelena helped you move in as he silent carried the heaviest of boxes since he was the only one without a mission that day who could.
You blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his words. “I— I don’t know if I should be alone.” You told him, not knowing if you trusted yourself enough.
“I have a spare bedroom, if you need to stay with someone for a while?” The significance of his offer hung between you, heavy and raw.
You might not remember him, and you might never get these four years back. But you’re still you, to some extent. This was the least he could do.
Maybe, maybe this was his chance to start over with you.
After all, he did promise you that when you woke up, he’d make it up to you.
You took a shaky breath, feeling a strange mixture of relief and sadness. “That sounds… good,” you said softly, your voice trembling.
You might not remember him, but you could tell that you trusted him.
For a moment, you both stood there, the quiet of the museum wrapping around you like a fragile cocoon. The past might have been lost, but standing here, in front of Bucky’s old life and the pieces of your own forgotten history lost to the fray, you felt something solid you could finally hold on to.
-to be continued…
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safetypinxtales · 1 month ago
Text
Waste a Moment / Part 1 
Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 
Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.
Requested by :  @remoony
Word count : 2.8k
Note : This is the first of 17 parts which I will post every two days. I love writing stories that have a ticking time bomb-like conflict. The title is inspired by a Kings of Leon song of the same title along with Find Me, and Reverend. This was based on a request, but I might have taken a lot of creative liberties in expanding it. Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part!
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“Static on Her Brain”
Bucky had grown used to the sound of your laughter. It was bright, it made his heart do acrobatic flips. It was a reminder of everything he thought he'd lost touch with. 
Sometimes, it even cut through the icy walls he’d built around himself. He didn't feel like he deserved that kind of comfort, especially not from someone as stubbornly kind as you. But there you were, determined to breathe warmth back into his life, no matter how hard he tried to shut it out.
You kept trying, year after year. You weren't shy about it, nor did you hide your blatant crush on the former Winter Soldier— casual but respectful touches on his arm, bold compliments, always with that soft, teasing smile that lit up your face whenever you were near him.
But even as he kept you at an arm's length, Bucky had always watched over you. It was a subtle habit, one he barely allowed himself to notice. The moment you stepped into his periphery, he'd been quietly paying attention to you. 
Maybe it was the way your laugh carried sweetness through a room, or the way you always seemed to understand people as if they were easy read novels.
Though he'd never admit it, he'd found himself intrigued.
In the beginning, he told himself he was just being cautious— he was just keeping an eye on the new recruit.
But that was a lie.
He noticed you in ways he knew he shouldn’t. He picked up on the small things about you—the way you’d bite the inside of your cheek when deep in thought, the faint scent of your perfume, the different strategies you used when you tried so hard to pull him into conversations he said he didn’t want to have. 
He'd watch you in the training room, noticing the way your eyes would always find him. He’d catch those glances, and his heart would flutter at the shy but determined looks you’d throw his way.
He told himself that he didn’t deserve the things you were offering, that he didn’t need them. 
That he didn’t need you. 
But deep down, he wanted you. He’d wanted you from the start. And yet, he kept pushing you away, convinced it was better for both of you if he stayed in his lonely corner, watching from afar.
He kept his distance, pretending not to care. Pretending that your kindness didn’t chip away at his icy demeanour. Pretending he wasn’t moved every time you found some new way to show him he mattered. 
So he watched. He made sure you were safe during missions. He made sure you weren’t training too hard. He made sure there was always one of your favourite donuts left after a long day. He made sure to always buy your favourite tea to stock up the kitchen in the compound.
And you never noticed.
Three years ago.
"Barnes, you should join us for drinks," you said. You stood with your hands on your hips, leaning on the locker room door. You were a new recruit, and this was your welcome party. 
Everyone was invited, including him. Not that he wanted to be.
"No use hiding away when you’ve got a world to see,” you teased.
Bucky gave you a tight smile, just enough to be polite, and shake his head. "Not tonight."
It became a routine: you'd offer your kindness, your companionship, and he'd shut it down. 
Politely, at first, but eventually his defences had to become sharper, colder.
You didn’t stop, though. Every morning, there you were. Every mission briefing, every late-night sparring session, you found a way to check in on him. Always so effortlessly sweet, always making sure he wasn't alone.
It did not work. Of course not. He had convinced himself that he was beyond saving. 
A year ago.
"Why do you want me to join in on everything so bad?” He had whispered one day.
"Because you shouldn’t be alone, Bucky. I care about you,” you insisted, touching the back of his arm gently, “we all do.”
His heart ached hearing that— someone as sweet as you even thought about him.
He didn't deserve your care, not after everything he'd done, after the destruction he'd caused. And yet, there you were—a constant reminder of everything good he'd lost, everything he'd convinced himself he could never have.
He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t let you waste all that good on someone so irredeemable. Not on him.
So, he pushed harder. Harsher.
Monday.
You had sought him out with an offer for another friendly outing— a dinner offer at the new sushi restaurant down the street— when he finally snapped.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed. “I don’t want your company. I don’t need your pity. You think you’re being nice?”
You stared at him, eyes wide, lips parting as if you had been struck by lightning.
He had always been distant. But he had never been hurtful.
“I feel like I can't breathe around you.”
Bucky knew he’d gone too far the moment the words left his mouth.
The hurt in your eyes was instant. Your smile—the one that was always so readily offered—faltered before it disappeared entirely.
He wanted to take it back, but his fear, his pride stopped him from doing so. 
You just swallowed and nodded, convincing yourself that his words didn’t hurt as much as it had. With a quiet goodbye, you turned and walked away.
He didn’t mean to hurt you. 
He never did. But the closer you got to reaching him, the more terrified he was of what you could see in him. 
You’d always been so persistent, but tonight had been different. He finally shattered something that may never mend.
The regret ate away at his brain for hours.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, I’ll find you, and I’ll make it right. 
Tomorrow, he’d explain it all. He’d tell you about the fear that haunted him. He’d tell you how desperately he wanted you to be there, even though he’d spent years trying to push you away. Tomorrow, he’d make sure you knew that he cared— and had cared for so long, longer than he would ever care to admit. Tomorrow, he would admit that he’d been a fool to ever think you were better off without him.
Tuesday.
But tomorrow never came.
Bucky didn’t even realise you had a mission until Scott Lang mentioned it to him in passing over morning training.
It was unusual. Before a mission, you’d go around town, telling everyone you’d be gone. Even when you couldn’t reach him, during the days he would lock himself in apartment, you’d sent you a quick text message: 
I have recon tomorrow. Will be back in a few days. In case you notice no one’s bothering you anymore :)
But not this time. Not after what he said to you.
That afternoon, while Bucky was making dinner, he got a call from Sam. 
His body froze, his world shattered when Sam said that it was about you.
“We lost contact,” he said grimly.
Before Sam could finish, Bucky was already grabbing his gear to prepare for the rescue mission first thing tomorrow. There was a growing fear in his chest too overwhelming to ignore.
He couldn’t shake the image of your face after their last conversation—how you had looked at him, how hurt you’d been.
If something happened to you…
Wednesday morning.
The rescue mission was all chaos. Fire and rubble littered the landscape of what had once been a secure enemy base. Bucky moved through the debris like a man possessed, heart pounding in his chest with every second that passed without finding you.
Smoke burned his lungs with every breath as the acrid scent of scorched metal and chemicals filled the air. His pulse roared in his ears as he called your name again, his voice growing hoarse, his steps becoming frantic. The longer it took to find you, the more the knot in his chest tightened.
He called your name again, wailing like a lost ghoul wandering in the underworld.
Then, he saw it—a flash of your suit buried beneath concrete and metal, motionless.
His voice cracked as cried your name again, running towards the wreckage.
You had been squeezed in between the floor and half of the roof, a wedge of concrete was the only thing keeping you from being completely crushed. 
Tears pricked by the edges of his eyes. He mustered all his strength and managed to lift up the entire roof— a display of strength he had never been able to achieve before. 
His heart dropped when he saw your form beneath it all, your face pale, your breathing shallow—barely there at all.
"Stay with me," he muttered, lifting you carefully from the wreckage, cradling your body in his arms. He was shaking, studying your face for any signs of life he could find.
His fingers brushed across your cheeks, trembling. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but the fear was too overwhelming. His voice was barely a whisper, “Please...”
Wednesday night.
The medics worked on you for hours, but you didn’t wake. Not after they stabilised your vitals, not after they brought you back to the compound.
Bucky sat by your bedside, his hand gripping yours so tightly his knuckles were white.
This was his fault. He knew that.
You had always been there for him, and when you needed him most, he had turned his back on you. He had broken you in a way he never thought possible.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered that night, voice breaking, his thumb brushing across the back of your cold hand. “You deserve so much better than this. I just... I just didn’t know how to handle it. I pushed you away because... because I was afraid. But I care about you. I care about you so much.”
His tears fell, landing softly on the blanket that covered you.
“I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll tell you everything I was scared to. Just please, wake up."
Thursday.
The next day was eerily similar, but this time, Bucky had a little more resolve. He leaned closer, his heart racing.
He still sat by your bedside, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt. His hands, calloused from years of battle, trembled as they held yours, gripping tightly as if letting go would mean losing you. 
“I can’t help but think about how you light up every room you walk in. You always found a way to pull me out, even if I didn't show it.”
He couldn't stop the way his foot tapped against the floor, an anxious rhythm that accompanied the erratic beating of his heart. Every breath he took felt shallow, laboured, as if the room were closing in on him. His throat burned, but he refused to break, not yet. Not while you were still here, though silent and unreachable. 
He wiped away a tear that threatened to fall. “I miss you so much. I can’t do this without you.”
He let the silence wrap around him, hoping that somehow his words would reach you, wherever you were.
Friday.
When the medics told him there had been no change, Bucky’s fingers dug into the armrest of the chair. The leather creaked under his grip. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, but he couldn't loosen it. 
As the hours passed, he found himself reminiscing, a small smile breaking through the heaviness. “Do you remember the time we went on the Latveria mission together? I thought I was going to be a distraction. You laughed and said I could never be. You told me I was your favourite partner. I should’ve known then that I meant something to you.”
He stood abruptly, pacing the small room, each step heavier than the last. His breaths came quicker, each exhale shaking as he rubbed a hand over his face, trying and failing to keep the panic at bay. 
His voice cracked, regret bubbling just beneath the surface. “And I took you for granted.”
Saturday. 
As the days wore on, his exhaustion became impossible to ignore. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by sleepless nights and wrecked by the storm raging inside him. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands threading through his hair, tugging slightly as if the pain might soothe him. “I talked to Sam today. He says they’re doing everything they can.
He rubbed a hand over his face, frustration and fear blending into one. “I don’t know how much longer I can handle this.”
His chest tightened, a dull ache echoing from his ribcage as he stared at your motionless form, willing you to stir, to give him a sign that this nightmare would end.
“I’m waiting for you to wake up and tell me I’m being an idiot, that I need to stop worrying. I need you to tell me everything is going to be okay. Please, just be okay.”
But there was only the sound of the machines.
Sunday morning.
Bucky found himself hunched over the side of your bed, his head resting against the cool metal of the railing. His body hurt from staying in the same position for so long, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t move, couldn’t pull himself away from you. His metal hand tightened around yours, the cold vibranium contrasting with the warmth of your skin, though that warmth was fading. A shudder passed through him, his breath catching in his throat as he whispered your name again, desperate. His grip loosened, trembling, as though he feared he might break you, and yet, he couldn’t let go.
When he finally whispered those words— "I love you" —it felt like a weight had been lifted and dropped all at once. 
His chest heaved with the force of it— the confession had cost him every ounce of strength he had left. His hand shook as he brushed a stray hair from your forehead, the contact both comforting and unbearable. His fingers lingered there, trembling slightly, as he traced the curve of your face, memorising every detail, every contour, as if were trying to hold onto something that was already slipping away. 
“Come back.”
Sunday night.
Bucky sat at your bedside as he always did, his fingers brushing across your hand, the silence in the room deafening. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the side of your bed, fighting the exhaustion pulling at him. 
That’s when he felt it.
A small, almost imperceptible twitch of your fingers.
His heart skipped, and he shot upright, searching your face, desperate for another sign of life.
He whispered your name, as if to coax you out of the depths you had drowned in.
Then your eyes fluttered open. Slowly, groggily, emerging from the deepest of slumbers. He sat there, frozen, his heart hammering in his chest from relief.
But when you blinked and your gaze settled on him, something was wrong.
Your expression wasn’t one of recognition. There was no relief, no joy—only confusion.
Your brows furrowed, and then, panic.
"Bucky?" you whispered, your voice raspy from disuse.
His heart soared at the sound of your voice, but before he could respond, you pulled your hand away from him.
"Bucky Barnes,” you repeated, the tremble in your voice unmistakable. "The Winter Soldier. You—you’re a hero."
His blood ran cold.
He said your name, his voice shaking, trying to understand.
But you weren’t listening. The look in your eyes wasn’t one of a friend who knew him, who had fought alongside him.
It was the look of someone staring at a stranger.
Bucky felt the room spin around him, his stomach dropping.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, as your gaze darted around the white, sterile room in the medbay. "What... What happened to me?" you asked, your voice trembling, fear bleeding into your words.
But before he could answer, your eyes narrowed, and you whispered the last thing he ever wanted to hear. "Why are you here?" you asked.
His heart was hammering, pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. He searched your eyes for some sign, any flicker of recognition. But there was nothing. His grip loosened, a tremor running through him as he stammered, “You—you really don’t remember?”
You shook your head no.
“I’m your friend,” he said gently, hoping it would jog your memory.
You tilted your head, then chuckled in disbelief— a sweet sound that he had missed so dearly. “Why would a superhero be friends with a museum curator?”
You hadn’t worked in the museum for four years.
Four years. 
You didn’t remember the last four years of your life.
-to be continued… 
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