#2000 plums writing challenge

[aquatigermice]

Re: New Years Goals: 2023

Progress: As Jan 26 2023

Need to Finish:

Stucky war/recovery story.  Part 1 Words: 8184

Joe\Mimi story that been working on since 2001 Word count NA 41pgs written double sided 

Blue       Words:1710

Circus      Words: 1391

Horse 2   Words: 1616

Tsum     Words: 1400

Rain2    Words: 612

Crowley 1,2,3    Words: 2000

Sbt abo        Words: 7221  

Goat Steve      Words:1743

Ruq      Words: 2461

A/B moon       Words: 4447  

Adoc      Words: 5291

Mamb 2022       Words:2386

Baby clone     Words: 1795

Alpine       Words: 679

Cas      Words: 1804

Chris baby       Words: 9421

Ralsbeck     Words: 761

Aot p2    Words: 4212

Freakin done son!!!:

Bond ballet      Words: 21228

Gif     Words: 40733

Beast      Words:14581

Pooches 3     Words: 14156

Pooches 2      Words: 12482

Pooches 1      Words: 14256

stucky war pt2     Words: 39852

soulmark      Words: 3352

ao      Words: 6940

wolf     Words: 4064

lib      Words: 12535

Ride 2      Words: 2177

Posted!!!:

Since we didn't do an update in 2021 or 2022 I am doing that now.

2021:

When Your Isosceles Triangle Turns Out To Be Equilateral aka val 1   Words: 2845

Coming Home aka 7 pbge   Words: 7996

The Long Hours to Dawn. aka Fix 2  Words: 4258

Got to See a Man About a Haircut aka Fix 3  Words: 1645

Thunder Off the Rocks  aka fix it 4 thor  Words: 3430

A Matter of Pride aka lion king    Words: 5877

The Woes of the Ice Planet Saga: Part 2  aka Wotips   Words: 4780

Baby, What Can You Do With Those Arms? aka Hog1   Words: 4141

We Are So Much More Than What You Can See. aka hog 2   Words: 7504

What Would You Do For Your Love? The End aka runt 3   Words: 5,221

Anthony Stark and the Monsters of the Deep aka ray steve Words: 6597

The End   Words: 7,254

A Warrior's Love and A Wizard's Path aka wizard tribe   Words: 28563

Point Me Home aka time     Words: 6828

Only in My Dreams Am I Happy  aka mate   Words: 6562

Where There is Light, the Darkness Follows aka soldier    Words: 2919

Under Your Lights aka Gus    Words: 5031

Summer's Moon and Winter's Sun aka Sbtl/ Supernatural        Words: 14297

The Cold Isn't All That Bad aka hitlikehammer    Words: 7502

Why Did the Falcon Climb the Tree? nest 2    Words: 1594

2022:

Beauty With Brains a Dangerous Combination aka loki.     Words: 7529

A Place of Our Own aka viz wand     Words: 12907

Reading a Shadow aka Shadow       Words: 7554

On the Edge of Time and Space aka sheRa     Words: 29075

Goose games     Words:1849

A Prince's Winter Wonderland Challenge aka Goldilocks      Words:14563

The Assessing and Acquisition of Assets  aka team16     Words: 24671

Reclaiming Our Place in the World aka team47     Words: 32408

America's Ass  aka Ass      Words: 4581

The Bond Between Caretaker and Animal aka Breed 2    Words: 11522

Calendar Pets aka Calendar      Words: 8915

Not All Fires Are Bad aka Fire dog      Words: 10010

I Volunteer!!!!  aka volunteer          Words: 20562

Read It In A Fic Once aka fan fic    Words: 8955

2023:

Devotion aka breed 3  Words: 2940

Ideas:

• solar system

• Angels, demons, and humans

• God Thor

• Gkotm (really excited to start this one)

• Other ideas in the handy dandy notebook. Combining some ideas

Charities stories:

• Destiel handprint 

• Stucky Nemo

• Plums this one in the works. Already posting :)

• White wolf

• Dragon 

• Goose 

Charities art:

• Godzilla

•

Other stuff:

• I want to support at least 2 charities. 

• Co-write a story

• Post 12 story. 

• Be in a 4 fan event 

• Make a zine :)

Most important must do no ifs and or buts:

1. Stop starting stories until I finish some more: Have 20 starts. Lots of notes. not doing better Lol 

2. Finish typing pooches: 3/4 done

3. Finish Stucky war/recovery story pt 

4. Start part twos to stories: (Rain, horse (started), pooches 4, fix it 5, fanfic 2) 

5. Comment more on the stories I read Even if it is great read or good story:   :) doing this well..

6. Keep page for Tsums going: Still on Instagram 

7. Be in an auction: did in 2021

8. Clear out old stories: working on

9. Talk to more authors: Have joined four new discords :)

10. Edit all posted works: done

11. Do a whole year event: in progress

[cchellacat]

I’m Speechless

Wintershock: Bucky/Darcy

Fluff for  @cametobuyplums 2000 Plums Writing Challenge.

Prompt: Je suis sans voix : I’m speechless

Nearly everyone had them, words scrawled somewhere on their bodies, the first words your soulmate would say to you. Bucky had spent his first life unmarked, something most people considered unlucky, he’d known when he left for war he probably wouldn’t come back, after all, there was no one waiting to hear his words and no one for him to say any to.

Those first weeks free of hydra had bee a blur, but one moment stood out, stepping out a of hot shower and clearing the steam from the mirror he’d seen them, the edges of words curling around his shoulder.  Angling in the reflection, he’d felt confused at first, not understanding where they came from, what they were, but then the knowledge rushed back in.  Soul-words. Words that meant somewhere out in the world there was a girl waiting for him.  It’s why he decided to head to Europe, that and the chance to chase down leads on Hydra, try to understand better what they’d done to him.  He’d found the record buried in a bunker in Germany. August 15th 1989, they’d discovered the words when they took him out of cryo.  After that they’d moved him to an American base.  

By the time he’d ended up in Wakanda, his mind restored, he’d felt a little more hopeful about the words, the tantalising promise of a future seemingly in his grasp.  He’d never even had the chance to tell Steve about them, to share what they were, he knew he’d have got a kick outta the suggestive invitation tattooed on his skin in French.

Then Thanos came and war. The aftermath of the destruction the Titan wrought across the world was massive, but the survivors, victorious.  Peter Quill had luckily been close enough to Stark to grab the man’s hand as the power of the stones flowed through him, shouting for others to do the same.  A line of the world’s heroes holding each other, linked in an unbreakable chain before Thanos, channeling all that power as Stark wielded the glove and defeated him, turning him and his armies to dust.  

When Steve had come to him, told him what he’d planned to do, he knew that if he told him then, his friend would have stayed, wanting to make sure he met his soulmate, wasted time he should be spending with Peggy.  So, he’d done the right thing, told Steve it was time for him to go back to his girl, live the life he’d been meant to have.  

Steve was staying with Stark now, life at the cabin was good for him, a good retirement and friends to visit and catch up with.  The place is peaceful, tranquil.  It’s why Bucky’s frowning so hard when he gets out of the truck.  The sound of dance music is blaring loudly from the cabin. It’s meant to be a nice relaxing quiet Fourth of July, instead the area by the water is bustling with people, setting up tables between shouting and laughing.  He can see the kid, Parker, chasing after a girl with curly hair. Morgan and Nathaniel, Cooper and Lila ducking about between the adults, playing some sorta game with water pistols and no one seeming at all concerned with the rising noise.  He spots Steve, dozing on the porch, and takes determined steps inside the house to find the source of the music.  He’s working himself up, ready to face Stark whom he’s certain must be behind it, but stops short when he reaches the kitchen.  There’s a girl there, wearing shorts he’s sure should be illegal, hair swept up on her head and bandana tied around it. She’s singing at the top of her lungs, a mixing bowl in one arm and conducting some invisible orchestra with a spatula in her right hand.  She’s gorgeous, looks like a pin up girl with her shirt tied under her curvaceous bust, her lips full and red, bright blue eyes flashing with merriment.  When she spots him, she flashes a sunny smile before dancing over, looking him straight in the eye and singing the words he’s branded with, to him.

“Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”

He stands frozen in shock, not at the question, but at the reality.  He gapes like an idiot, mouth opening and closing in shock.  

“Hi!  I’m Darcy.”  She waves at him with the spatula, beginning to look concerned.  “Hey, old timer, it’s just a song, what’s got your panties in a bunch?”  He’s still unable to answer and she tells Friday to turn off the music, muttering that she’s gonna get Steve and he panics, reaching for her arm and finally croaks out a response.

“Je suis sans voix!”   it takes him a moment to realise he’s replied in French, but it seems he doesn’t need to translate, she looks as shocked as he felt.  Her mouth making a pretty oh of surprise and the bowl in her arm drops to the tile with a clatter.  For a blissful second there’s silence before she gets her voice working and starts chattering nineteen to the dozen.  

“You’re speechless? Fuck me my dude, how the hell do you think I feel?  Oh my god, Janie is not going to believe this!  And Steve!  Oh he is going to love this, do you know he talks about you all the time?  Like, the guy never shuts up about you, I feel like I know you with all the stories he’s told me and he kept insisting I’d like you no matter how any times I told him I still had a mark and….  Hey, hey, earth to Barnes!  Keep up soldier, we gotta go tell everyone!”

“Jesus Christ Doll, you got a mouth on you!”

“Ha!  Took you long enough. I thought I’d scared you permanently mute.”

“Something tells me that wouldn’t have been a problem the way you can talk for two.”  He tells her with a cheeky smile.

“I thought you were meant to be the smooth one Barnes.”    She parries back sharply, eyes twinkling.

“S’not like I have to be anymore though, is it?”

“Oh!  Implying you won’t need it with me?”  she arches a brow, placing one had on her hip and he’s brought up short again as he notices how long her legs look in the tiny shorts.

“Now, Doll, I didn’t mean it like that…  Just meant the days of me trying to charm a pretty dame are over.  Why would I need to, when the prettiest gal I ever met is my soulmate?”

“Aha, now that was smooth. A + right there.”

He steps closer and finds that, although she’s larger in life in personality, she’s a tiny little thing physically.  She barely comes up to his shoulder in her bare feet.  Even with the height difference, she manages to look down her nose a little at him before stepping into his space and tugging down her top so he can see the words he’d said to her in neat copperplate, scrawled over her collar bone.  It’s unmistakably his own hand.  When he reaches out to touch it, she allows it with a small smile.  Her skin is silky sooth under his touch, and she shivers as he traces the words, finally a little speechless herself.

“I don’t think we were properly introduced earlier,” he states, pulling her top back into place. “I’m James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.”

“Darcy Lewis, no fancy nickname”

“I really glad to finally meet you Darcy.”

He takes her hand in his, squeezing it gently, when she mirrors the gesture, it’s like something clicking into place.

“So, “  she asks after a moment, “who do you want to tell first. You’re best friend, or my Father?”

“You’re dad’s here?”

“Sure he is, Friday, where’s dad?”

“Boss is currently in the workshop Miss Lewis, would you like me to ask him to come up?”

Darcy almost agrees but then notices her shiny new soulmate is doing his best impression of a goldfish again.

“Speechless, huh?  I think I could get used to this…”  Darcy quips.  

Bucky’ d froze again and wonders if everything she says to him from now on will end in his stunned silence, but he clears the thought from his mind and shakes his head.  

“Any chance we could skip both and go straight to your first suggestion doll?”

The loud whoop of laughter that echoes through the cabin startles Steve awake on the porch.

Looking through the window he sees his best friend smiling, really smiling, the way he had before the war and Steve knows from the way he holds Darcy’s hand, his great granddaughter’s hand, that everything had worked out just fine. 

[sunmoonandeddie]

spilled wine

pairing: king!bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3,346

summary: You’re nothing more than a servant who happens to warm the bed of the king.  At least, that’s what you thought you were.

warnings: Some swearing, little bit of violence

a/n:  This was written for @cametobuyplums‘s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge!  Congratulations!  My prompt was “Pour moi, c’est toi la plus belle : to me, you are the prettiest.”  Also, shout out to my betas that basically agreed to read this because we’re in a group chat and I’m a brainless noodle that needs all the help I can get: @wastedavenger @curvybihufflepuff @siren-kitten-his @starwarsgazer Let me know what y’all think!

You were angry.

No, angry was too simple a word.  You were vexed, aggrieved, irate.  And you had every god damn right to be.

Well, kind of.

“What has you all riled up?” Wanda asked as she sidled up next to you.  You were two peas in a pod with your matching servant’s dresses.  They were slightly nicer than your usual uniforms, trading plain brown wool for dark blue muslin.

“Nothing,” you said with a huff as your eyes landed on the King, who was currently twirling Princess Natalia around the ballroom.

But your best friend was as observant as ever, her eyes following your gaze.  “She’s beautiful.”

And she was, with her red silk gown that matched her fiery red hair.  Gold was woven throughout the fabric, making it almost luminescent.  But nothing could be more beautiful than her emerald green eyes, you were sure of it.

“She’d make a fine queen.”

You hummed in response, the bottle of wine sweating in your hands.  “I’m sure she would.”

“You know, political marriages happen all the time, even with commoners such as us,” she said, her eyes searching your face.  Her voice had dropped to a low whisper to ensure that no one could overhear the two of you.  “It doesn’t mean there’s feelings between them.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you look so upset?”

Because I am upset, you wanted to say.  But you couldn’t.  It didn’t matter that Wanda was smart and had figured out about your little affair over a year ago.  Or that she had told you that you would inevitably have to watch him marry someone else.  When she told you that, you’d simply shrugged and said, “He only wants someone to keep his bed warm, and I am in no place to deny my king.”

“Y/N, please tell me what happened,” she said as she reached up to tug on one of the ribbons she had braided into the strands of hair that she’d pulled back into a half-up, half-down sort of look.

“We got into an argument,” you finally admitted as your mind flashed back to what had taken place just a few hours before.

“I have to go,” you said as you straightened out your hair in the mirror.

It wouldn’t do to look as though you’d been rolling around in the hay.

Granted, your virtue wasn’t worth as much as the nobility that walked the halls of the castle, but still.  The principle was there.  And someday you’d have to get married and there was no doubt in your head that your husband would want to know that whatever children came out of your union were his.

“The ball doesn’t begin for another three hours,” James said as he rolled out of bed.  He didn’t even have the decency to get dressed before crossing his chambers to where you were standing, peering into his looking glass.  He looked almost godly in the afternoon sun that was streaming in through the open balcony doors.  “It wouldn’t hurt you to linger, my love.”

There it was again.  ‘My love.’  The title that he had given you that would never truly be yours.  It stung your heart every time he uttered the words, though you knew that you couldn’t say anything about it.

His arms wrapped around you from behind, your hands automatically clasping over where his rested on your sternum.  His lips trailed soft, feather-light kisses against any bare skin he could find.  His hair fell in a curtain around his face.  Your eyes were locked on your own in the mirror.  You wished for nothing more than to be able to stay right there, in his arms, hidden away from the judgmental eyes of the world.  “Stay… for just a little longer…,” he purred.

“My king,” you said after clearing your throat.  You knew how much he hated it when you used his title, and for the most part, you agreed to use his actual name when the two of you were alone.   But right now, you needed to get your point across.  You wriggled out of his grasp, turning away from him to pull on your shoes.  “This needs to come to an end.”

The air in the room changed as he froze behind you.  “What?”

You swallowed, knowing that defying your king could get you thrown into the dungeons or sent to the gallows.  You could only hope that you had gained enough respect in your time together for him to allow you to keep living your life as you knew it.  “This…  This needs to end.”

“I heard what you said.  I suppose I’m just wondering what’s gotten into you,” James said, letting out a chuckle as he tried to grab your hand.  He clearly thought you were joking, playing a little trick on him before the big night.

But you snatched your hand away before he could grab it.  “My king,” you said sternly, your voice void of any warmth.  “Tonight you are choosing a queen.  You are throwing an entire ball for it.”

“I don’t see how that means this has to end,” he said, his brows furrowing.

“I don’t think your wife would appreciate me warming your bed,” you replied dryly.

James rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the wall.  There was still a playfulness in his eyes because he didn’t get it.  Because he was a man and men get what the want, especially if they have a crown on their head.  “My wife—whoever she may end up being—will have her own chambers, as is normal.”

“And what then?” You snapped, your frustration reaching its boiling point.  “I will not—no, cannot—be your little plaything—your whore—for the rest of my life.  One of these days, I will be married to a man who wants to be sure I’m not bearing another man’s heirs.”  You could get in so much trouble for this.  You could be beheaded, for God’s sake.  But you didn’t care.  You’d spent the past two years warming the king’s bed and you truly only had yourself to blame for the current situation.  You’d lost your heart to him.  You should’ve ended it the second you realized you had feelings for the man, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it until now.

“You’re getting married?”

And maybe it was because you were so pissed off, but you could’ve sworn he was laughing at you.  “Yes, I am,” you said, your hands fisting at your sides.  “To the blacksmith in the village.”  You swallowed, willing yourself to stay strong, to not cry.  “And he may not be rich and he may not have a title, but at least I won’t be a toy to throw away when he’s done with me.”

James scowled, his hands having dropped to his sides as he stood up straight.  “I am your king.  And regardless of whether or not you’re getting married to some commoner, I want you.”

“If you want me, then you have to earn me!” You snarled as you whirled on him.  “I might just be a servant, but I am not yours!”

He was left completely silent as you stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wanda cooed as she gently rested a hand on your arm.  Because it didn’t matter that she could be saying, ‘I told you so.’ What mattered was that you needed your best friend more than anything.

Because underneath all your anger was a deep sadness, a despair that only came from a broken heart.

“It’s alright,” you said, though it was clear that you were more trying to convince yourself.  “I’ll forget all about him once Adam and I are married.”

The redhead’s nose scrunched as she was reminded of your now fiancé.  “I don’t particularly care for that man.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not the one marrying him,” you teased as you moved to refill some of the Lord’s cups.  Plus, you could see the head of the kitchen, Vision, glaring at the two of you.

It didn’t matter that he was set to marry Wanda, he wouldn’t risk getting in trouble for two of the servants under his watch talking the night away instead of working.

The music continued to play as you moved through a few of the tables that lined the edges of the room, refilling goblets whenever you saw they were half empty or lower.  There were a few sly comments here and there, but nothing too out of the ordinary of the sleazy men.

You were pouring more wine for Lord Rumlow when your eyes drifted up to the dance floor, only to find James’s eyes already on you as he danced with the princess.  His startling blue eyes met yours, freezing you in place.

But you were pulled out of it by the sound of a someone shouting.  You gasped as you looked down, realizing that you’d overflowed Rumlow’s goblet and that it was dripping all over him.

“You stupid girl!” He snarled.  His hand swept across the table so that the goblet flew towards you, wine covering your dress.

There was no way that was coming out.

“I-I’m so sorry!” You said, stammering as you tried to mop up the wine with your dress.  People were starting to take notice of the commotion, Wanda included.  You could see her from the corner of your eye across the room.  She looked more like a raging bull than a girl, pushing up her sleeves as though she was going to storm him herself.  Vision appeared behind her, though, holding her back before she could do anything rash.  “Please, f-forgive me, Lord Rumlow.”

A yelp tore from your lips as the Lord gripped your upper arms, his nails digging into your skin through your dress.  He shook you harshly as spit flew from his mouth.  His face was twisted into something so horrific, you were sure that he’d been possessed by a demon.  No holy creature could be so ugly.  “I’ll have you hanged for you insolence, you—"

“LET HER GO!”  The king’s voice boomed across the room, and everyone fell deathly silent.

You whimpered as Rumlow’s grip tightened as the king stalked towards him, murder in his eyes.  You knew there would be bruises in the shape of his hands in just a few hours.  “Your Majesty, this worthless—“

“Have you lost your hearing, Rumlow?” James asked as he came to a stop in front of the two of you.

The man blinked in confusion.  “What on Earth are you talking about?  Of course not.  This kitchen mouse—"

“Then why have you not put her down as I’ve ordered you to?”

The other man’s jaw clenched as he stared down the King for a long moment, before tossing you to the floor.  “She spilled wine all—”

“She apologized, and spilled wine no reason for you to turn into a rabid animal,” James interrupted, his eyes still narrowed.  He was making it clear that Rumlow wasn’t getting anywhere with his excuses.  He hadn’t looked at you yet, and you didn’t dare move from where you’d landed on the marble floor.  “Maybe we should have you for prey on our next hunt.”  He sneered at the lower-born man.  “Get out of my sight before I send my dogs out after you.”  When the man was out of earshot, the King turned his head to speak to his right hand, Lord Rogers.  You’d heard all about him while lying in James’s bed after a night of love-making.  He was the King’s best friend as well as his most trusted adviser.  “Ensure that he leaves, Steve.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Your cheeks flamed as you stared down at the floor, your palms pressed flat against the cold marble.  You couldn’t look your now former lover in the eyes.  Not after what had just occurred.  You were a servant.  You weren’t meant to be seen, and now every person in attendance was staring directly at you.

But James surprised you, getting on his knees so that he was on your level.  “Are you alright, my love?” He asked softly, gently tilting your chin up to look him in the eyes.

“Your…  Your Majesty, wh-what are you doing?” You stammered, eyes darting around the room to see everyone watching him.  “You shouldn’t be—”

“Y/N, are you alright?” He asked once again, making sure to enunciate each word.

You stared at him with wide eyes, swallowing.  “Y-Yes.  I’m so-sorry about the wine, I—"

James’s hands rested on your elbows so that your hands had to rest on his chest.  He didn’t care that the two of you were still on the floor.  “I don’t care about wine.  Or Rumlow, for that matter.  What I care about is whether or not you’re okay.”  He stared at you for another long moment before pulling you to your feet.  “Dance with me.”

“Wha…  What?”  You blinked at him slowly, unsure that you heard him.

“Dance with me,” he repeated, though he was already pulling you to the dance floor.

“B-But there’s people staring, and my dress, and I’m just—”

“You’re just what?” He countered, frowning as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek.  “Let them stare.  I don’t care about a dress.  And you…”  He smiled faintly as he took in your features.  “You are worth more than all of them put together.”  He held out his hand to you.  “Now, will you dance with me?”

After just another moment’s hesitation, you placed your hand in his.  He nodded towards the band and a slow waltz floated through the air.

“How is Princess Natalia?” You asked as he held you close.  You were avoiding his eyes.

“She’s fine, enjoying her engagement to Prince Clinton,” he said, though when you looked up at him, there was no cocky smirk that said he was poking fun of your jealousy.  No, he was being completely serious in wanting you to know that he wasn’t interested in her.

But even so, your eyes drifted over to the many eligible noble women that had come to try their hand at winning the King’s heart.

“What are you thinking?” He asked, his voice barely audible.

“One of them is going to be your wife.  They’re all rather pretty,” you hummed, unable to stop yourself from staring at the girls.  They stood there in their fine silk gowns with diamonds dripping from their ears and their necks.  Every single one of them was glaring at you, reminding you that you weren’t one of them.  That you didn’t deserve to be dancing with the King.  That he would never choose you as his bride.

“Pour moi, c’est toi la plus belle,” he said as he gently turned your head to look back at him.

You bit your lip as you followed his lead, surprised at how easy it was to dance with him.  The most dancing you’d ever done was in the village square during festivals, and those boys were never any good at it.  They spent most of the time stepping on your toes.  “What does that mean?”

“To me, you are the prettiest.”  Before you could reply, he twirled you under his arm and brought you back in.  There was a thoughtful look in the depths of his blue eyes.  “I’ve done a lot of thinking in the… five hours or so since you left my chambers,” he said, his voice dropping so that no one could hear.  He knew how damaging it could be for you if someone heard that you’d been alone with him.

“Oh?” You prompted, not quite sure where the conversation was headed.

He nodded, humming as he looked down at you.  “Did you know that my father was a lowborn Lord before he married my mother?”  His brows were furrowed as he recounted the story.  “He was the fifth son of my grandfather, who was the fourth son of my great grandfather.  My great grandfather, James II, was a rebel that was pardoned by his king due to his lineage.  But he was barely left with enough land and money to keep his title as a Lord.”

You were growing less and less aware of everyone’s stares on you as you simply focused on the man holding you.  The man that you considered to be the love of your life.

“But my mother didn’t care about any of that.  She was the only child born to my grandparents, the future Queen.”  He paused, his eyes flickering over to the Queen Mother.  When her husband had passed, she’d decided to step down and let her son take the throne, despite the fact that she could rule without him.  She was adored by her people, loved and respected, just as her husband had been.  “Anytime she told the story to me when I was little, she always said, ‘I loved him, which meant his title didn’t matter.  He was born my equal.  I simply raised him to my level in the eyes of the world.’”

Your throat felt dry as you stared at him, your heart beating so loudly that you were sure he could hear it.  “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I have never bowed to anyone in my entire life,” he said, drawing out the words as the two of you came to a stop in the middle of the ballroom.  “Not even my parents.  But I will bow to you as the sun bows to the moon every night, allowing it to shine for the world.”  As if to show that he was serious, he bowed deeply at the waist, shocked gasps ringing through the air.  His lips pressed to your hand before he came back up.

“James…  What does this mean?” You asked as he straightened up once again.  You thought you knew where this was heading but you didn’t want to get your hopes up just in case.

“Let me raise you in the eyes of the world.  Let me show them that you’re my equal in every way,” he said as he slowly sunk to one knee.  His eyes were swimming with tears as he looked up at you.  “Marry me.  You’re already the love of my life, my light in the darkness.  Be my wife and my queen.”

You couldn’t form words.  Tears streamed down your face as you rapidly nodded.  “Yes,” you finally gasped out, letting out a bit of a laugh.  “Yes, I will marry you.”

James got to his feet, pulling you into his warm embrace.  His lips met yours as the room erupted in applause.  When he finally set you down, he opened up his arms to present you to the room proudly.  Wine-stained dress and all.  Your cheeks flamed as you curtsied towards them, before remembering that you would never have to curtsy to anyone ever again.

“Come.  There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he whispered, his breath hot against his ear as he led you towards where the Queen Mother, Winifred, sat on one of the thrones.  “Mother,” he said, eyes shining.  “This is Y/N, my fiancé.”

You knew the Queen Mother, of course.  You were the one who brought her tea every morning and every night.

She got to her feet, waving you off when you started to cursty.  “None of that nonsense,” she said, pulling you into a hug.  “Truth be told, I was wondering when my son would tell me about the girl he was so taken with,” she said, low enough that her son couldn’t hear.

Your cheeks flamed as she pulled away, but a fond smile tugged at your lips as your fiancé caught your gaze yet again.

James made a big show of bowing to you yet again.  “My Queen, will you give me the honor of a dance?”

Your heart fluttered as you placed your hand in his.  “I will.”

[fuckyeahdarcylewis]

Speechless

by Chellacat

Fluff for @cametobuyplums 2000 Plums Writing Challenge on Tumblr

Prompt: Je suis sans voix : I’m speechless

Words: 1458, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Darcy Lewis, James "Bucky" Barnes

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Post-Endgame

from AO3 works tagged 'James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis' https://ift.tt/3jPcess via IFTTT

[sunlightdances]

Take the Time and Love You More

Author: Katie @sunlightdances Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Prompt: "Dernière minute : last minute" Summary: Bucky comes back from a mission tired of hiding how he feels for you. A last minute, impromptu date changes everything. Written for @cametobuyplums’ 2000 Plums Writing Challenge! Words: 1616 Rating: PG. It’s fluff, folks.

Bucky Barnes has been alive for a very, very long time. He’s seen things he wishes he could forget, and he’s had moments that he wants to live in forever, moments with his friends and newfound family that he honestly never thought he would get to have.

He’s been alive for a very long time, and still finds himself surprised when he feels nerves like he is now, standing on your doorstep and hoping against hope that you’re awake, and alone, and--

The door opens.

His breath leaves him on a shaky exhale, your confused gaze sharpening when you recognize him, half shadowed by the night.

“Bucky?”

He had this whole speech planned about how life is too short and how he’s tired of waiting, tired of trying to convince himself he doesn’t deserve this, but it all goes out the window when your lips curl into a small smile upon seeing him.

“I know this is last minute, but do you-- would you go out to dinner with me? Right now?”

You blink. “It’s… Bucky, it’s midnight.”

“I know.”

There must be desperation in his eyes as well as his voice, because you wave him in with one hand, muttering about getting a sweatshirt and trying to find your shoes.

He grins.

.

.

.

The diner down the road from your apartment is open 24 hours. You don’t know how you forgot about it, but in your defense, you were a little surprised when Bucky showed up in the middle of the night.

You haven’t heard from him in weeks.

He’s alright, as far as you can see. A little tired, maybe, but all things considered, he’s in one piece -- mostly, because this thing comes off, he had joked, gesturing towards his arm -- and alive.

You still can’t wrap your head around the fact that he’s here.

“You okay?” He asks, and you realize you’ve been staring, propping your head up on your hand. You probably literally look like there are stars in your eyes.

“Should be asking you that,” you counter, quietly.

He looks a little chagrined. “I was an idiot. Am an idiot. Thought you knew that about me already.”

The waitress comes back and puts two coffees and a slice of pie each in front of you and Bucky, a warm smile sent in his direction that has him blushing as she leaves.

“I was worried about you.” You say, busying yourself adding sugar and cream to your coffee so you don’t have to look at him. “I know you probably can’t tell me anything about it, but--”

“We were in Russia.” He tells you. His voice is flat. “Had a lead and-- it doesn’t matter.” He digs into his pie, giving you a minute to look at him.

Leather jacket over a simple black t-shirt, dark wash jeans and his newly-cropped hair, short on the sides, long on top, swept to one side. Here, in this diner with you, you feel like he’s stepped right out of the fifties.

It looks good on him though, and you feel that warmth inside you that you’ve felt ever since you first met Bucky, all those months ago in the bookshop where you work in Manhattan, back when he came in nearly every week, devouring history books and fiction books alike.

Ever since the start, he’s had you, hook, line, and sinker. You wonder if he knows it.

“Can I tell you something?” He asks, his eyes imploring.

“Of course.”

“I just-- I know I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been… doing a lot of thinking. And then this mission came up, and I didn’t have time…” he drags a hand through his hair. “And that’s the thing. I’ve been alive forever, it feels like. But I always feel like I’m running out of time.”

You feel in a pang in your chest as you meet his eyes, the blue staring back at you full of regret and a little bit of pain. His hand moves to cover yours, slowly, giving you a chance to change your mind, but you don’t. You flip your hand over at the last second, palm to palm with him, your fingers lacing together effortlessly.

“I don’t want to waste any more time,” he says, and the unspoken words are loud as if he’s said them right into your ear.

He walks you to your door at nearly two in the morning, promising to call you in the morning -- make it afternoon, he amends with a smile -- and then with a kiss on your cheek, he’s gone.

You go to bed half wondering if any of that really happened at all.

.

.

.

Three weeks later, you’re the one rushing out the door, phone pressed to your ear. When he answers, you could weep with relief.

“What’s going on?” He asks, alarmed.

“I’m safe, it’s nothing. I just-- oh, Bucky, this is so last minute, I’m so sorry--”

“That’s kinda becoming our thing, isn’t it?” He asks, the words doing their job by making you smile and stop for a second on the sidewalk, trying to calm down.

“I suppose it is,” you agree. “I completely forgot about this work thing going on after hours tonight.” You frown. “I know I said we would get dinner, but I kind of have to be there--”

“Any chance you need a date?”

“You’re serious?”

A beat. “If I get a few hours with you, that’s all I care about.”

You give him the address, your heart fluttering as his low voice assures you he’ll be there, and you find the burst of courage you’ve been looking for over the last few weeks as you remember the echo of his voice -- I don’t want to waste any more time.

Neither do you.

He shows up looking like an adonis and you can’t help the grin that overtakes your features when he finally spots you after a few seconds of looking around the room filled with your coworkers.

His eyes light up.

A whiff of cologne before a kiss pressed to your temple -- don’t want to mess up your makeup, he whispers -- and you don’t know how you pretended for so long that you’re not in love with him.

You resolve to tell him before the night is over. Because he deserves to know that you’re both on the same wavelength, both so stupid for each other. He deserves to know that he’s cared for and loved.

No more wasting time.

He charms the pants off your bosses and coworkers alike, and never leaves your side, his hand a comforting weight on the curve of your waist, his eyes sparkling when he catches you staring at him, admiring the sharp line of his jaw and the blue of his eyes.

After, he walks you home, his jacket draped over your shoulders and your hand tucked in his.

“So,” he drawls, “Was that technically our first date?”

You smirk, “I thought our midnight dinner date was our first one.”

On your doorstep, he stays on the first step while you step up on the second one, at eye level with him. “Thank you,” you say softly, “for doing that for me tonight. I know it was last minute--”

“It’s our thing, I told you,” he chides. “You don’t have to thank me. Whenever you need me, you’ve got me.”

Butterflies take flight in your stomach again, and you can’t help but reach for him, your hand touching the side of his face lightly, your heart racing at the way his breath falters at your touch. “I think I love you, Bucky Barnes.”

His eyes slide shut. A breath escapes him, something like relief in his sigh before he opens his eyes again, the blue turning cobalt as he stares at you.

You don’t expect him to say it back. You’re-- you’re nobody. An editor at a publishing firm that just so happened to have a chance encounter with an Avenger one day and never looked back. You know he’s got parts of his life that you’ll never fully understand, but in this moment, you’re just a girl and he’s just a guy looking at you like you’ve hung the moon.

“I-- you’re… you’re everything to me.” He says, his voice fierce and tight with emotion. “That’s why I came here in the middle of the night weeks ago. After that mission, it dragged up memories I didn’t want to remember. But despite everything that’s happened to me, my life brought me you. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve it, but all I know is that life is short and I just--” He stops realizing he’s rambling every romantic thought he’s ever had about you since the day you met. “If all I get for the rest of my life are last minute dates with you, I can die a happy man.”

You basically melt into him right there, finally kissing him like you’ve wanted to since basically the day you met, and he matches your desperation, but turns it a little more reverent, a little more gentle, and it has heat thrumming through your veins.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers after he pulls away. “I’ve got an early morning and you do too.” He smiles regretfully.

You tilt your head to one side. You really don’t want him to leave. “Last minute sleepover?”

He laughs, and the sound is so beautiful you can hardly stand it. “I guess I could be convinced.”

You lead him inside with your hand wrapped up in his, and that night, you both sleep better than you have in years, each other’s heartbeats the lullaby sending you both into a dreamless sleep.

[beckzorz]

WORLD ON FIRE (masterpost)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge! Congrats Fizz, you are an amazingly huge inspiration and I’m so glad you’re here! Thanks so much for hosting as well xoxo

<< playlist >>

1: Tuesday, May 27 2: Wednesday, May 28 3: Sunday, June 1 4: Monday, June 2 5. Tuesday, June 3 6. Wednesday, June 4 / Friday, June 6 7. Sunday, June 8, i 8. Sunday, ii 9. Sunday, iii 10. Sunday iv / Monday, June 9 11. Monday, ii 12. Monday, iii 13. Tuesday, June 10 14. Thursday, June 12

PREVIEW UNDER THE CUT

“Pleeeease?” Mary winds an arm around your waist and smiles up at you with every ounce of sickening sweetness she can muster. You sigh, defeated.

“There is a fella,” you say quietly, and both of them squeal. You shush them, shoulders around your ears. “There’s nothing to tell! Only time I saw him with a nice dress on was in ‘42.”

“Six years!” Mary gasps. “You’ve been pining after one fella for six whole years?”

You shrug and duck your head, cheeks hotter than ever. Words escape you. How can you explain it? It’s crazy, when she puts it that way. You have to be crazy to waste what plenty—including your own aunt—would call the best six years of your life. And for what? Daydreams, and nothing more.

“If you don’t see him in nice dresses,” Goldie says slowly, “and he can’t be from work, unless you’re pining after the ancient doctor, which I wouldn’t dare accuse you of, he must be that neighbor of yours.”

You blink. How…?

“James Barnes, I think?”

Your jaw drops. “Goldie, how on earth—”

“Oh my god!”

Mary leaps to her feet and claps a hand over her mouth. You follow her wide-eyed gaze, mystified.

Then you spot him.

“David?!”

Your brother, your baby brother, staggering towards you with a shiner and a bloody nose and that sunny smile of his a bloody grimace. The people he’s passed are gaping; Mary beside you makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat and drags Goldie away, not even muttering a farewell.

Only then do you manage to get to your feet. You run to David, fear tightening your throat. The embarrassment of it all is nothing, not now, not when David’s barely upright. He collapses into your arms, nearly sending you to your knees as he stifles a groan.

“Think I scared your friends away,” he mumbles. He sniffs, rights himself, and wipes his bloody upper lip with the back of his hand.

You fish out your handkerchief, but you’ve no idea where to put it first. His nose, his mouth? The scrape on his jaw? What happened to him? What—and who?

“Come on, Deborah,” a man says, hurrying his girl past. He shoots you and David a dirty look, and a stab of unease cuts through you.

Sunny Prospect Park is no place for David. Or you.

“Come on,” you tell him. “I’m taking you home.”

[selina-kyle89]

Pass The Test (Bucky x reader)

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Warnings: Language, Bucky being a little shit.

A/N: This is my entry into @bolontiku‘s challenge. My prompt was “I started introducing myself to him, and he said ‘I hope you die screaming’ and kept walking.” This was so much fun to write! Congratulations Tiku on 2000!!! 

You were new to the Avengers, having been recruited when you assisted Steve Rogers on an overseas mission and thoroughly impressed him. So far, everyone had been really welcoming and nice, going out of their way to make you feel like part of the family. Everyone except a certain metal-armed, brooding super soldier. You tried to be extra nice to Bucky, striking up a conversation when you found yourself alone with him but he always rebuffed your friendliness. Any time you brought it up to Steve he always said the same thing, “Don’t take it personally Y/N, Bucky will warm up to you, it just takes him some time.”

You were working out in the gym with Wanda when Bucky walked in. He took one look at you running on the treadmill and abruptly left. You sighed heavily, turning your machine off and turning to Wanda. “Why does he hate me so much? What did I do wrong?” You complained. “Who? Bucky?” Wanda asked and you nodded. She chuckled, punching the button on her machine and turning to you. “Bucky doesn’t hate you, Y/N.” You scoffed. “Please. When I first got here, I started introducing myself to him, and he said ‘I hope you die screaming’ and kept walking.” Wanda burst out laughing and you shot her a death glare. “It’s not funny! I just want to fit in and he’s making it so difficult.” You whined. “Honestly, Y/N, don’t worry. He does this to all the new recruits. He’s trying to get in your head.” Wanda reassured you.

You tried to heed Wanda’s advice, ignoring Bucky’s childish behavior when you were around. But he made it so damn difficult. Like when you had your arms full of groceries and you were struggling to make it to the elevator on time. Bucky was standing inside, watching you scramble towards him. “Bucky! Hold the door please!” You yelled, balancing the bags to keep the groceries from spilling out. “What doll? I can’t hear you.” Bucky called out, obviously pushing the button to close the door. “BUCKY!!!” You screeched as the doors slid close, frustration flooding your body at his stupid smirking face. 

At the next team briefing, Steve handed out the training assignments for the week and dread bloomed deep in your belly. Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, you had been paired up with Bucky. You caught his eye from across the table, instantly hating the mischievous glint in it. After everyone had been dismissed, you caught up to Steve, begging him to pair you with someone, anyone else but he wasn’t hearing any of it. Monday morning rolled around and you trudged reluctantly to the gym. As soon as you entered, Bucky sauntered over to you, same stupid smirk on his face. “So, you ready to train with a real pro?” He asked smugly. “Shut the fuck up, Barnes. Let’s just get this over with.” You muttered, pushing past him to begin stretching on the mat. 

Bucky joined you on the mat once you were warmed up. You got into a fighting stance, ready for whatever Bucky was gonna throw at you. Bucky mirrored your stance, smirk and all. “Think you can handle me, doll?” You rolled your eyes. “I hope you’re better at fighting than you are at trash talk.”

“That’s cute. Listen doll, I really don’t want to hur-“ Bucky started before you landed a punch to his jaw causing him to stumble a few feet. “Oh, so we’re starting now, great.”

For about 20 minutes, you and Bucky go toe-to-toe, each landing their share of blows. Eventually, you get the upper hand and slam Bucky flat on his back to the mat. Your thigh is to Bucky’s neck and he taps your leg to signal he yields. “Damn Y/N, I’m impressed. I gotta say doll, I didn’t have high hopes for you but you passed the test.” Bucky chuckles as you extend a hand to help him up. “Well now I can die happy instead of, how did you say it, screaming?” You retort, hand on your hip. “I didn’t mean anything by it sweetheart, just had to make sure you were one of the good ones. How about I take you to dinner, to make up for the weeks of torture I subjected you to?” Bucky offered. You contemplated for a minute, taking in the man in front of you. He was pretty handsome and his personality was actually ok. “Fine, why not? But I get to pick the restaurant.” You agreed, heading towards the elevator. You stepped in, pushing the close door button repeated. “Y/N! HOLD THE DOOR!” Bucky shouted as they closed in front of him. This time, you wore the biggest smirk.

Tags: @buckysoldierstories @bolontiku @221bshrlocked @theimpossibleg1rl @lancefvcker @captain-rogers-beard @papi-chulo-seb @feelmyroarrrr @bucky-plums-barnes @myattemptatfanfic @tilltheendwilliwrite @thosekidswhohuntmonsters @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @prettyyoungtragedy @buckysbeech @whiskeyxcola @papi-chulo-bucky

[twilight-blossom]

Things I love (and miss) about Hawaiʻi

Hello all. Since I don’t talk about this much (and have gained some new followers of late), a quick summary of why I’m posting this: I am kanaka maoli (native Hawaiʻian) on my mom’s side; we’re both hapa haole (part white - mainly German and English with some Irish, Welsh, Scottish, Portuguese, and French, among others). I grew up all over the place, but spent the largest portion of my childhood in Hawaiʻi after my mom decided she wanted to move back and reconnect with our family over there, and it is the place I most identify with as my childhood home. So for Aboriginal Day 2017, I wanted to write up a list of things I love and miss about Hawaiʻi, in no particular order.

The food. I’m a major foodie, and have a lot of memories and general nostalgia around certain foods I ate growing up. Some foods I am super happy to still have access to include: dried coconut, mango, and pineapple; arare and other senbei (japanese rice crackers); li hing mui (dried plum powder, which is used liberally as a spice for fruits, popcorn, arare, and other sweet and salty foods); dried seaweed, sweet potatoes, sweet bread, malasada, and sushi. But not many of these are actually Hawaiʻian foods, which are a lot harder to come by on the mainland. I love haupia (coconut custard). Cooked taro (a root vegetable that tastes a bit like sweet potato) is delicious. I even miss poi (yes, it’s an acquired taste, and I used to doctor the shit out of mine with sugar anyway). I also really miss shave ice, POG (passionfruit-orange-guava juice), bubble drinks (they have little squishy tapioca balls in them), and Bubba’s mochi ice cream (especially the azuki bean flavor). Seriously, if any of you know ways I can get ahold of any of these here on the mainland, please let me know.

The weather. The sky is always beautiful. I used to love watching the sun set the sky aflame in tones of orange, pink, and violet at dusk. There’s so many different kinds of rain I liked over there too, including one I have yet to experience elsewhere: the really soft, misty rain that sweeps down from the mountains like a gentle cloud. And I loved that the rain, no matter the type, could sometimes only last a few minutes (there was also that time we literally had forty days of nonstop rain... that’s makahiki season for ya). And of course, there are lots of rainbows (we’re called the Rainbow State for a reason).

The everyday sense of the divine. We kānaka maoli are a very ecologically-conscious people (ua mau ke ea o ka ʻāina i ka pono), and much of that stems from our reverence of nature. The gods and spirits are very much alive and well in Hawaiʻi. I felt them watching me whenever I walked the tree-lined route to the bus stop, or passed by Diamond Head on my way to church or KCC. I felt their presence in our stories. My favorite one was the story of Pele and Hiʻiaka, sister goddesses who could not be more different — or more similar, in their shared passion. I have never lived in a place where the gods felt more present than in Hawaiʻi. One of my major regrets is that I did not find out more about my family’s own stories, and in particular our ʻaumākua, our ancestral guardian spirits. I am working on getting in touch with some relatives and am hoping to change that soon, though.

The people. A lot of folks are pretty laid back (a lot use pakalolo, too, which is definitely a factor, lol). The idea of us being happy and smiley all the time is definitely a stereotype, but there is still a lot to be said for what has been called our “Aloha spirit.” I grew up around many people of different races, ethnicities, sexualities, and gender identities, and by and large, we all supported each other. I never knew how unusual this was when compared to most other modern Americans until after I moved to the mainland. We are the most racially integrated state in the nation, with over a fifth (21.4%) of the population being of mixed race, according to the 2000 Census. We’re also doing better at women’s financial and political equality than most in the nation. Racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and other kinds of discrimination are still an issue in Hawaii, but they are not as common as on the mainland, and there’s a fair bit of nuance to a lot of it having to do with colonization and Christianization.

The cultural history. Our recent history is, like those of many colonized peoples, rather dark and messy. I am reminded of that often; I actually share a birthday with the date of one of the darkest moments in our history. But there is also a great deal of goodness to be found when you go back further, looking to what our people were like before Western contact. As a people, we were largely polyamorous, free to date whom we pleased and have as many lovers as we wished.  Being queer was a non-issue. Māhū people like me (transgender and nonbinary people) were accepted and honored for our unique perspective as a bridge between kāne and wāhine (men and women). Our economic system was specifically crafted to support everyone, so that very few died for want of food, shelter, or other basic needs. We were not perfect (when the Tahitians settled Hawaiʻi some 800-1000 years ago, they instigated a caste system, the lowest tier of which was composed of war captives and their descendants, and there are elements of the kapu system which were sexist). But there’s still a lot of good to our past, and many modern people striving to carry that goodness forward now and into the future.

Our acceptance of each other. The formal definition of kānaka maoli is anyone who can trace their ancestry back to the people living in the Hawaiʻian islands prior to Western contact. In some ways, this is due to the sad reality that there are very few pure-blooded kānaka maoli left. In other ways, though, it’s a mark of our acceptance of each other, our bond as an extended ʻohana. We are all descendants of Papa and Wākea, after all. I used to think it mattered how much of my racial make-up was k��naka maoli (a bit over 1/16th, as it turns out), and I worried that maybe it was too little, too diluted to be able to appropriately claim my identity as kānaka maoli. My mother is listed as Hawaiʻian on her birth certificate; I am not. I still worry about it at times. But every other kanaka maoli I’ve met and discussed my heritage with has accepted me (though not always without challenge, which is sometimes frustrating but understandable). I have come to understand that my worries largely stem from being raised with the European-originated concept of blood quantum, a concept imposed on the native peoples of the United States and which many (though not all) native groups reject as racist. This is, by and large, what we kānaka maoli have done, as well, for which I am immensely grateful.

There is so much more I could mention, including the language, our traditions of dance (hula kahiko), traditional garments like the pa‘u (skirt) and feathered cape, and so on. The ways I talk, like using the terms chickenskin (for goosebumps) and slippers (what mainlanders call flip-flops; they are not flip-flops, they are SLIPPERS). But I feel like this post has gotten long enough, and I need to get to bed.

A brief and unhappy note: I am also most likely of Chickasaw descent through my great-great-grandmother, though I cannot verify this (My grandma remembers talking with her and is certain that she was native, and I have been able to trace her back to a childhood in Chickasaw county, Oklahoma, where she was adopted by a white family, but there are no records of her birth parents). If this is true, that would mean she was a split feather, the name for victims of a disturbingly common phenomenon in which native children were taken from their birth families and adopted by white people, resulting in large numbers of disenfranchised natives; they and their descendants are now unable to benefit from tribal enrollment. This practice is a form of genocide (a willful attempt to destroy a culture or group of people), and is no less harmful than the many other genocidal activities the US used against natives. But nonetheless, we are still here.

[bagleywrightlectures]

A Note on Concordances, by Geoffrey Nutter

Back when I worked in midtown Manhattan in the early 2000’s, I used to walk over to the New York Public Library on 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue. It was a tonic to step from the bustle of the city into the silence of the Rose Reading Room. This place is one of the true pleasures of New York City: an enormous space with high ceilings decorated with gilded plaster baroque putti and cornucopias; murals of glowing pink clouds; big chandeliers that look like radiant space ships; and thousands of reference works on every conceivable subject in shelves along the room’s perimeter. (Returning to it after the renovations were completed a few months ago, I find that it’s also a popular place for tourists: among the students and researchers at the tables, the visitors step in and start taking pictures, the guards warning them off with a bored exasperation I’m familiar with from my days as an art guard at the Metropolitan Museum many years ago.) One book I stumbled upon during one of my lunchtime visits was the Hexaglot Bible: a volume about the size of a fire hydrant, with six even columns of text: one in Syriac, one in Hebrew, one in Greek, a column of German black-letter, and finally French and English. Nearby, and equally weird and imposing, I discovered the Concordance to the Poems of William Wordsworth, wherein can be found entries listing every instance of every word found in every one of Wordsworth’s poems. I’d never seen one of these before, and I loved it immediately.

I find concordances interesting and beautiful for several reasons: first, there is the sheer mind-boggling labor and tedium involved in such an undertaking and the question of what sort of person would voluntarily take it on. Then the problem of how they went about doing it: how many thousands of notecards in hundreds of stacks? Did they begin with the first word of the first poem in the Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens, for example (which is, by the way—and what could be better?—the word “every”)? With the first sonnet of Shakespeare? Then there is the question of why? It seems like one of those labors that are undertaken by people possessed by a sense of mission and an equally strong and inexplicable compulsion. When you spend some time in the Reading Room, surrounded by so many thousands of books that are the results of such obsessed dedication, one gets the sense that the people who spent their hours working away on them are, like the oddballs who dedicate their lives to such undertakings as baroque opera, orchid growing, and studying galaxies billions of light years away, somehow helping to hold civilization together.

In the recent past I’ve gone back to visiting the Reading Room pretty frequently, and I’ve looked through many of the concordances in the library’s collection, reading around in them in much the same way I read any book of poems. I love how in a concordance each entry is a kind of list poem whose subject is a word. Each line in isolation is somehow poetry distilled, freed from its context: it becomes poetry even purer, even more stripped of any vestige of the utilitarian and the practical and released from the burden of meaning. Each line floats free and becomes a beautiful object in itself. Each line is a challenge for poets to write lines that are musical and exciting in isolation. Here is an example of one word, and how it has been used by a few poets—found in a number of concordances in the Reading Room. My choice of the word is arbitrary…or maybe the choice of purple and its indulgences was determined by the gorgeously decadent ambiance of the Reading Room:

Whitman:

Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, purple The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple Again the forenoon purple of the hills O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you! The aspiring lilac bushes with profuse purple or white flowers

Blake:

In his soul stood the purple plague His words fall like purple autumn on the sheaves Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet The king frowning in purple beside the grey plowman His forehead was divided into streaks of green and purple With purple flowers and berries red image of that sweet south

Stevens:

And would have purple stuff upon her arms And the colored purple of the lazy sea Among the purple tufts, the scarlet crowns The mountainous ridges, purple balustrades Sealed pensive purple under its concern Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main Came reproduced in purple, family font Not less because in purple I descended Or purple with green rings To whom the watermelon is always purple The purple dress in autumn and the belfry breath The vetch has turned purple. But where is the bride? Clog, therefore, purple Jack and crimson Jill. For all his purple, the purple bird must have Red purple, never quite red itself What is this purple, this parasol It is Hartford seen in a purple light Purple sets purple round. Look, Master Were violet, yellow, purple, pink. The grass Inhale the purple fragrance. It becomes Let purple Phoebus lie in umber harvest The purple odor, the abundant bloom And laughed, a sat there reading, from out of the purple tabulae Cry out, “I am the purple muse.” Make sure How facilely the purple blotches fell On the walk, purple and blue, and red and gold And of purple blooming the the eucalyptus And purple timbers Oh! How suave a purple passed me by! He called hydrangeas purple.  And they were. It was a purple changeable to see. Fly from the black toward the purple air. And downward, from this purple region, thrown;

Dickinson:

None can avoid this purple— Vailing the purple, and the plumes— The purple brook within the breast Cruising round the purple line A purple finger on the slope— The purple crayons stand.. Full purple is his state! A little purple—slipped between— You dropped a purple ravelling in— Blazing in gold and quenching in purple And purple—from Peru— And ever since—the purple moat— Where ships of purple—gently toss— Her purple traffic A smaller purple grows— Into the mystic (purple) well— The purple could not keep the East— There seemed a purple stile And it should lift its purple dikes, Will sway with purple load— To gain the purple democrat There rose a purple creature— She doth her purple work— And purple ribaldry—of morning The purple—in my vein— Seed, had I, my purple sowing

Wordsworth:

A crest of purple tops the warriors head And now that orb has touched the purple steep, Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. Where falls the purple morning far and wide And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. Upon the fragrant mountain’s purple side: Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Before the purple dawn.” Flung from off the purple pinions, Beneath the shadow of this purple wings Preferr’st a garland culled from purple heath, While the stars shine, or while day’s purple eye With purple of the trellis-roof, Blithe Autumn’s purple crown, and Winter’s icy mail! —So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine.

Hopkins:

And held a cross of flowers in purple bloom Plum-purple was the west but spikes of light The thunder-purple seabeach plumed purple-of-thunder Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day And not from purple Wales only nor from elmy England Rounds its still-purpling centreings of cloud Rounds its still-purpling centre-darks of cloud Are afoot heaven-vault fast purpling portends and what first lightning And pledged purply in a half-lit dell

[ao3feed-wintershock]

Speechless

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3jPcess

by Chellacat

Fluff for @cametobuyplums 2000 Plums Writing Challenge on Tumblr

Prompt: Je suis sans voix : I’m speechless

Words: 1458, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Darcy Lewis, James "Bucky" Barnes

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Post-Endgame

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3jPcess

[ao3feed-buckybarnes]

Speechless

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3jPcess

by Chellacat

Fluff for @cametobuyplums 2000 Plums Writing Challenge on Tumblr

Prompt: Je suis sans voix : I’m speechless

Words: 1458, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Darcy Lewis, James "Bucky" Barnes

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Post-Endgame

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3jPcess

[beckzorz]

WORLD ON FIRE (1/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge! My prompt was ‘viens avec moi.’ And thanks to @littledarlinhavefaithinme for beta reading! // Some of you may remember part of this chapter from a drabble I wrote back in February (thus the PotC line...), which I’m very excited to have expanded! Hope you enjoy xoxo

1. Tuesday, May 27

The promise of summer hangs heavy tonight. Hazy evening air moves slowly down the street, tickling your arms. You roll your head around on your neck, squinting into the sunset before the clouds shift back, casting shadows over Brooklyn. Your bare feet dangle over the edge of the fire escape six floors up, slow-moving pedestrians meandering along the sidewalk as bicycles dodge cars on the road.

The fire escape creaks below you. You lean to the side and smile as a familiar dark head makes its way up three flights of stairs, just enough time for you to light a cigarette and take a drag to settle your quick heartbeat.

Apartment 3B settles next to you, barefoot with his trousers rolled up a few extra times. You don’t quite look all the way over at him, but a smile tugs at your lips as he sighs and loops his arm around his bent knee.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” he says.

“It’s a Tuesday night, where else would I be?”

He hums. He’s quieter than usual, and so you finally turn to look at him as you take a drag of your cigarette. Ah, there’s that perfect profile, the perfect hair. The lean build he’s had since the first time you met him, back when he was still working his way to winning his first YMCA boxing championship.

But his boxing days are long gone. Under his eyes are darker bags than you’re used to, and there’s a slump to his shoulders you’ve never seen before. It’s been months since you’ve seen him. Traveling for business, his sister had said, but he looks far more weary than a plain old business trip would allow for. He must’ve just gotten back yesterday or today, otherwise you would’ve seen him sooner, even if only in passing on the stairs.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, but think better of it. You’re not close. You chat and share a smoke every so often, but there’s only so close you can get with a fellow like him without falling—

Well, without exposing yourself. There are some things you’re happy for him not to know. If you pry, he might do the same.

The war had done things to everyone, really.

There had been snatched moments here or there, back before, when you’d thought something might happen. He’d give you a look, touch your arm for a little too long… Or that one time you’d snuck out dancing before your spinster aunt had finally gotten married, leaving you with her job and tiny apartment. Even now, with V-Day and your long-awaited reunion with your baby brother behind, you can’t think of a happier time than those few minutes when you’d been swept around the dance floor in your gorgeous neighbor’s arms.

You glance sideways at him, with his contemplative expression and all the weariness in the world in his posture.

The war had changed a lot.

But he sighs, shakes himself a little, and turns to you with a smirk. “So what’s been happening while I’ve been away? Break any hearts?”

You snort. “Oh, please. You know I’d never do such a thing!” A tap of your cigarette against the railing, and ash drifts away in the warm breeze. “It’s all the same around here, for the most part. Sugar’s still rationed. I’ve still got my job.”

“That old doctor treating you well?”

“If he didn’t, my aunt’d come barreling up from Kensington and give him a talking-to he’d never live down,” you say.

He shudders. “Poor guy.”

“Anyway, that’s the boring stuff. There’s a new soda shop around the corner. They have killer milkshakes. And…” You glance around and lower your voice. “There’s something new in our seedy underbelly.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“A new hitman. They say he doesn’t leave any survivors.”

“No survivors? Then where do the stories come from, I wonder?”

You roll your eyes and take a fresh drag. The smoke billows in the air, filtering through the bars of the fire escape. You swing your legs back and forth, the summer air warm and thick. “Probably from whoever’s side he is on. Some people just blab, y’know.”

“Huh.”

You offer your cigarette across to your neighbor, who takes it. He blows the smoke out in a clean ring; you clap sarcastically.

“Another brilliant performance,” you deadpan.

He snorts and hands the cigarette back. “Where’d you hear about him, anyway?”

“Eh, people talk,” you say. “Once someone said ‘Winter Soldier,’ I was bound to be interested. I want a name that swell. All I’ve got are the dumb nicknames my family gave me when I was a kid. And all the silly names you call me.” You nudge him with your shoulder, a little smile playing at your lips and a little warmth building in your cheeks as you sneak a glance at him. He’s as gorgeous as ever, weary or not. “Anyway, how’ve you been, Bucky?”

—

Bucky stays for another half-hour. Easy words, meaningless words, flow between you until he hauls himself to his feet with his good arm. He’d left his prosthetic at home. With the heat, you can’t blame him—you’ve seen it once, and the straps across the shoulders looked far worse than suspenders.

“Thanks,” he says as he goes, and you frown at him as he descends.

“What for?” you call, but he doesn’t answer. He just waves over his head, the slats of the fire escape swallowing him from view.

to be continued...

[beckzorz]

World on Fire (6/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge—thanks Fizz!

6. Wednesday, June 4 / Friday, June 6

Wake up. Make breakfast. Listen to the radio. Do your hair. Go to work. The same routine as every workday, but today is different. Every muscle is tense, eyes darting around on full alert, every creak and footfall a threat. Yet there’s a weariness in your shoulders. Usually you can focus, smile, even be satisfied—so long as you’re not thinking about what your life is lacking—but for some reason, even faking a smile for Alice as you get the biscuit tray is an effort.

For some reason? No, you know exactly what’s bothering you. And it’s not the sticky heat.

It’s David.

Whatever your brother’s been up to, he’s in danger. Two frights in three days? Whether or not Peggy Carter is right about him stealing sugar from the mob, David’s clearly gotten himself into trouble.

You twirl Dr. Simon’s fountain pen between your fingers, the appointment book neglected. What had happened to your baby brother? As a child, he’d been so sweet. A little wild, maybe, but sweet as—well, sweet as sugar. Certainly not the sort to get beat up, or run over. His only scrapes came from climbing trees.

But the war had done something to him. He’s still sweet, your brother. Underneath all the secrets and half-lies and avoidance, David still wants to help, even if he goes about it all the wrong ways. Plenty of boys with a stack of bills like the one he’d given you to pass on would have simply taken it for themselves. But you have no sense that David took anything at all. It’s not like he’s prancing around with a fresh suit or a shiny watch or anything like that. He dresses as shabbily as ever.

As shabbily as you.

You shake the intrusive thought away and clench the pen with a grimace. There’s a reason you don’t have nicer clothes. Both of you are trying to help the folks upstate. You can’t fault David’s intentions.

His actions, though?

You shake your head and bend back over the appointment book. Appointments straight through til the afternoon, and you’ve still got some notes to type up from yesterday. You wipe your damp forehead, annoyed at the heat, at the work, at David.

How could he have been so stupid? So foolish? Whatever he’s done, he should have known there’d be consequences. Should have known that you’d be desperate to help—but he’s given you no chance to do so. He runs off every time you try.

Not that you know what, exactly, you could even do. 

What kind of help could you possibly offer? Well, money. You still have some tucked away, enough to at least get David out of the city. Maybe even home. Properly home, where he can provide the help he’s been trying and failing to give. What’s a lump of money compared to a man in the house with a steady job? David’s strong, healthy, certainly smart enough—he could do it. He could get one. Take a weight off your shoulders, let you live for yourself.

If you could…

You shake your head and lean back over the appointment book. Now’s not the time to think about…

Well, too late, you’re thinking about him already. When aren’t you thinking about him?

Him. Bucky. Apartment 3B.

He’s out of town. There’s no chance he’ll grace your fire escape with his presence tonight. The one thing you most look forward to, more than your Sunday walks with Mary and Goldie, more than your rare visits home. Even with all the work you have to do—“I’m so sorry Mrs. Davis, but Dr. Simon is fully booked today. Yes, of course, I’ll see if he can squeeze you in, ma’am”—it’s hard to focus. David’s life at stake, Bucky gone away… Life is dull and terrifying and so damn deprived that your eyes blur even at lunchtime in the basement with Alice.

“You’ve not had the best week, have you?” Alice asks.

You sigh. “No,” you say. “I suppose not.”

—

The rest of Wednesday and Thursday go much the same. Even Friday is dull. Not a word from David, and of course Bucky is away. There’s no chance of seeing him. Still, habit has you sitting barefoot on your fire escape to watch the sky go pink behind the gathering clouds. The humidity is reaching a breaking point—the air’s thick, heavy, swampy. If it doesn’t rain soon, you’ll eat your stockings.

Well, not really. You’ve only got so many pairs.

Distant thunder rumbles across Brooklyn. You lean against the railing, watching the folks below scurry through the shadows on the lamplit street, eager to get home before the rain starts. You recognize a few silhouettes, but… no Bucky. Despite what he’d told you about coming back Sunday, you’d had hopes of seeing him sooner.

Squashed hopes, now.

The first few drops of rain along your arms come slow. You tip your head back, close your eyes, and let the raindrops leave little kisses across your cheeks. If only those were lips, his lips… You shudder.

Then the dark skies open. A gasp tears from your lips as you scramble to your feet, almost slipping on the metal. In the seconds it takes to scamper in your window, you’re soaked to the skin, hair sticking to your neck and forehead. Damp feet leave a trail as you hurry to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes and rubbing yourself down with a towel until your skin prickles from the rough material.

The window is still open. There’s no breeze, just the heavy fall of rain on the roof, on the fire escape, loud as thunder in your tiny place. You can barely hear yourself think. All the better, really. Between Bucky and your brother, there’s not a single good thought in your brain.

You flick off the bedside lamp and lie flat on your mattress in your lightest nightgown. The rain falls heavy as bricks, just loud enough to lull you to sleep.

—

You jolt awake, heart racing. A shadow hovers over you.

You scream, flailing, but hands clap over your mouth, your wrist.

“Shh!”

You freeze, squinting into the darkness. A tilt of your head to dislodge the trembling hand on your mouth. “David?!”

“Shut up, sis!” he hisses.

It’s still dark, still raining, though less heavily than before. You can hear the sounds of night in the city, the moans and groans of pipes in the building. You sit up slowly, the last hints of sleep slipping off your shoulders.

David falls to his knees at your bedside. He’s shaking, you can feel it now. You wriggle your hand free from his and reach out to touch his face. It’s damp; his hair is wet.

“What’s going on?” you whisper.

“I—I shouldn’t have—I screwed up, sis. Screwed up big time.” He sniffs, leaning into your hand on his hair. “I need your help.”

You glance around the apartment. The window is still open, but at least the door’s shut.

“What can I do?” you ask.

“I gotta skip town,” he says. “Before…”

“Before he finds you?”

David’s eyes snap to yours. You can just make them out in the darkness, wide and terrified.

“How—”

“I live here, David. I hear things. Whether you want me to or not.” You pull your hand away—you’re the one trembling now—and fall to your knees beside David. Under the mattress, a stash of bills. An old habit, and right now, a windfall. You stuff the money into David’s hand.

“Take this,” you tell him. “And get out of here. People know you’re my brother, David. They’ll come looking. Go home, David. Go home.”

David opens his mouth. Before he can speak, the fire escape creaks.

You tilt your head, confused. Is that…?

A tiny wail unravels from David’s throat. He lurches to his feet, pulling you up, his fingers digging into your arm. You can’t tear your gaze from the window. It’s only Friday. Maybe Saturday morning, but—

“It’s him,” David breathes. He drags you towards the door.

“David, stop!” You wrench your arm free. It stings. “I’m wearing a nightgown, for god’s sake!”

A shadow in your window. All the air leaves your lungs. One crackle of lightning, and you can see.

It’s not Bucky.

It’s a man with a shadowed face, a fedora, two arms, and a gun.

“Fuck!” David grabs your shoulder and works at the lock, his nails scraping against the wood.

You can’t tear your eyes from the man in the window. He slips inside, barely looking down as he steps from your bed to the floor. The click of the safety, a muffled grunt, and David freezes behind you. You’re frozen, gaze locked on the shadow of the man’s face. No, not a shadow, a mask, hiding every inch of his face.

It’s not Bucky.

It’s the Winter Soldier.

“Move,” he growls, gesturing his gun in your direction.

You can’t. Can’t move, can’t think, can only stare, heart in your throat, every hair standing on end.

“Move,” he repeats. It sounds wrong, too low to be natural, garbled, growling, a predator. A monster.

You shake your head, barely an inch to either side but it’s enough for the Winter Soldier to take another menacing step towards you. It’s so dark, he looks like he’s come straight out of your floor. You can feel David behind you, trapped between you and the door. You take a step forward, hands shaking.

It’s not Bucky, you tell yourself.

You step forward again. The stranger’s breathing is shallow. He’s as frozen as you had been. His gun is a dark shadow between you, but his hand is lax.

David has enough room to leave now, you think. Sure enough the door yanks open, swings shut. Your shoulders slump, and you back up quickly, hands groping for the lock as David’s footsteps pound down the stairs, down down down, to safety and—you pray—to home. The lock snaps shut, trapping you in. Trapping him in.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t move. His gun is still pointed in your direction. You curl your hand around the doorknob, arm trembling. That doorknob is all that’s holding you up. If you fall now, a shot would go straight to your head.

David’s out, at least. His harried footsteps have faded, and all that’s left is you. You, a hitman, and a gun.

Well, so be it. Your knees buckle. You land heavily on the floor, lips parted as you stare helplessly up at the shadow before you. He lurches forward, his left arm stiffly reaching, but before he gets anywhere near enough to touch you, he hisses, wheels back, and all but melts out the window and into the night.

Your hand drops from the doorknob, lands heavily on the floor at your side. You lean your head against the door, close your eyes, and shudder into stillness.

[beckzorz]

WORLD ON FIRE (2/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge—thanks Fizz! xoxo

2. Wednesday, May 28

Dawn comes too soon for your liking. The birds outside are making their usual early morning racket, and you grumble to yourself as you reach over to close the window. The touch of nighttime chill sends a shiver along your body. You yank your shawl around your shoulders as you wobble over to your galley kitchen and flip on the radio.

Quiet jazz pipes through your little apartment. You hum along as you fry up toast and eggs in the same pan you’ve been using for years. The handle is scuffed, the bottom blackened with use, and you sigh wistfully as you think of the day when you’ll have new things, nicer things. Like your friends, the lucky ones who still spend every Sunday afternoon with you in Prospect Park. Times like this, holed up with your old frying pan, you can’t help but wonder at it. Mary’s a typist for a fancy company in Manhattan; Goldie works for a bank, handling more money than you can imagine. Their pots and pans are shiny, bright enough to catch any man’s eye. Mary’s got a fellow, a nice one with a steady job; Goldie’s always had a string of jaw-dropped admirers at her beck and call. You… You don’t.

Would you even want a slew of suitors? You picture a long line of them, tall and suited and hatted, faces in shadow, and you shudder. No, men with fancy suits and fedoras aren’t your type. Your eyes have always fallen elsewhere. It’s gotten you nowhere, of course, but—well, you’re not so fickle as all that.

Loveless or not, fancy job or not, Mary and Goldie have stuck by you. You adore them for it. Beyond that, you like them. They’re lovely, and it’s nice to listen to them, too—nice to imagine yourself, one day, in their shoes.

And then there’s your brother. You grimace as you plate up your breakfast. Best not to think about him too early in the morning, or you’ll give yourself indigestion.

If nothing else, breakfast is good.

Your eyes drift around your apartment as you chew. You still have to make your bed. There’s a faded paisley tablecloth under your plate, the same one you remember from your faint memory of visiting your aunt with your mother as a toddler. There are still hints of your aunt here and there, but it’s your photo album on the shelf, your favorite books. Here, at least, you’ve made a mark on your own.

—

You slip in the side door to Dr. Simon’s house ten minutes early. His house is one of the nicest in the neighborhood—five stories all to himself. Well, himself and his live-in help.

“Morning, Alice,” you call as you bound down to the basement kitchen.

Alice, fifty-odd and pleasantly wrinkled, glances up from the pile of dishes at the sudsy sink as you burst out from the stairwell, a grin on your face.

“Nice to see you in early for a change,” Alice teases. She nods her head at a plate of warm biscuits. A just reward for a bad night’s sleep.

“Mmm, fank you,” you say around an unladylike chomp. You swallow. “And I’m almost always early!”

“Well, if you say so,” Alice says, laughing. She scrubs at a baking dish—it’s shiny, of course—and quirks her brow at you. “You know someone’s already here?”

“Whaa?!” You nearly spit out your second bite and stare dumbly at the clock. “But—I’m early!”

“It’s that Rogers boy,” Alice says. She shudders. “Poor thing.”

“Rogers boy?” you repeat. “He’s older than me! Don’t tell me I’m a girl.”

“To me, you’re both children,” Alice says. She scrubs harder at the baking dish. “And I can’t help feeling sorry for him. All those ailments, and his poor ma dead near ten years, and him still struggling to scrape along…”

You swallow the last of your biscuit and brush the crumbs off your fingers into the wastebasket. “Golly, Alice, he’s doing alright, isn’t he? Didn’t he meet a girl?”

“Well, but she’s English.”

A roll of your eyes as you pick up the plate to bring to the living-cum-waiting room. “Alright, Alice. See ya later.”

Alice waves goodbye, and you head upstairs. You push the basement door shut with your foot and wander through the dining room, glancing curiously at the curtained glass doors to Dr. Simon’s office. Steve Rogers has always fascinated you, if only because he’s friends with Bucky. Anyone, anything, attached to Bucky Barnes grabs your attention whether you care for it to or not.

You’ve met Steve in passing a few times. He’s always been polite, unassuming until someone did something stupid. You can’t help the twitch in your lips when you think of Steve Rogers, no taller than you and far skinnier, threatening any fool who dared do something he deemed wrong.

Strange, too, to consider how skinny artist Steve Rogers and boxing-champion-turned-war-hero Bucky Barnes grew to be such good friends. You don’t know how they met. Was Steve always so reckless? Was Bucky always so protective? A strange duo, but it seemed to work. At any rate, the few times you’d seen Bucky’s fond exasperation towards Steve, with his big soul and righteous indignation, your heart had melted a little more.

Steve’s low voice filters through the office doors, and you shake your head to clear your thoughts. He’s a patient, not your friend.

Biscuits go on the table in the waiting room, and you glide up the fancy staircase in the foyer as elegantly as you can manage. You settle at your desk in the upstairs office, ankles crossed as you check today’s roster of appointments. Old Ms. Flynn will be in at nine, Mrs. Barnett with her son Teddy around nine-thirty, and so on. Lunch at eleven-thirty; you’ll have to tell Alice to have it ready earlier than usual, but that can wait. First, to type up all of yesterday’s notes for their files.

The day passes in a hazy blur. It’s warm, almost sticky in the office. But there’s a fresh bouquet with lavender on your desk from the front garden, and lunch is delicious, and you get to leave a little early. All in all, a nice Wednesday.

—

… Or not.

When you turn the corner onto your street, you stop short. The woman behind you almost bowls you over, and your surprised gasp catches the attention of the young man sitting on your stoop.

Your brother.

“Sis!”

His babyish face breaks into a sunny grin as he pops to his feet. You sigh and walk over to him, your smile half forced.

“Hi, David.”

David bounds over and wraps you in a too-tight hug.

“I’ve gotta breathe, you goober,” you tell him crossly. You wriggle out of his grip and clutch your purse tightly against your side. “What’re you doing here?”

“Special delivery for my favorite big sister,” David says. “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

“Fine. Come in, I guess.” You pull out your key and open the door, glancing up and down the street. No one you know, not yet at least.

David whistles as he waits, seemingly oblivious to your obvious discomfort. But after weeks with no word from him, you’ve started to hear things. Things you don’t want to hear, things you wish you could refute.

But you can’t, because you don’t know anything anymore. The sweet eighteen-year old who went off to war came back at twenty with a bad streak. Your baby brother isn’t innocent anymore, whether you know the details or not.

And for the love of god, you really don’t want to know the details.

Five flights up pass in silence, save for his light, cheerful whistle. You’re used to the climb, and David’s never been a whiner. He’s a lot of things, but not that.

You lock the door behind you, glancing around your apartment for anything valuable you’ve left out. Well, not that you have much of value. Everything you do have is all stashed in the usual hiding spots.

Honking from the street has you hurrying to the window. You peer at the empty fire escape and yank the curtains closed.

One deep breath, and then you turn back to David with arms crossed. He’s already sprawled in one of your two rickety chairs, spinning a coin between his fingers. Neat trick, but you’re not impressed. He’s always been good with his hands.

“A delivery, huh?”

He rolls his eyes and pouts. “C’mon, sis, you can put in a little more effort. Aren’t you happy to see me? I came all this way…”

“From where? I don’t even know where you live anymore! Or where you’ve been—”

“Oh, don’t be a worrywart,” he says. “I’m doin’ peachy.” He tugs an envelope out of his pocket, eyes glinting as he holds it up. “And this is for the folks back home. Think you can send it over for me? I never did like the post office.”

The envelope sags a little in his grip. You step closer and take it, eyes widening at the weight. It’s not sealed—you peek inside.

You grip the edge of the table, knees weak. Bills. Twenty dollar bills, a hefty bunch. More than you’ve ever seen in a single place.

“David,” you gasp. “How do you have this?!”

He shrugs.

“David,” you repeat, “how?”

You sink into the other chair, heart hammering. A thousand guesses flash though your head, but you push them all aside as you wait for the truth. The truth, or whatever twisted version of it your brother will tell you.

“Found a good job,” he says. He looks hopeful, earnest, almost like that innocent eighteen-year old who sailed to war. “Ain’tcha proud of me, sis?”

Your heart breaks. You set the envelope aside and grab his hands.

“Oh David, they’ll be so happy. This’ll mean so much to them.”

“Grandma can get her medicine easy as pie,” David says, eyes bright. “And maybe even some good meat for a change.”

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes. You can’t tell him how disappointed you are, not when he’s so darn earnest, so happy to be doing his part to help the folks back home.

After months of nothing from him, you’ll take this, no questions asked. For your family, for those bright eyes, you’ll do it.

—

David teases you over dinner—food you bought, food you cooked—and drops a sloppy kiss on your cheek as he bounds out at twilight. His bright smile never dropped once he’d gotten your approval, and as you watch him go the first half-flight down, you can tell he’s still grinning.

It doesn’t matter that your approval is forced, or that he had to fudge the truth to get it. He’s happy. That’s what matters.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You don’t like to think of David as a liar. He’s your brother. You love him. If you don’t know what he is, what he does—well, it’s easier that way. For both of you.

[beckzorz]

World On Fire (3/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge—thanks Fizz! xoxo

3. Sunday, June 1

“Goldie!”

You pop up from the bench at Prospect Park as your friend hurries over, her pumps crunching in the gravel. Goldie wraps you in a tight hug, then pulls back, her bright smiling eyes reminding you—not for the first time—of your brother’s. Of course, there’s no dangerous baggage with her. Goldie is pure sunshine.

“How are you?” Goldie asks.

“I’m swell! So glad it’s Sunday,” you say with a sigh.

Goldie grins. “Best day of the week!” She pulls you back down on the bench. “How’s work? How’s life?”

“Oh, about the same as usual. You?”

“Didn’t your brother come back into town?” Goldie says. “What’s he been up to?”

“Oh… I’m not sure.” You twist your fingers together in your lap, gut churning.

“Don’t want to pry, hm?” Goldie’s eyes are sharp. You shrug.

“Not much point to prying. He wouldn’t tell me a thing anyway. He just goes his own way.”

“Uh huh.” Goldie crosses her arms and snorts. “Your brother is something else. Hard to believe you two are related, from all the stories I’ve hea—”

“Oh look, it’s Mary!” You jump to your feet, face burning, and hurry forward to meet the final member of your little trio.

“Hello you two.” Mary‘s strawberry blond curls bounce around her shoulders. She’s got her hands in her pockets and a smirk on her narrow face. You stop a few feet away and raise your eyebrows.

“Don’t you look like the cat that got the cream!”

Mary giggles. She loops her right arm around your waist and steers you back towards Goldie.

“You do look awful smug,” Goldie says, her arms crossed.

“Well, I have some news.” Mary tugs her left hand out of her pocket and holds it up. Is that…?

It is.

Your jaw drops. You grab Mary’s hand and stare at her new diamond ring.

“Oh my goodness! Mary!” Goldie cries. She flings her arms around Mary and leads her in a merry dance. Mary laughs loud and clear, curls glinting in the sun.

You grin as you watch them, your own hands clasped under your chin. Mary’s only been seeing Julius since February—a few months of courting, and now they’re engaged. And with the smugness wiped from her face, you can tell just how happy Mary is. She’s practically glowing.

Mary breaks free of Goldie’s stranglehold and pulls you in for a proper hug. You can feel her breath on your ear, the cheer of her giggle, the lightness that might be enough to let her float off into the sky.

Well, maybe not float off into the sky, but you’ll see less of her now, you’re sure.

“Oh I’ll miss you!” you exclaim, squeezing her tight.

“Well it’s not like I’m leaving town!” She nudges your shoulder. “Julius only lives a few blocks from me! And we’re hoping to find a place of our own soon. I don’t fancy living with his family. Bad enough living with my own mother,” she teases.

“So when’s the wedding?” Goldie asks.

Mary hooks her arms through your and Goldie’s elbows and sets the three of you walking. “Soon, I hope! I’ve still got a few things to finish for my hope chest, but then, I suppose I’ll finish them after if I need to.”

“Will you?” Goldie says, brow arched. “I think you’ll be far too busy with a handsome husband to finish embroidering another set of napkins.”

Mary’s giggle is high and bright. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, but there’s a nagging in your soul. Embroidered napkins? A hope chest? A husband, even? These two really do come from another world. Still, it’s not their fault. And you wouldn’t trade your solitary apartment and the accompanying fire escape chats for the world.

Even if that’s all you ever get, you’d rather keep those than gain anything else.

“Enough about me,” Mary says. “I’m sure you’ll be sick to death of all the wedding talk soon enough. What about you two?”

“Welllll,” Goldie drawls, “I’ve got a fella taking me to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Which fella’s this?” you ask. Mary snorts, elbows you.

“Albert,” Goldie says severely.

“Now is he the banker or the accountant?” you ask.

“Andrew is the banker,” Goldie says.

She detangles herself from Mary and plops down on a bench, patting the middle for you. You sit between them, cross your ankles.

“What about you?” Goldie asks.

“What about me?”

“You never tell us if you’ve got a man,” Mary says.

“Nothing to tell,” you say firmly.

“And I don’t believe it for a second,” Goldie cuts in. She pokes your arm. “You’re pretty, you work hard, you’re plenty smart, so why aren’t you getting yourself a beau?”

Fire burns your cheeks. “I—”

“She’s blushing,” Mary murmurs. “I bet she’s got a beau already, and she’s just too shy to tell us.”

“I don’t,” you insist, but Goldie tugs at your sleeve and bats her eyelashes at you.

“I won’t tell a soul,” she promises.

“Pleeeease?” Mary winds an arm around your waist and smiles up at you with every ounce of sickening sweetness she can muster. You sigh, defeated.

“There is a fella,” you say quietly, and both of them squeal. You shush them, shoulders around your ears. “There’s nothing to tell! Only time I saw him with a nice dress on was in ‘42.”

“Six years!” Mary gasps. “You’ve been pining after one fella for six whole years?”

You shrug and duck your head, cheeks hotter than ever.

“What in heaven’s name have you been doing for six years that he hasn’t noticed you?” she adds. “If he hasn’t seen you in a nice dress since ‘42, no wonder you’re still pining!”

Words escape you. You’ve never thought of it that way. You do have a nice dress—the one you’re wearing, the same one you’ve been wearing every warm Sunday for two years—and one too fine to wear even on Sundays. A gift from your aunt, the one you’d worn to her wedding. But you’ve never dressed up for Bucky, not since…

Not since ‘42.

How can you explain it? It’s crazy, when Mary puts it that way. You have to be crazy to waste what plenty—including your own aunt—would call the best six years of your life. And for what? Daydreams, and nothing more.

Well. Not quite nothing. There are those moments on the fire escape, with legs dangling and a shared cigarette, chatter that just skirts the things neither of you can quite say, that sweet comfort that feels as much like home as your own bed. And sometimes you pass him on the stairs, so close that you can smell him, your hand passing inches from his. A fancy dress would be out of place in those dim stairs, or on the fire escape.

But you don’t even know if your fancy dress still fits. No, Mary’s right. It’s crazy, letting it go on like this. Why haven’t you done something, anything, to push it along?

“If you don’t see him in nice dresses,” Goldie says slowly, “and he can’t be from work, unless you’re pining after the ancient doctor, which I wouldn’t dare accuse you of, he must be that neighbor of yours.”

You blink. How…?

“James Barnes, I think?”

Your jaw drops. “Goldie, how on earth—”

“Oh my god!”

Mary leaps to her feet and claps a hand over her mouth. You follow her wide-eyed gaze, mystified.

Then you spot him.

“David?!”

Your brother, your baby brother, staggering towards you with a shiner and a bloody nose and that sunny smile of his a bloody grimace. The people he’s passed are gaping; Mary beside you makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat and drags Goldie away, not even muttering a farewell.

Only then do you manage to get to your feet. You run to David, fear tightening your throat. The embarrassment of it all is nothing, not now, not when David’s barely upright. He collapses into your arms, nearly sending you to your knees as he stifles a groan.

“Think I scared your friends away,” he mumbles. He sniffs, rights himself, and wipes his bloody upper lip with the back of his hand.

You fish out your handkerchief, but you’ve no idea where to put it first. His nose, his mouth? The scrape on his jaw? What happened to him? What—and who?

“Come on, Deborah,” a man says, hurrying his girl past. He shoots you and David a dirty look, and a stab of unease cuts through you.

Sunny Prospect Park is no place for David. Or you.

“Come on,” you tell him. “I’m taking you home.”

—

David hisses as you press a damp handkerchief to his nose. It’s as much complaint as you’ve heard from him. Tiny hisses, bit-back groans, the odd sigh punctuated by a hand to his ribs. You focus on patching him up as best you can, but it’s harder and harder to bite back the questions. You’re dying to ask. More than ever, you want to ask.

This has to do with that envelope from Wednesday night. The one full of money, the one already on its way upstate. What else could it possibly be? What else does your little brother do that could cause such harm to come his way?

All that money…

Where did it come from?

But you can’t ask. You can’t. If you know, you’ll be weighted down by the truth. You’ll have to do something about it. Scold him, report him, try and make him do different. Be different.

But since when have you ever been able to sway David?

No, the less you know the better.

All you can do is help. He’s your brother. You can do no less.

—

You let David take your bed for the night. “Just tonight, David,” you warn him, but he only kisses the top of your head and eases himself between the sheets.

A blanket on the floor and a spare towel rolled under your head is the best you can manage, but at least from here you can watch the rise and fall of David’s shoulder as he breathes. He’s here, he’s not bleeding. He’s safe.

Safe—safe from what?

You turn away and curl your arm under your head, worrying your lips. You press your free hand against the floor, pushing down in hopes that you’ll smother your questions as easily as you grind the dust into the floor. Behind you, David tosses, turns; his little pained noises paint the quiet apartment. The bed creaks with his every move.

It takes a long time to fall asleep.

—

A thump startles you awake. You jolt up, and a fire burns down the side of your neck. “Ah!”

Silence falls. You massage your cricked neck, realize you’re still on the floor, and whirl to the bed. It’s… empty.

“David?”

A sigh behind you, and the squeak of the door. David’s shoulders are hunched with shame, and you can just make out his wan smile, black eye, swollen nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“Wait, David—”

But he’s gone.

You gape at the door with bleary eyes and a sunken heart. Your own brother, sneaking out at—you squint at the clock—three in the morning. At least… at least he can smile, even if just.

You crawl into bed, too tired to bother locking the door. A strange smell lingers on your sheets. It’s strange for this place to smell like something other than yourself, or cigarettes, or the occasional burnt toast. The scent on your pillowcase is… almost like home, really. Well, it’s David. Of course it’s home.

David. Where is he going? It’s barely three in the morning. Why did he leave? Why didn’t you make him stay? Why didn’t you even ask?

You know why. You know the answer to every single question, if you’d only let your mind go down those dark paths.

You don’t. You just force yourself to sleep.

to be continued…

[beckzorz]

World on Fire (4/12)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader; background skinny!Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter Warnings: Canon-typical violence; language; sexual content. Summary: Brooklyn, 1948. Bucky Barnes, war hero, lives three floors down, and the evenings he comes to watch the sunset with you on the fire escape are the best times in your shabby life. But reality is far uglier than it seems when swinging your legs six floors up with Bucky at your side. On top of a good-for-nothing brother and a poor family upstate, there’s a new mob hitman in town: the Winter Soldier. A/N: Written for @cametobuyplums Fizz’s 2000 Plums Writing Challenge—thanks Fizz! Sorry to have skipped a day last week, hope y'all don’t mind!

4. Monday, June 2

“Alice, don’t even say it, I’m so sorry!” You bolt down into Dr. Simon’s kitchen ten minutes late, the frantic hum of anxiety thrumming through you. 

Alice tuts and throws down her ball of dough with a muffled thump. “Well, I hope so,” she says. “Never seen you so late before.”

“My brother was visiting,” you tell her, grabbing the biscuit tray. “He’s a menace.”

“Must be.”

Alice waves floury fingers as you pass by. Up the stairs—you don’t dare go two at a time, not with a china tray, but you still manage to nearly lose a biscuit—and rush through the dining room, eyes on the wobbling biscuits.

One step into the waiting room, a shadow on the couch catches your eye. You look up and nearly drop the whole tray.

“What are you doing here?” you blurt.

Bucky Barnes’ head snaps up from the magazine open on the coffee table, his eyes widening. He surges to his feet as you gape at him.

“I brought Steve over,” he says. His eyes are glued to you as you dart forward and set the biscuits down before stepping back, hands clenched in front of you.

You’ve never seen Bucky here. He’s got his own doctor, one who knows more about amputees and prosthetics. It’s odd to see him here among the floral upholstery and gauzy curtains. He looks… Well, with his fancy suit and his slicked-back hair, he looks almost at home. He’s even wearing his prosthetic. You almost never see him wearing it these days—but then, you don’t see him during the day, when he’s his proper self. He doesn’t look like the Bucky you know.

You glance down at your faded dress, a lump forming in your throat. All well and good on the fire escape, but—you hadn’t even had time to properly do your hair. You look… like you live on the fifth floor with Alice and Don. And Bucky looks like he belongs with china teacups and slick upholstery. You swallow back the bile in your throat.

“Is Steve alright?” you finally ask.

“Dunno,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Doc seemed to think it was nothin’, but you never know with Steve.”

You nod uncertainly. You’re just the secretary; you don’t know how good or bad Steve Rogers’ prognosis really is. Well, prognoses. He’s got a lot wrong, Steve does.

Another step back. “Well, nice to see you.”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you turn and flee, face burning, chest painfully tight. You rush upstairs to the other office, the one where you keep all the files organized and answer the phone and jot down appointments in the big spiral-bound book open to this week. You fling yourself into the leather chair at the desk and bury your face in your hands, heaving great big breaths that just barely keep you grounded.

Why did Bucky have to bring Steve? Couldn’t Steve have come on his own? You can handle Steve just fine, but you didn't expect to see Bucky again so soon. And so… well, so formally. You’d never seen him in a place like this. Just on fire escapes and the occasional soda shop, and that one time you’d gone dancing back in ‘42.

In those places, you feel on equal footing. There’s no hierarchy on the fire escape outside your window, and the only distinctions that matter on a dance floor are lead and follow.

Here?

It’s not the same, and you hate it. You know your fantasies of him are ridiculous, impossible—but the stark reality of the differences between you is flinging all that dirty, ugly truth in your face.

The war had been no picnic for him, but he’d come out a hero with a swanky new job to boot. And you were exactly where you’d started: poor, full of longing, and, most of all, alone. Alone except for your good-for-nothing brother and your all-too-perceptive friends who have surpassed you in every way.

You drag your hands down your face and shake yourself out of your misery. There’s a list of calls to make, a stack of notes to type up. Files to pull out and appointments to schedule.

Enough moping. You have work to do.

—

You listen close for Steve and Bucky’s departure, and only then do you run today’s files downstairs for Dr. Simon. He peers at you through his thick glasses.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m peachy,” you tell him firmly, and from there it’s business as usual.

—

Five flights to the sixth floor of your apartment building. Your calves ache with their customary burn, and you collapse facedown on your bed with a groan.

Well, aside from Bucky’s surprise appearance, it hadn’t been much worse than usual. You don’t mind your job, not really. If half your salary didn’t get sent home to help your struggling family upstate, you might even love it.

But no, you look like a factory girl even though you work in the nicest house in the neighborhood. You’re grateful Dr. Simon doesn’t seem to care. All your friends—Mary, Goldie—think you’re lucky, or would be, if only you didn’t have your damn family to help take care of.

If only your brother did his part. And not like he did the other day, but actually, properly did his part.

“Ugh,” you mutter.

Your brother. Your baby brother, with his tendency to disappear for weeks at a time and reappear with his gap-tooth grin, a fresh scrape, and just enough cash for home to make you forget to be mad at him.

You don’t want to know how he gets the money. It’s bad enough that he does. You’re happy in the dark, really. But sometimes you wonder. You worry. Can’t help it—he’s your baby brother. You worried all through his deployment, all through the months after the war’s end when you’d heard not a word until he showed up one day at your door, that gap-tooth grin enough to dissolve you into tears.

But today…

Today you’re past tears. Today you’re angry. Whatever had happened to him yesterday was far worse than a scrape. He’d been pummeled near within an inch of his life! When he’d been in front of you, bleeding and limping, your heart had stopped, but now that he’s gone? Fled into the night like some common criminal, leaving just a bloodstain behind?

You can’t help but be angry. If he had a job, a proper job—even if it was just staying on the farm—he could take care of the rest of the family like he should. He’s the man. How did you end up the breadwinner?

Oh, that’s right. Because you have a sense of decency.

You roll over on your bed with a sigh. The sky is still bright, the air still hot and sticky with late afternoon heat. With your window cracked open now you’re home, you can hear people talking and laughing below, the distant clatter of pots and pans, the rumble of the metro, the honking traffic.

Your stomach rumbles. Someone downstairs is making chicken. You force yourself from your bed.

If you make your dinner now, maybe you can pretend you’re eating chicken too.

—

Sunset finds you scrubbing at the bloodstains on your pillowcase and handkerchiefs. Leave it to David to make a mess you can’t even ask him to clean up.

It takes time, but you manage to get most of the blood away. If anyone asks, you can always say it was your own bloody nose. Not that you’ve had one in years, but who’s to know?

You take the damp laundry to the fire escape, pinning it up on the clothesline overhead. The twilight is beautiful, all purples and blues, streaks of pink. Not a cloud in sight. Just some birds wheeling overhead. You lean on the railing and watch them, your heart full. God, if only you could fly away too.

The girls downstairs are out on their landing with their cigarettes, the smell a comfort even if you’re not in the mood for one yourself. They’re chatting about nothing in particular, and you easily tune them out as you watch the sky slowly turn dark.

The heavy patter of climbing feet catches your attention before the girls notice anyone coming.

“Ladies.”

A chill runs down your spine. Blood rushes in your ears. You scramble to your feet.

“Oh, hi James!”

The girls, adorable flirts, wheedle Bucky as you slip back in your window and draw the curtain tight.

A hand to your chest does nothing to calm your pounding heart. Please let him not come up, please…

“Excuse me,” Bucky says, “just going up.”

Your heart sinks. You forgot to close the window. He’ll know you’re home—hell, he probably knew all along. You sigh and sink onto your mattress, twisting your fingers in your lap as you wait for Bucky—beautiful, terrifying, untouchable Bucky—to arrive. You can hear the girls in 5B going inside.

“Hey.”

Bucky’s voice is low. You twist, and you can just make out his crouched silhouette against your flimsy curtain.

You swallow, steel yourself for the suit, the slicked-back hair, the look of wealth so alien and out of reach. A flick of your hand, and you can see him.

Words don’t come. Just a rush of shock, of awe, of wanting.

Bucky isn’t wearing a suit. His hair isn’t slicked back. The strange man of this morning is gone.

All Bucky is wearing is trousers and an undershirt. Not even his prosthetic arm. Just Bucky, his hair falling loose across his forehead, as unassuming—as gorgeous as he’s ever been. His blue eyes soft, his soft mouth quirked up and so damn pretty, his strong hand dangling between his knees as he crouches at your window.

You swallow.

“Will you come out?” Bucky asks.

You obey without thinking. Bucky moves aside, offers you his one hand to help you climb out. You hesitate before taking it, all too aware how that simple touch sends sparks all along your skin. Even when you drop his hand, your skin tingles. You smooth down your skirt and bury every feeling in the empty air below.

Bucky stands and plucks at the pillowcase hanging between you. “What happened?” he asks.

“I—I had a nosebleed.” Your voice is small, nearly hoarse.

“Is that why you were so flustered this morning?”

Shame burns your face, your chest. You step back, hands twitching at your sides, face flaming, and Bucky winces.

“F—I’m sorry,” he says. “I just…”He trails off and runs his hand through his hair. “You didn’t seem like yourself.”

You let out a slow breath between your teeth and flatten your hands against your back. “Neither did you.”

He blinks. A sigh, and he lowers himself down in his customary spot and pats the place beside him. You slide in, feet dangling like his, heart pounding. You don’t know what to say.

“I wish I hadn’t gone,” Bucky mutters.

You stare. “With Steve?”

“I never went there before,” he continues. “Wasn’t planning on it, but when he gets all breathless…”

“Well, of course you went with him,” you say. “He’s your friend.” Your eyes dart to your pillowcase. “We take care of people we care about. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Bucky shakes his head. His hand curls around the railing, the knuckles white. His brow is drawn tight, his eyes lowered.

What's he trying to say? What’s he thinking? You don’t understand him, not one jot.

It’s a long moment before he speaks again.

“It didn’t feel right,” he says. The words are slow, careful. “Seeing you there.” His eyes flit in your direction. “It wasn’t like this.”

You swallow again, throat suddenly tight. If it didn’t feel right at Dr. Simon’s, does that mean that this does? This—these moments on the fire escape, the best moments of your life—feels right?

At work, you felt like he was worlds above you, leagues away. Here, on the fire escape of your tenement building, together?

Bucky feels within reach. Or he could be, if.

“No,” you agree, voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t like this.”

Bucky props his cheek against his hand and gazes at you. You’re so caught by those blue eyes that it takes a moment to realize how sad he looks. Your heart breaks, but for the life of you you can’t bring yourself to push. You can’t prod where he’s never given an inch—it wouldn’t be kind. Or right.

But you can’t just stare at him forever, no matter how much you wish you could. You clear your throat. “It’s alright now though, isn’t it?”

He nods, his cheek moving against his hand, his hair shifting across his forehead. You grip the bars of the fire escape to keep from brushing it back.

“Right now? Yeah.” He sighs, and you can’t help yourself anymore. You put a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Bucky?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothin’ you can fix. I’ll live.”

“Well, maybe I can’t fix it, but can’t I at least help?” you plead.

“You are helping,” he says.

He grabs your hand; your breath catches as his bright eyes fix on yours. Bucky brushes his lips against your knuckles. Your heart’s in your throat, your eyes wide as dinner plates, your lips parted, ready, waiting—but he drops your hand, looks away, and the little spark flaring in your chest fizzles out.

“You are helping,” he repeats, but it falls flat. He hoists himself to his feet, brushes off his trousers, and looks down at you with an unreadable expression. “I—I’ll see ya around.”

You watch him go. Your heart goes with him, his every step down tearing you open that little bit more.

—

The moon shines unpleasantly bright through your window. You squeeze your eyes shut as you bury your face in your pillow for the hundredth time.

If you were a few stories down, you wouldn’t even be able to see the moon. But no, you’re on the top floor, the hot roof right above and moonlight streaming into your tiny bedroom, across your tiny bed. It’s a good thing you’ve never had a sweetheart. Where would they fit?

Bucky would never fit here, you think.

Your eyes pop open as heat flares in your face, your belly.

Why is it that every time you see him he invades your thoughts? Why can’t you banish him from your mind as easily as he surely banishes you from his? He’s Bucky Barnes, for goodness sake. A war hero, as gorgeous as he unattainable. He may have kissed your hand, may have said you were helping, but there’s no call to think he has any thoughts of you when he climbs back down to his floor, to his bed…

You toss your sheet aside, every inch of your body burning as you press your hands to your eyes, willing your mind to behave. Your nightgown shifts across your breasts. With an angry whimper, you start to tug it off.

Then you stop.

Your window is open, the shades flung wide. It’s not quiet outside—Brooklyn’s never quiet—but the distant sounds of the city are mere hums. Your ears strain for the creak of the fire escape, but there’s none.

If there was…

Your eyes flutter closed, and your hands stray from your eyes to trail down your face, your neck. You can imagine footsteps, a shadow over your window, a gasp at the sight you make spread on your bed, fingers tracing the neckline of your nightgown and legs bared nearly all the way. Would he gasp? Turn away, spare your modesty? Or would he suck in a breath and watch?

Deft circles of your thumbs harden your nipples. Your eyes stay shut as you lose yourself in your fantasy, of blue eyes darkening as you slip one hand lower and tug your nightgown up over your hips, legs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the burning tension.

A creak on the fire escape.

Your eyes fly open, terror ratcheting through you as you shove your nightgown back into place. The landing at your window is empty, but chatter echoes from downstairs. The girls in 5B. You press your hand to your heart and try to steady your breathing. The click of a lighter, hushed giggles, and your fantasy is shattered.

You prop yourself on unsteady knees and stick your head outside. “Be quiet, will ya?” you hiss.

Martha and Helen call up quiet apologies, and to your relief they disappear back inside. You yank the curtain shut, fling yourself back onto your bed, and try to sleep.