#bucky and self-care

[justiceiswater]

isnt that just the sweetest cutest thing youve ever seen!

I'm a H O E for domestic Bucky. Would you write a fic where reader and the women of the Avengers introduce Bucky and Steve to spa days? Like the guys walk in on Girls Night and they get pulled into the hair/face masks, mimosas,..

After missions, Bucky ran

That was how he decompressed and cleared his mind

Steve usually went with him. Sometimes Sam too

Then he walked back into the compound, covered in sweat, to hear a groups of giggles

He smiled when he instantly recognized one for yours

But then he wondered who was stealing that sound when he wanted it to only be directed toward him

Him and Steve walked into the living room to find you, Wanda, and Nat lounging on the couches in yoga pants and baggy sweatshirts

You were wearing one of his favorites: a black hoodie of his

But then you turned to face him and he stopped walking

“Nat, what did you do with my girlfriend and who is this green monster?” He asked

You giggled at his antics

You were wearing a bright green mud mask. Despite that, you jumped up and gave him a quick kiss and added, “Hey, handsome.”

“What in god’s name are you girls doing?” He asked as you returned to your spot on the couch

The three of you break down what a spa day is

Mimosa, Bloody Marys, sheet masks, mud masks, pedicures, manicures, tea, and utter relaxation

“I thought we were going to hang today, doll…” Bucky mumbles to you

It’s practically a whine. The poor puppy that just wants you

“You’re more than welcome to join us, Barnes.” Nat replies

Which leads to Bucky plopping himself on the couch next to you and letting you and the girls put whatever on his face and pouring him a mimosa

“Man, you are so whipped,” Sam interrupts an hour or so later when he finds the sight before him

“I don’t understand how self-care and relaxation has been dubbed as a feminine act by society,” you snap back. “Just admit it, Sam, you want in. Stop robbing yourself of these pleasures.”

“I don’t get how taking care of one’s self – especially hygienically – is such an attack on masculinity.”

Bucky always smiles proudly and lovingly at how you can always put anyone in their place with your clever retorts

Sam begrudgingly realizes that you’re right and joins in

Then he wrangles in Steve, who returns to the living room just after getting out of the shower

Soon you, Wanda, and Nat are guiding the three men on all the products and teach them the art of pampering

After that day, Bucky and you start a habit of doing sheet masks when either of you are stressed out…or just bored

Bucky is amazed that he can actually see a difference in his skin and even hair (after you convince him to use a hair mask or two)

It becomes common for the team to walk into your apartment to find you and Bucky watching a movie with face masks on

They make fun of you two, but secretly they think it’s adorable  

Then you had the brilliant idea of getting him a whole spa package for his birthday including an hour long facial and message

But his reaction confuses you

“What’s wrong, Buck? Do you not want to go?”

“It’s just – Are you gonna be there?” He asked

“No, it’s a treat yourself day! You get it all for yourself,” you beam.

“But… the whole reason I got into this stuff was because it was something to do with you and it makes you so happy that it started making me happy. Can you come with?”

His sincerity nearly ripped your heart right out of your chest

“Yeah, Bucky…Of course I’ll come with you.”

[yandere-wishes]

I need to makeout with someone -preferably a hot fictional guy- in a bathtub full of blood.

[jasmines-greentea]

okay exploding suit wolverine this, labor-inducing grin that, YES!! logan in deadpool and wolverine is hot!!! but can we just look back to him in X-men (2000)

[mrs-bucky-barnes106]

౨ৎ good morning ౨ৎ

summary: reader and bucky are very much in love and have their morning routine down to a tee. bucky manhandles the reader a lot but not in a weird way, just in an "i love you and can't live without you" kinda way.

warning: fluffffff (bucky and reader are EXTREMELY in love and love to show it)

wc: 1.8k

pairing: domestic!bucky x reader

a/n: I wrote this between the hours of 11PM-1AM when i was feeling especially psychotic. I am so sleep deprived I’m sorry. But I just came up with this sweet little scenario and had to write it down. This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to daydream.

playlist:

౨ৎ

You opened your eyes, groaning as soft sunlight filtered through your open blinds. You tried remembering the dream you had just abruptly woken up from. Something about a tall, muscular, brown-haired man. The man of your dreams. The man whose arms were now around you from behind, caging you to his warm chest.

You turned around to find Bucky gently stirring in the light of the sunrise. You reached your arms out around his shoulders as he slowly blinked his eyes open. You were both morning people and were glad for it because it meant the two of you were in sync. Neither of you got much sleep, what with Bucky being plagued by his nightmares and you by your insomnia. However, you were in it together, making hell sightly more endurable.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he mumbled with a sweet smile, burying his face in your chest. You squirmed slightly in his arms as his thick beard scratched your chest. You were coming to like his grown-out facial hair. It made him look like a soft teddy bear rather than a violently beautiful Greek god. Yes, you quite preferred this look to his freshly shaven one with his chiseled cheekbones and jawline of steel on full display. With his beard, he looked somewhat more approachable, more domestic, and more lovable than ferociously intimidating.

“Good morning, my moonlight,” you whispered. He was the moonlight to your sunshine, the darkness to your light. He complimented you so perfectly that it sometimes made you want to cry.

Bucky interrupted your thoughts by pulling your body on top of his. “Mmh, I love you so much,” his voice was slightly muffled as his face was still smushed against your chest, and he wrapped his thick arms around your back, securing you in place on top of him.

“I love you too, baby boy,” you combed your fingers through his hair. It was much shorter than it used to be, but it was starting to grow out like his beard. You were not complaining, however. The long summer days the two of you spent swimming in the pool caused his hair to curl at the ends, and it was a lighter shade of brown now than it was during the colder months.

“Wanna stay here with you forever,” Bucky mumbled into your chest, peppering sweet kisses to your neck and jawline before lazily moving his lips all over your face.

“C’mon, Bucky, you say this every morning,” you giggled. “We gotta get up soon, bubs. We have things to do and people to see.” You pushed his face away, scrunching your nose when you caught a whiff of his morning breath.

“They can wait,” he muttered, half-heartedly batting his arm at the air like a petulant child. You almost giggled but caught yourself. You couldn’t encourage him on like this. You actually did have a lot of errands to run later in the day and a long to-do list to accomplish. While you wanted nothing more than to indulge Bucky (because, duh, why would you want to do anything but lay here in your soft bed, basking in the morning light with the man you loved), you knew you needed to be an adult and put your responsibilities first if you wanted to prevent your life from falling apart. You decided to give him ten more minutes. After that, you would force yourself to get up.

You almost fell back asleep, tangled up in his arms. In fact, you probably would have if it hadn’t been for your grumbling stomach. You were past the point in your relationship where this embarrassed you. In fact, you were grateful to your stomach for choosing to be so loud because otherwise, you might not have gotten out of bed all day.

But before you could leap out of bed and berate Bucky for almost making you fall asleep again, he leaped up, carrying you like a child. Of course, he would get up when you were in danger of being hungry. “Can’t let my pretty doll starve, now can I?” he smirked down at you.

“Barnes, you have five seconds to put me down!”

“Five, four, three, two…,” Bucky ran into your shared bathroom, clutching you in his arms like you were a football. “…one! Touchdown!” he plopped you down on the toilet’s closed lid, holding onto your shoulders for balance as he let out a belly laugh.

“I hate you,” but you were smiling a mile wide even as you said it.

“Aw, that’s too bad, doll,” Bucky fake-pouted at you, backing away out of the bathroom. “Because I lava you very very much.” He said the last part in his silliest baby voice, scrunching up his face to give you air kisses as he turned to leave.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help grinning like you had won the lottery. Truthfully, you had won the lottery because if wealth was measured in happiness, you were ecstatic, floating above everyone else. It was the same silly routine every morning, with Bucky forcing you to cuddle him in bed for at least a half hour and then bolting up with you in his arms whenever your stomach grumbled. He knew you were grumpy when you didn’t have any food in you, so he started on breakfast when you got ready in the bathroom. When you offered to switch roles, he said this was optimal since you liked to brush your teeth before breakfast, and he brushed his teeth after. Your heart melted at the memory. Your boyfriend got your breakfast ready for you when you came downstairs. Every single morning, without fail. It was the little things that made you fall in love over and over.

You finished your skincare routine and headed downstairs to find the same scene as every morning: Bucky with a kitchen towel over one shoulder, plating whatever he made for breakfast. Today, he had made a fluffy stack of pancakes and scrambled eggs. He had even gone the extra mile to put spinach and chopped tomatoes in the eggs and had added fresh berries and banana slices on top of the pancakes. The sight of the sticky sweet syrup oozing down the sides of them was enough to make your mouth water.

You snuck up behind him and snaked your arms around his torso. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you punctuated each one with a kiss to his shoulder blades and neck. “Did I tell you how grateful I am to have you in my life?”

“Only about a HUNDRED TIMES A DAY,” he turned around quickly in your arms, grabbing you under the thighs to lift you up. He clasped his arms together, forming a sort of seat in midair. You threw your arms around his shoulders and crashed your lips onto his, melting into him, his pillowy lips warm on yours.

You barely noticed that he had backed into the fridge until you felt the cool metal against your back through Bucky’s thin cotton T-shirt. You continued kissing him voraciously and suddenly remembered Tony scarfing down a Burger King cheeseburger when he had returned from his brief kidnapping in the desert.

You broke away laughing at the mental comparison you made of yourself kissing Bucky to Tony when he was starving after being in the desert.

“Whatcha laughin’ at doll?” Bucky panted, a slight smile creeping onto his lips.

“Oh, nothing,” you panted back. “Just shut up and kiss me.” You were back to business, your lips back on his, feeling like a dog deprived of its bone. Bucky opened the refrigerator door, never once breaking the kiss. You kept your eyes closed, one hand still raking through his soft hair as you used the other to grab the milk carton from the door. You secured it in your hand without faltering, then brought your hand back to rest against his shoulder blade as Bucky shut the door and walked you back over to the counter. Once you safely sat down, you pulled away, gasping for air, desperate as a fish out of water for more of him. His hands were on your hips, his name was on your lips, over and over again like your only prayer.

Bucky grabbed his mug of coffee from where he had left it in the coffee machine and brought it to where you sat, a bright smile adorning his face. You returned the grin and poured a smidge of milk into his cup. When you had first started living together, you were aghast to find that Bucky drank his coffee black without a single drop of milk or spoon of sugar. It had taken some convincing, but you were thrilled when he finally agreed to stop torturing himself and drink his coffee with milk like a normal human being. Although he still used less than a tablespoon of milk and no sugar or creamer, it was a start.

You, on the other hand, were the exact opposite, preferring matcha as your morning drink of choice, which required your mug to be 95% full of milk with the other 5% being, of course, the matcha powder, ice cubes, and copious amounts of honey to satisfy your sweet tooth.

“Oh, I heated up some water and mixed in the matcha powder for you already,” Bucky pointed at the mug beside you, his other hand still warm on your thigh.

“Thank you, bubs,” you leaned down to press a chaste kiss to his lips. His cheeks pinked at the suddenness of it, and he ducked his head, shying away from your gaze.

“Aw, it’s nothin’,” he smiled up at you, eyes sparkling beneath his thick lashes. “Here, lemme get you some ice.”

The momentary loss of his hands on your thighs made you whine slightly, but he was back as soon as he left, ice tray in hand.

“Here you are, babycakes.”

You took the tray, beaming at him, then plunked precisely three heart-shaped ice cubes into your cup. You handed the tray back to Bucky, and he left to return it to the freezer before returning to stand between your thighs from where you sat on the countertop. You poured a generous amount of milk into your cup and reached for the honey to drizzle some in. Stirring your drink, you clinked your mug with his before taking your first sip.

You sighed reveling in the mild sweetness of your drink. It was just the way you liked it.

"Alright, doll, let's get some breakfast in you before we run today. We doing intervals or easy?"

"I actually wanted to go for a long run, Buck," you held his gaze from behind your mug.

"Cold plunge after?" he smiled already knowing your answer.

"Yes," you nodded your head vigorously, giddy at the prospect.

౨ৎ

[kalee60]

The prince's bride

As SHIELD and Hydra teeter on the edge of a faction war, a brainwashed Soldier, the Winter Prince is an unwitting pawn in a larger game and is forced into a betrothal to one Alexander Pierce. Kidnapped by mercenaries, then rescued by a pirate who is extremely familiar, the Winter Prince starts to regain his memories.

In the course of his adventure’s, he’ll meet Brock - a master tactician who will do anything to get ahead in life; Hulk - a gentle giant; Natasha - the Russian who thirsts for revenge; and Gravik - the skrull mastermind behind it all. Foiling all their plans and jumping into their stories is Steve Rogers, the Soldier's one true love and a very good friend of a very dangerous pirate.

Or the Princess Bride AU that literally no one wanted except me… (and maybe one other person…)

~*~*~

Soooo... I'm back with another adventure - and why the hell not, let's try a princess bride AU. Am I crazy? Probably. Will this work? Who knows. Have I had fun twisting this fic together? Absofuckinglutely.

This is my ultimate love letter to one of my favourite childhood (who am I kidding) adulthood movies - and if it sounds like your kind of adventure... click on in and enjoy a swashbucklingish story full of familiar quotes and two idiots finding their true love.

~*~*~

Part one - click here

[s0fter-sin]

they really 50/50’d the thunderbolts with characters i like and characters i couldn’t give less of a shit about

[girlw-amermaidtattoo]

Winning in business and life is the result of small daily wins.

It's the compounding effect from stacking these wins over and over again that will ultimately help you win long-term.

Most people think it's the opposite.

Instead of pouring their focus and efforts into stacking the small wins repeatedly...

They spend all of their time looking for the home run or the one massive hit that's going to fast-track their progress or somehow guarantee success and smooth sailing for life.

This is flawed thinking.

...and the longer you pursue this strategy...

The longer you'll keep yourself from making progress.

Hitting a home run may get you some traction in the short-term...

But if you're always looking to hit your next home run...

1. It's highly unlikely you will ever get one.

2. Even if you do, you won't have any formula or strategy for replicating that win in the future.

Do you know how most baseball games are won?

They're won by stringing together base hits and running up the score as much as possible.

These base hits are your daily wins.

They're the days you show up and execute your tasks at a high level.

They're the days you hold a high standard for yourself and the people around you.

They're the days you attack with the proper urgency and intent.

They're the days you keep moving when you'd rather fucking quit.

When you pour your effort and energy into stringing together as many of these small wins as possible...

You’ll win the game.

[buthearmeouttho]

note to self; get Bucky to bring you to all your doctor appointments n’ shit for trying to figure out your chronic cough because he’ll let you avoid getting your blood drawn and like, allergy testing because he has trauma and he’ll let you get away with it.

[euph0riacc]

Oh if y’all thought suicide stalag was bad what I’m cooking up is practically heinous.

[rolandtowen]

hey! are you also feeling shitty this week? so am i. so i wrote a fic framing self-care tasks as a form of spite. you know, for reasons. this'll be quite a few chapters, so please enjoy.

read on Ao3 or under the cut:

I'm doing this for revenge / I am doing this to try and stay true

I'm doing this for the ones / We had to leave behind

I'm doing this for you

-  "Training Montage", The Mountain Goats

Bucky likes his new therapist. 

After helping to defeat the Flag Smashers, he’d started looking for a new therapist. While Dr. Raynor had been helpful, he felt that he was shifting into a new phase of his recovery, and they just weren’t clicking anymore. Luckily enough for him, the US government decided that he was trustworthy enough to pick his own therapist after saving the world (again). He’d asked both Sam and Dr. Raynor for their recommendations in the Brooklyn area. He wanted someone who had a lot of experience with PTSD, had worked with veterans extensively, and hopefully disabled veterans specifically. He didn’t mention this to Sam or Dr. Raynor, but Bucky also wanted a queer therapist. Oh, and the therapist also needed to be comfortable with phone therapy in case Bucky, you know, needed to save the world again. 

That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

That’s how Bucky ended up in the office of one Carlos Sanchez. He was sitting on a couch, like with Dr. Raynor, but that’s where the similarities ended. Dr. Sanchez’s office was colorful and open, and one wall of the room was entirely covered with bookshelves. He’d gone to adjust one of the pillows on the couch before realizing it was a green dinosaur, and it was… heavy?

“Oh, that’s Rodger,” Dr. Sanchez smiles, wheeling out from behind his desk. “He’s weighted, some of my clients find it comforting to hold him on their laps while we talk.”

If Bucky had to guess, he’d say Dr. Sanchez is in his thirties. He’d come highly recommended from Sam, and Bucky’s own internet searching reassured him. A veteran himself, he’d been hit by an IED on his second tour as a medic, causing lower-body paralysis. After being honorably discharged, he went back to school to become a therapist, specializing in PTSD and trauma-informed therapy. On his website, Bucky noticed a little flag with a rainbow on it, and the phrase “queer-friendly” next to it. So far, Dr. Sanchez is checking all of his boxes. 

“Mr. Barnes, I’m really glad you came in,” Bucky shakes his hand. “Before we get started, are there any questions you want answered right away?”

Bucky takes a second to consider before shaking his head. “No, Dr. Sanchez. And please, call me Bucky.”

Dr. Sanchez smiles, making a note on his notepad. “Of course, Bucky. And you are welcome to call me Carlos if you want – I know some clients prefer the formalities, but I want you to know that it’s not necessary here.”

Bucky nods. They spend the first half of the session going over Bucky’s history. Carlos had been sent all of Dr. Raynor’s notes, as well as several files detailing the history of the Winter Soldier, although these were heavily redacted. Carlos asks about his life now, about Sam, and about his current work. Bucky finds him easy to talk to, and when Carlos takes notes, it doesn’t feel like a punishment the same way it had with Dr. Raynor. It feels like Carlos is actually listening to what he’s trying to say. 

Carlos checks his watch. “We have about half an hour left, and I feel pretty caught up on your background – was there anything you want to start talking about today?”

Bucky flounders for a second. Carlos has been nothing but kind to him today, but if he says what he wants to work on – will he laugh? Judge Bucky? “You can say whatever’s on your mind, Bucky. I promise, I’ve heard stranger.”

“I don’t like myself.”

“I see,” Carlos says, making a note. “That’s quite understandable. A lot of veterans struggle with lower self-esteem – that’s something we see in people with PTSD in general. Can you tell me a bit more about that?”

They spend another twenty minutes talking about Bucky’s view of himself before Carlos pauses. “This is a really good start, Bucky. I have an idea I want to run by you.” Bucky nods and Carlos continues. “I’m hearing that self-care is hard for you because you don’t think you deserve it, does that sound right?” Bucky nods again. “So, I’m wondering what it might look like if you started viewing self-care as a form of revenge. Spite, if you will.”

“Spite? In spite of who?”

“In your case, HYDRA. You spent seventy years of your life being denied care and compassion – perhaps it would help to imagine that every time you care for yourself, you’re taking revenge on HYDRA.”

Bucky’s brain tries to wrap itself around the concept. Would it really help him eat better, sleep better, care for himself better if he imagined he was doing it to spite HYDRA? If he’s honest with himself – yeah. “I want – I want to try,” he says. 

Carlos smiles at him. “Alright. Then your homework for this week is to identify at least one self-care task you can improve, keeping in mind this idea of spite. Any questions?” Bucky shakes his head. “Alright, I’ll get you booked for the same time next week, and of course you have my number if you want to meet earlier.”

His first opportunity for spite/self-care (spite-care?) comes the next day. Sam’s been visiting him in Brooklyn, for the first time since their relationship became official. Sam’s helping him unload his groceries for the week, peering into his fridge before saying – “Damn, Buck. You got anything with flavor?”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky gripes, turning to look at Sam. Sam gestures broadly to Bucky’s fridge. “I don’t know man, everything is just, plain, you know?”

Now that Sam’s pointed it out, Bucky supposes that the contents of his fridge aren’t usual. There are a lot of protein shakes, formulated by Shuri especially to deal with his enhanced metabolism. There’s peanut butter and jelly, some fruit, a gallon of milk, and some overnight oats. “What’s wrong with plain food?”

Sam hums, wrapping his arms around Bucky. “Nothing wrong with it. But you seem to really enjoy Sarah’s cooking, so this is surprising to me.”

“I love Sarah’s cooking,” Bucky sighs. He resigns himself to be embarrassed. “I just don’t really know how to cook like she does.” 

“Surely you know how to cook a little bit, right?”

Bucky spins around to look Sam in the eye. “I learned how to cook during the Great Depression, Sam. The extent of my culinary skills is being able to boil potatoes three ways.”

That gets a laugh and a kiss from Sam. “Okay, I see your point. Do you want to know how to cook better?”

“Like Sarah?” Bucky asks. “God, yes.”

“Okay, we’ll make a date of it then. I’ll text her tonight and see what she thinks a good beginner recipe is, and then we can go back to the store tomorrow, yeah? I know her recipes pretty well, but we can video call her too.”

“Really?” Bucky hates how small his voice sounds. There’s the familiar feeling closing in around him, the voice in the back of his mind whispering you don’t deserve this. But he takes a breath and thinks about what Carlos said. Taking care of himself is an act of revenge. HYDRA would have never considered if he liked the food he was eating. Hell, they didn’t even care if he was fed. 

“‘Course, Buck,” Sam’s voice brings him back to the present moment. His phone pings, and he reads a text from Sarah. “Okay, she’s just sent me our grandma’s jambalaya recipe.”

“Sounds like a date,” Bucky murmurs, resting his head against Sam’s shoulder. 

Bucky Barnes is going to make a jambalaya to spite HYDRA.

[thoughts-become-reality]

[actualbuckybames]

Hey! I saw the art you posted for the Bucky time-travel fic and I was wondering if you had more stuff in the works for that?

Hey! Thanks for taking an interest. No art on the docket, but here's a good chunk of the first chapter if you're interested.

---

Bucky drags his eyes open and lets his gaze roam the room, or what he can see of it from his back. Nothing about it is familiar. If Steve carted his unconscious ass back to London, why not just stick Bucky back in his hotel room? Or, more likely with how awful he feels, in a nearby hospital?

He takes in an old wardrobe missing a door, a dark doorway, an occupied chair, and a window with the curtains drawn and a small chest of drawers resting below it. Peeling wallpaper. Patchy rugs. Pretty quaint. Rustic, even. Nothing about it makes him think London. There’s daylight seeping in around the curtains, though, adding to the firelight that’s making the stranger’s shadow move all over the wall even though the man himself is completely still.

Bucky blinks. Occupied chair. Stranger. He’s not alone, and hell, he must be utterly fucked to not have realized that until now. His heart starts to pound. He’s under covers and he’s pretty sure he’s only in pants. His weapons are nowhere in sight. The most dangerous thing in reach is a pillow.

“You survived.” The stranger’s voice is low, rough, but oddly familiar in a way Bucky can’t place. Upon hearing English, though, he finds himself relaxing, even though the guy sits across from him with shoulders bowed by the weight of the world. Bucky can’t make out his features in the flickering light with that shoulder-length brown hair in the way.

He blinks and it takes effort to open his eyes after they close. His eyelids scrape like sandpaper and his tongue is heavy, but now that he knows he’s not alone and not with Steve he fights off the alluring pull of sleep.

“Who are you?” He licks his cracked lips. “Where am I?” His voice rasps in his throat and the stranger stands. Bucky tracks him as he disappears into a small side room. There’s the sound of a door opening, and—several seconds later—a shiver-inducing rush of cool air that the fire can’t immediately banish. Did…did he just leave?

Well, Bucky’s alone now. Maybe the guy’s going to get a doctor now that Bucky’s awake. Maybe he’s some kind of double agent and Bucky’s about to have company. Either way, he’s not going to have a better chance to escape than this. No telling how the mission turned out, but Steve and the others are probably still looking for him. He’s gotta let them—let Steve—know he’s okay before Steve does something stupid.

He throws back the covers pinning him down, swings his legs around, and braces himself to stand with his left hand. Only, nothing takes his weight, and after a split second of disbelief he topples onto his left side. Agony explodes from his shoulder and he cries out, confusion and pain swirling together into a haze that threatens to pull him under. Vaguely, he’s aware he’s hit the floor. He tries to breathe, tries to will away the black threatening to pull him under. His mind is a fraying rope pulled taut; he curls in on himself until the line slackens and the black recedes.

Sweat beads on his brow. His every breath makes his chest ache so badly it brings tears to his eyes but he can hardly stay hunched in on himself on the floor. How long until the stranger comes back?

He gets his right arm under him and pushes himself up onto his knees. Dizziness sweeps through him and he leans back against the bed he’d fallen from until he’s sure he’s not going to fall again. Only then does he let his gaze slip to his left side.

For a second, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Rather, he doesn’t understand why he’s seeing it. He shouldn’t be able to see the floor right there. His arm should be there. His arm…isn’t there.

He tries to flex the fingers on his left hand. Twinges of pain shoot out from his shoulder and his brain tries to tell him that something moves, but his eyes see the truth. Vertigo rocks him again, this time partnered with overwhelming nausea. Oh, god. His arm. His arm.

There’s a bucket in front of him. He doesn’t know how it got there and he doesn’t care; he retches and heaves, tears finally falling from his eyes from both the vomiting and the fresh pain it causes. His stomach is empty so the only thing that comes up is acrid bile. It burns his throat, his tongue, his lips. When the waves subside, he spits, but the taste won’t leave.

“Drink.”

Watery eyes reduce the world to a blur but he grabs the thing offered to him. A glass—of water. Icy cold water, he realizes when he takes a sip, but he grimaces through it to wash out his mouth. Most of it he spits out into the bucket. Then, realizing how parched he is, he drains the rest. His stomach flips at that and he leans over the bucket with his stomach in his throat but manages to swallow it down. Everything tips and swims for a second before resolving into a pounding behind his eyes. He hasn’t felt this at war with his own body since—

Since Kreischberg.

He wipes away the snot he’d collected on his face for his efforts with a shaking hand and peers up at the stranger, who looks way too calm for a guy who just walked back in to find him vomiting into bucket.

“M-my arm,” he manages. He can’t even voice the full question. The man’s face is blank. He understands, right? There’s no hint of sympathy or hostility in his eyes. But he spoke English earlier, and he did it with an American accent, and the water was helpful, so he’s gotta be an ally. Right? Down an arm and so weak he’s trembling at the thought of standing, Bucky prays that’s the case because there’s not a damn thing he can do if the man’s anything else.

“It’s gone.” The man takes the bucket and sets it aside. Bucky, now very mindful of how unbalanced he feels, uses the bed to lever himself to his feet with his arm. His one arm. He promptly collapses backwards onto the bed, but it’s an improvement from being on the floor. The stranger doesn’t offer help; he simply moves, manhandling Bucky until he’s leaning upright against the headboard. “You need more water. And food.”

He takes the glass and leaves again. There must be a pump outside. Probably woulda been better to use the bucket for stocking up on refills…the bucket that’s currently filled with puke. Right. Probably not the bucket.

Closing his eyes, he finds himself in the shallows of the river, feeling its insistent tug as it laps at his shins. If he lets it take him, he’s not waking up anytime soon. But he needs to stay awake. Needs to know where he is. Where Steve is. Steve-who-couldn’t-reach-him-in-time. Steve-who-watched-him-fall.

When he opens his eyes, the stranger is back, this time with a plate. He’s not holding a glass, but Bucky sees a full one on the nightstand. Had he fallen asleep? Idiot.

The stranger offers the plate. Bucky goes to take it with muscles he doesn’t have any more and his ruined shoulders spasms with pain. Sparks dance across the room and he manages to choke down a scream into a strangled groan while he hunches over, right hand twitching near his left shoulder but afraid to touch. Afraid to feel.

Eventually, someone else’s touch on his right shoulder eases him back into the pillows against the headboard. “I’ll hold it.”

Exhausted indignation gives him the strength to hold up his right hand. He’s not a baby. He can, in this tiny stupid instance, take care of himself. “I can hold it.”

His voice is so scratchy and threadbare that he barely gets the words out before he breaks into a coughing fit. Water first, he tells himself, and when he recovers he sees the stranger has exchanged the plate for exactly that.

He glares the stranger down until the guy—still maintaining that damnable equanimity—acquiesces. The glass, when it’s in Bucky’s remaining hand, is covered in condensation and remarkably shaky. He wills his hand to steady to no avail. Before the stranger can say anything, Bucky brings it to his lips and takes a few short sips. Though water spills over the edges and runs down his chin, most of it gets where it needs to go. It flows down his throat and pools like ice in his stomach, making him shiver. At least none of it threatens to come back up.

He lowers the glass to rest it against his leg, where it’s a bit steadier. He reflexively attempts to bring his other hand over to hold it, earning for his efforts another eye-watering ache throughout his chest.

“You’re near Bucharest,” the stranger says. There’s something…wrong with his eyes, now that Bucky’s looking, now that he’s speaking. Nothing physical, but. Something. “What do you remember?”

He looks away from those empty eyes and frowns at his lap. That’s not an easy question to answer. This stranger isn’t dressed like a soldier, and even though his features look really familiar—Bucky’s positive he’ll be able to place him once the fog in his brain decides to lighten up—there’s no guarantee he’s trustworthy enough to tell about the Commandos’ operation to capture Zola. He tries answering with a question to see if he’ll get an idea of just who this guy is.

“Bits and pieces. You rescued me, right? You know who I am?”

The stranger nods, eyes flicking to where Bucky’s tags rest under his shirt. “James Buchanan Barnes.” Okay, well, that’s not helpful. Does this guy know him as James Buchanan Barnes, injured American soldier with a convenient nametag around his neck, or James Buchanan Barnes, injured Howling Commando? “You serve with Captain America.”

Finally, an answer. “Yeah. I do. Where is he? Is he safe?”

The stranger glances out the window, a look Bucky can’t interpret rolling across his face before it clears and he looks back at Bucky. “Enough.”

Cryptic. Concerning. “He’s alive, right?”

“Yes.”

“Looking for me.” It’s not a question. Steve would look. He’d finish the mission and he’d—

“He thinks you’re dead.” It hits like a punch to the gut, leaving Bucky speechless. The stranger stares down at his own gloved hands, voice monotonous, like he’s somehow had reason to say this before. “Even if he could’ve retraced his steps and tracked down where you landed, the Russians would have found you first.”

Dead. Steve thinks he’s dead. “He didn’t…Azzano.”

For the first time, the stranger’s expression cracks, but it’s smoothed over as soon as it shows. “That was different.”

Even though Bucky knows he’s lying down in a bed, he feels the room swaying around him. There’s gray at the edges of his vision creeping in, ice over water. Dead.

The last thing he feels is the tug of the stranger taking the glass before his slackening grip can let it topple over.

[howdoyousleep3]

It's been a hot minute. Let's have a story:

The first thing that warner Bucky that something was wrong was how quietly the front door of their apartment closed.

Steve never slammed the door, true, but his patience for the outside world immediately ran out as soon as he stepped inside the home they'd built together, and was always eager to cut it off with a very audible *snap*.

This time, Bucky had no clue Steve was back until the sound of the deadbolt being carefully turned echoed through the room.

The next clue was the slowness that Steve walked with, like every step was through knee-deep molasses. None of the hurrying to remove societal trappings and don comfort. None of the scurrying to find his Bubba and gush about the dogs he saw, or the new painting idea he got on the bus, or just plain eagerness to kiss and touch and see the one he loved.

Something was *wrong*.

And this was confirmed as Bucky stepped out of the bedroom and found Steve, halfway through the living room, staring at his feet, and watching the water drip from the bottom of his pants onto the rug.

The blond lifted his face, cheeks hollow, eyes lost and bruised looking. "I forgot to take off my shoes," his voice wavered and cracked through lips that trembled. "I made a mess. I-I'm sorry, Bear. I--"

He hiccuped out a sob and Bucky swooped in, pulling Steve's bag off his shoulder and dropping it where they stood. Pressing a kiss to Steve's forehead, he quickly ushered his boyfriend into the bathroom and started the shower before turning back to help Steve, who was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He had no idea how Steve ended up soaked from his ribs to his toes; the rainstorm from last night had petered out in the early hours of the morning, finally allowing Steve to get some rest, as the pressure and temperature changes had made his knees and wrists ache horribly as well as aggravating his lungs.

That didn't matter, though. All that mattered were the tears tracking silently down his lover's cheeks as Bucky knelt to unlace his shoes and unbuckle his belt, pulling everything off with a practiced motion.

He pushed to his feet and gave Steve another quick kiss. "Get in and get warm," he urged. "I'm gonna go make you some toast and tea, okay?"

Steve hiccuped again, "Peanut butter and honey on the toast? P-please?"

Bucky's heart broke, and he nodded. "And agave syrup in the tea. I love you."

"Love you, Buck."

--

As soon as Steve was settled on his shower chair, Bucky rushed through the apartment. He shoved Steve's towel, the couch blanket, and one of his own sweatshirts into the dryer and set the timer for 15 minutes, put their kettle on and prepped Steve's favorite mug with some blood orange tea and agave syrup. He pulled out the peanut butter and honey for the toast, and stabbed at his phone until soft instrumental music started flowing from the speakers around the living room.

--

As soon as the dryer timer beeped, Bucky set the toast cooking and the tea steeping, bundled the deliciously warm laundry into his arms, deposited the blanket back on the couch, and went to retrieve Steve, who hadn't moved, even as the water started to cool.

Steve remained silent and unresisting as Bucky dried him with the warm towel, though his eyes fluttered in pleasure and he sighed heavily as Bucky slipped the sweatshirt over his head, tugging it down until it settled in place, brushing his knees and hanging over his fingertips.

Bucky sat him down on the couch with another forehead kiss, tucking the blanket around his legs with the promise of a quick return. Steve snuggled down more fully as he watched Bucky assemble tea and toast with bleary eyes.

Holding the toast in one hand and the tea in another, Bucky sat beside Steve and gently encouraged his to relax back onto his chest, handing off the mug as soon as Steve was leaning against him, freeing his hand to pull him even closer and offer the toast as needed.

Steve sniffled softly as he was cradled and kisses were rained down on the back and side of his head. Slowly, quietly, he spoke of his sleepless night, the lingering pain in his joints from the storm, his overburdened workload, his dropped afternoon coffee, the unseen puddle at the bus stop that drenched him, and a thousand other little things that would have been nothing normally, but felt like nothing but unending punches to his spirit today.

And Bucky held him, fed him toast, wiped away the peanut butter at the corner of his lips, kissed his temple, murmured his empathy and his love over and over until Steve gently slipped into sleep with the whispered words:

"I'm so proud of you. You did it. You made it through. And you never have to do today again. I love you."

And Steve, even in his sleep, knew it was true.

[ihrtyouuuu]

my fav characters:

☆ harry potter - harry potter

☆ luna lovegood - harry potter

☆ james potter - harry potter

☆ fred and george weasley - harry potter

☆ bucky barnes - mcu

☆ rachel green - friends

☆ evelyn hugo - shoev

☆ aubrey wilson - without you (wattpad)

☆ luke taylor - without you (wattpad)

☆ lilah - lilah (wattpad)

☆ eli jennings - without you (wattpad)

☆ loki - mcu

☆ penny - tbbt

☆ lavender brown - harry potter

☆ sarah cameron - obx

☆ rafe cameron - obx

there’s more but the list will go on for days lmao

love ya!

[topgun-86]

So, I've been a marvel fan since '09, and I know several people on here will understand the feeling, but having a fictional character mean so much to you, that they literally save your life more often than not is, amazing. Tony Stark has saved my life more times than not. And my family doesn't understand, they don't love characters like that. So to everyone out there, that knows this feeling, doesn't matter what fandom your character is from, I'm here for you, if you ever want to talk, go ahead. And IDK if RDJ is on here, but if he is and he sees this, thank you for being the best of the Marvel universe.

[emmedoesntdomath]

”bro, chill. you’re not the main character, okay?”

bitch-

what if you are? what if you are the main character? what if the whole world is centered around you? what if you’re the one with the montages and the hot love interest and the witty one-liners? what if it is literally all about you?

or- better yet- what if you’re not the main character, but the side character that everyone WISHES the story was about? what if you’re not the golden trio, but the marauders? what if you’re the chandler or phoebe to a monica or rachel? bucky barnes to steve rogers? nikolai lanstov to alina starkov?

what if you lived your life like you were the main character? it’s not arrogant, or selfish. you don’t have to be the side character, and you certainly don’t have to put yourself in the back corner for someone who thinks they deserve the spotlight.

live your life, dude.