#but bucky is in the forefront of my mind right now

[middlingmay]

It’s medication anon again! I just reread TODCL again (at this point I think I could read every chapter in my head without even looking at the screen that’s how many times I’ve read it) and I’m sure this will be revealed more later but I’m dying to know: pet names. the vision of Bucky being large and in charge (tm) and wanting to be so soft for his boy by calling him baby/doll/sweetheart makes me absolutely feral. I know he’s done it a few times but I feel like Gale would also go absolutely feral internally when it happens. Like did he just got offline the first time it happened? Also what about in reverse, like did Bucky get all giddy the first time Gale used a pet name? Inquiring minds would love to know 🩷😩

Hello You! How you feeling? Sending you good vibes, bubs.

Oh, God. Then you'll be intimate with the sheer level of typos I've missed. Every time I reread a section I spot something new and die off. I'm fixing them as I go, I promise.

They definitely both do pet names! So you've seen John call Gale 'doll', and Gale certainly liked it, but they were dealing with some heavy shit at time so it wasn't at the forefront of their minds. But! Now that they're together...

Bucky doles out the names left, right and centre. Doll is a favourite. Sweetness is too but mostly as a joke because Gale will push him. But John will try anything once. When he's in an environment where it's safe to do so, he likes to call Gale 'My guy', 'My fella', 'My man', or 'My beau'. Big on the possessives. You'll see some of this in a couple of chapters' time, as well as exactly what it does to Gale to hear it...

The first time John calls him pet names around other people, Gale blushes something fierce. If it's in the garage he normally throws the nearest thing at hand at Bucky or flicks him with a rag. The first few times John calls him a pet name in private though, Gale pretends to be unaffected: arches his brow and gives a tiny smile. But inside it feels like belonging. Like a marking. And he likes it. A lot.

But he finds it harder to give it back. He likes calling Bucky 'Johnny'. He calls him Romeo when John's being stupidly sappy, and occasionally calls him darling or honey. But. The one that really gets John? That Gale only says when he's in a certain kind of mood and his voice gets even lower? Is Sugar. Trust me, you'll see...

Thank you for the ask and I hope today is better! 😊

[underratedgrapeju1ce]

I need to know your exact thought process while writing In My Restless Dreams right now🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

hope ur prepared to hear me yap LMAO

i take characterization very seriously so thats always at the forefront of my mind, i want it to feel believable even if it falls under the umbrella of an au.

giovannis a really interesting character to me, as much as i make homophobic goose jokes, his mindset is genuinely rly thought provoking. squeaks knows how to write nuanced characters, i see no reason he would stop at gio. but as of rn i can only speculate

branching off that, this fic is basically a fun way for me to study the character dynamics, esp bucky and gio and bucky and walter, but i dont want the other guys to get left in the dust, which is why i included that scene with stumbler in chapter 3. chapter 7 and 8 especially are gonna go in depth with olive, stumbler and wulf.

imagery/immersion is something i feel like i could improve at, so i try and do little practice one shots and studying my fav writers (both fanfics and normal literature)

i also wanna pace the story well so theres enough suspense to keep people reading, but not too much that its just a bunch of cliffhangers with no substance. i wanna have fun writing, but i also hold myself to a pretty high standard, for better or worse lol

i dont rly do rough drafts? i make a bulleted list of plot points, and then i just. write from there. i usually read it back the next day to fix typos and formatting and stuff. but other than that i just try and go with the flow.

all in all i wanna do the little guys justice, especially bucky, hes a rly special character to me. i have a nightmare written out that i really wanna fit into the story, as well as a pretty big plot point with gio that im still tinkering with. i'm rly glad people are vibing with it ^^

buckle up though, it gets much much worse before it gets better. :)

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 65

I stood rooted to the spot, my breath catching in my throat as I stared at the framed photograph of Steve and me. It was as if time had slowed, the memory rushing back with startling clarity. Nat had captured the moment at the party, a candid shot I hadn’t even realized she had taken. In the photo, Steve and I stood on the balcony, wrapped in each other's arms, the soft glow of the evening light casting a golden hue around us.

I could almost feel the warmth of Steve's embrace again, recalling how he had confided in me just moments before, his voice tinged with a vulnerability I rarely saw. He had admitted that he felt like he was always in Bucky’s shadow, a constant second best. My heart had ached for him, and I had reassured him with everything I had, telling him that I would love him until my very last breath.

The picture captured the aftermath of that confession. We were both smiling, a shared secret in our eyes, our lips still tingling from the kiss we had just shared. My cheeks were flushed with emotion, the intensity of the moment lingering between us.

Bucky had been right, we did look happy—radiantly so, as if nothing else in the world existed except for us in that fleeting moment. I barely had a moment to process the weight of Bucky’s final goodbye when a deafening crash shattered the air, followed by a thunderous roar that reverberated through my very bones. The ground seemed to tremble beneath me, a sense of urgency igniting in my chest.

Without hesitation, I grabbed my gun, the cold metal familiar and reassuring in my grip, and bolted toward the lab where Tony and Bruce were working feverishly on the Cradle. My heart raced as I dashed to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly as if sheer force could make it move faster. The ride felt agonizingly slow, each second stretching into an eternity.

When the doors finally slid open, I rushed out, my breath hitching as I caught sight of the scene unfolding before me. Thor was crouched atop the Cradle, his mighty hammer crackling with fierce lightning that arced directly into the device. The lab was bathed in an eerie, flickering glow, the air thick with tension. Every eye in the room was wide with horror, frozen in the face of something terrifying and unknown.

It was then that I noticed Steve had returned, flanked by the two talents he had brought back with him. My gaze locked onto the girl’s face, and in an instant, a torrent of anger surged to the forefront of my mind—rage I had tried to bury, now burning with renewed intensity.

Suddenly, the Cradle burst open with a deafening crack, sending shards of metal and glass flying. From within the wreckage, a figure emerged, shrouded in an unsettling, almost otherworldly aura. Its skin was a deep, blood-red, gleaming eerily under the flickering lights. At the center of its forehead, an orange crystal pulsed with a menacing glow, catching the light with a hypnotic brilliance. That must be the gem Dr. Cho had warned us about.

The figure’s gaze swept over us, its eyes sharp and calculating, as if assessing the situation with a mix of caution and latent power. Slowly, it began to straighten, rising to its full height with an air of quiet, ominous authority. The tension in the room thickened, each of us holding our breath as we stared back, uncertain of what this new and terrifying presence might do next.

Without a hint of warning, the figure lunged forward with blinding speed, a blur of red streaking directly at Thor. But Thor was ready. With lightning reflexes, he caught the figure mid-charge, his powerful hands gripping its shoulders. With a mighty heave, Thor hurled the figure across the room, sending it crashing into a glass panel. The impact was brutal, the glass shattering into a cascade of jagged shards that exploded outward with a deafening crash.

The figure halted abruptly in mid-air, hovering just inches from the shattered window. It seemed almost mesmerized as it stared out at the world beyond, where the night had settled over the city, leaving the skyline aglow with a sea of shimmering lights. The figure's gaze shifted to its own reflection in the fractured glass, its expression unreadable as it absorbed the sight.

Steve tensed, ready to spring into action, his muscles coiled like a loaded spring. But before he could make a move, Thor extended a hand, halting him with a firm grip. Thor’s eyes were locked on the mysterious figure, a mix of curiosity and caution etched on his face as he watched, waiting to see what the next move would be.

The figure slowly turned to face us, and as it did, its crimson skin began to shift and ripple, transforming before our eyes. The red hue gradually faded, replaced by the sleek appearance of a grey suit that seemed to form seamlessly over its body. With a controlled descent, it landed in front of us with a solid thud, the sound reverberating through the room.

Thor, sensing a change, set aside his hammer and stepped forward, his gaze steady as he approached the figure. The tension in the room was palpable as we all watched, unsure of what would happen next.

The figure looked at Thor with an expression that seemed almost human, its eyes filled with something akin to gratitude. "I am sorry. That was odd. Thank you," it said, its voice startlingly familiar. The words carried a calm, measured tone, and the unmistakable voice of Jarvis echoed in our ears, leaving us stunned by the realization of who—or what—this figure truly was.

Thor sighed, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing as if a great weight had been lifted. His eyes remained on the figure, watching as it stood in silent contemplation, processing something deep within. Then, without warning, the air behind the figure seemed to shimmer, a subtle ripple passing through the space.

As we watched, a cape materialized, unfurling like a flag in the breeze. The fabric was rich and flowing, reminiscent of Thor’s own, and it draped gracefully over the figure’s shoulders, completing the transformation.

Steve approached cautiously, his posture tense and his eyes locked on the figure. “Thor, you helped create this?” he asked, his voice edged with a mix of disbelief and stern authority. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of everything that had transpired.

Thor turned to face Steve, his expression grave. “I’ve had a vision,” he began, his voice carrying a somber tone. “A whirlpool that sucks in all hope of life, and at its center is that.” He extended a hand, pointing directly at the glowing gem embedded in the figure’s forehead.

Bruce, who had been watching from the sidelines, suddenly stepped forward, his face paling as he processed Thor’s words. “What? The gem?” he stammered, his voice tinged with nervousness.

"It's the Mind Stone. It's one of the six Infinity Stones. The greatest power in the Universe, unparalleled in its destructive capabilities.", Thor explained his eyes wandering over us. Steve's face darkened, "Then why would you bring..", Thor interrupted him before he could finish his question. "Because Stark is right".

Bruce’s eyes widened in disbelief at Thor’s explanation. The realization that Thor had just confirmed Tony’s concerns sent a ripple of unease through him. The gravity of the situation was clear—if Thor was acknowledging that Tony was right, it meant we were facing a threat of unprecedented scale.

“The Avengers cannot defeat Ultron,” Thor continued, his voice carrying the gravity of a dire warning. His eyes met ours with an intense urgency.

Before any of us could fully absorb this, the figure spoke its voice a smooth, almost soothing contrast to the tension. “Not alone.”

I stepped forward cautiously, my brow furrowed in confusion and suspicion. “Why do you sound like Jarvis?” I asked, my voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The familiarity of the voice, so eerily similar to Tony’s trusted AI, only deepened the mystery of the figure before us.

Tony’s eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and apprehension as he gestured toward his creation. “We reconfigured Jarvis’s matrix to create something new,” he explained, his voice tinged with a hint of nervous excitement. The figure before us stood tall and enigmatic, a new and unsettling presence in the lab.

We all eyed the figure warily, each of us grappling with a swirl of suspicion and uncertainty. Could we trust this entity? Was it merely an extension of Ultron, despite its vehement denials? The questions lingered, casting a shadow over the room. In these unprecedented times, I couldn’t help but long for the clarity and simplicity of the 1940s.

Steve stepped forward, his face set in a determined frown. “Are you on our side?” he asked, his voice laced with doubt.

The figure remained still, its expression inscrutable. The witch, her eyes dark with foreboding, interjected with a shiver in her voice. “I looked into its mind,” she said, her gaze flickering to the figure. “All I saw was annihilation.”

The figure turned its gaze toward us, its eyes reflecting a cold resolve. “I am on the side of life,” it said, the words resonating with a chilling clarity. “Ultron isn’t. He will end it all.” The gravity of its statement hung heavy in the air, the weight of impending doom was palpable.

"What is he waiting for?", Tony asked getting impatient for the figure to simply reply with "You".

If Ultron was waiting, we had to confront him and end this madness once and for all. The figure's demeanor shifted, an almost mournful expression crossing its features as it spoke. “I don’t want to kill Ultron,” it said, its voice heavy with regret. “But given what Ultron has planned for our planet, there’s no other choice.”

It paused, letting the gravity of its words settle over us. “There may be no way to make you trust me,” the figure continued a note of urgency in its tone. “But we need to go.”

Before we could react, the figure moved with unexpected speed and grace. In one fluid motion, it grasped Thor’s hammer, lifting it with ease before walking over and handing it to him. The gesture left us all stunned, our mouths agape as we watched the hammer, a symbol of Thor’s immense power, pass from one hand to another.

Thor surveyed the room with a knowing smirk, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Right,” he said, his tone carrying a mix of approval and resolve. He clapped Tony on the shoulder with a firm pat, his gesture both reassuring and congratulatory. “Well done.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully toward the exit.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of what was to come pressing down on us. Steve broke the stillness, his voice cutting through the tension with a commanding edge. “Three minutes,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Get what you need.”

The urgency in his voice was palpable, fueling our resolve. It was time to put an end to this nightmare.

Tags: @capswife

Next Chapter

[bbgem329]

Where’s My Love—Chapter Six

Pairings—Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary

Two years ago, you and your husband built a life for your growing family at a safe camp during a world wide apocalypse. Everything is good until Bucky catches wind that a rival group is out to dominate the rest for their own gain.

What happens when, one day, the most capable men and your husband are out on a hunt when the camp is attacked? Will you be able to get your children and your heavily pregnant self to safety? Will Bucky find you before it’s too late?

Warnings

MINORS DNI! 18++. Violence. Language. Apocalyptic world. Childbirth. Protective!Bucky. Little dark. Little gore? We love feral, protective men. Did I miss anything?

Note

This is my birthday present to myself. So sorry for the delay! Work and school and life tend to get in the way! I will finish this and in about a month my schedule will open up for summer break so expect more soon!! Thanks for the support and love! Always!

Series Masterlist

—————

Run. Run. Run.

Just keep running.

Don’t think.

Just run.

Bucky didn’t let his mind wander too far. He couldn’t afford to. If he let his thoughts run rampant–his worries, it just might tear him apart and twist him up from inside out.

What good would he be then?

No. He needed to be calm and collected. He needed to keep his head.

You were fine. You had to be.

You were smart.

You were resourceful.

You could handle your own, he’d made sure of that with all the training he’d forced upon you in the past few years. You wouldn’t, in a million years, let anything happen to his babies. You would fight.

But what if…

No.

Bucky shook his head, letting out a frustrated growl as he picked up the pace. Arms pumping harder, stride longer, steps lighter, and his head held high.

JUST RUN.

Don’t. Think.

He couldn’t remember the last time he worked up such a sweat. Or got his heart pumping this hard. Or his lungs burning this much.

Has he ever run this fast before?

He doesn’t think so.

Not as the Winter Soldier as far as he remembered.

No, when he was the Winter Soldier he would stalk, not run, after his targets–his missions.

Like a hunter after his prey.

That’s exactly what he would do if–

No.

How long had he been running?

Bucky stole a glance up at the sky. The sun was at its highest position, meaning it had to be somewhere around noon. And if he had left just around sunrise, he’d had been gone for over six hours by now.

Bucky’s stomach rolled and he could nearly taste the bile clawing its way up his throat.

A lot can happen in six hours.

He swallowed thickly, shaking the thought from his head. There was absolutely no need to go there. You would always tell him how silly it was to worry. Remind him that whatever he was in his head about was out of his control.

Whatever happened, happened.

Worrying was nothing but a waste of time and energy that could be put to good use.

It’s almost as if he can hear your voice in his head–clear as day, telling him the exact thing or something along those lines.

You’d spoken those exact words more than a few times in the years you’d been together but there was one time in particular that came to the forefront of his mind.

“You better knock it off.”

Bucky’s gaze lifted to meet your eyes in the mirror, the pressure of his hands on either side of your hips lessening for just a moment. He tried to hide his surprise over the bite in your tone but he clearly didn’t mask his deer-caught-in-a-headlights reaction quick enough.

“What?” He asked, sounding a little offended. “I’m not doing anything, baby. Just trying to help relieve the pressure…”

He was quick to avert his eyes, instead focusing on his hands on either side of your waist, making sure he was adding just the right amount of pressure to ease the pain of the contractions.

He damn well knew you were onto him–knew you knew him better than he knew himself by now.

You’d probably gauged his mood long before he did. There really was no point in trying to hide it anymore.

You’d get it out of him eventually.

But that didn’t stop him from trying to distract you from his little slip up by laying a little trail of kisses along your exposed spine, thumbs kneading the soft skin along your hip.

And he thought it might work, that he might’ve actually gotten away with it.

Then you let out a long, frustrated huff.

The jig was up.

You went to move, trying to shift back and sit up but his hands on your waist stopped you.

“Bucky.” You protested.

“Just stay there, woman.” He groaned, “I’m fine.”

“Don’t make me feel dumb.” You wiggled in his hold, trying to brush him off. “You should never lie to a pregnant woman, let alone one in labor-”

You let out a long moan, fingers digging into the sheets as you burrowed your face in the pillow to not wake Jamie on the other side of the tent. Your body shook and trembled through the pain as the contraction continued. Bucky did his best to help you through it, whispering sweet nothings and encouragement in your ears, rubbing your back and hips, wiping a cool, wet rag along the back of your neck and over your shoulders.

Your contractions were closer together and longer now.

And just to be sure, he used your current position to his advantage to check how dilated you were now.

“I feel like I need to push.”

Bucky’s stomach rolled, his heart thumping wildly in his chest as he bent down to examine you. His eye nearly bulged out of his head when his fingers came in contact with something soft but firm at the edge of your cervix.

Holy fuck.

Was that…?

He shifted to get a better look between your legs.

Yup.

Definitely a head.

“Fuck.”

He regretted that word the moment it left his lips.

“What?” You lifted your head from the sheets to look over your shoulder at him, face unnaturally flushed and a new flash of worry in your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky needed to keep his head. He couldn’t get worked up because then you would get worked up and everyone knew that a worked up woman in labor never led to anything good.

No, he needed to keep you calm to make this process as smooth and easy as possible.

“Nothings wrong, baby.” He assured you, working hard to keep his voice soft and steady. “You’re doing so great. I can see baby's head, that’s all.” He pressed a soft kiss to the base of your spine, his left hand brushing gently over your hip. “You’re fully dilated so whenever you feel the need to push go ahead.”

He was a little proud of himself for remaining so cool and collected on the outside because the turmoil blazing through him on the inside was bound to be catastrophic.

“I know you’re worried.” Your voice startled him out of his thoughts and he lifted his head to meet your gaze in the mirror across the tent again. “But you can do this. You’re ready. No point in worrying, Buck. Whatever happens, happens. It’s out of your control.” You took a deep breath, offering him a soft smile, “So worrying is a waste of time and energy.”

His expression softened as his heart clenched in his chest, nearly beating out of control. You would never cease to amaze him.

Your strength, your resilience, your selflessness.

Here you were, on your hands and knees, in one of the most vulnerable moments of your life, trying to comfort him.

He wasn’t the one about to push an actual human out of their body.

He wasn’t the one who’s life was at risk.

Though it might as well be his life too because there wasn’t a chance Bucky could go on without you.

“Pretty girl.” He whispered, fighting a smile as he shook his head in disbelief. “I should be the one comforting you. You’re the one in labor.”

You tried to smile but it came across as more of a grimace. Despite it all, the pained smile, the sweat gleamed skin, the cherry red cheeks, and the wild, snarled hair, you still looked as beautiful to him as ever.

“I know that but I’ve birthed a baby before, you have never delivered one.”

It was moments like these that made him wonder what he did to deserve you.

Sometimes he wondered if you were really real. If you were really his.

“Those are two very different things-”

He was cut off but your strained cry.

“Okay.” He mumbled to you or himself, he wasn’t sure. “Okay, you got this.”

Bucky positioned himself back between your spread thighs, rubbing reassuringly along the back of your legs and hips coaching and encouraging you through it as best as he could.

A few good pushes and the head was out–this was called crowning, he’d remembered from one of the many books he’d read and you weren’t allowed to push, only breathe so as to not risk tearing. Before the apocalypse a tear was an easy fix but here and now, it could mean life or death. As far as you were both aware, you were the only medical professional that could even remotely handle that sort of situation and you couldn’t very well stitch up yourself if you found yourself in that position.

“Just breathe, baby.” He pleaded, rubbing his metal hand reassuringly along your waist and back, trying to distract you from the pain. “Follow my lead.”

Finally the contraction ended, and he was able to guide and carefully maneuver the shoulders out.

One more determined push and the baby–his baby girl was sliding out and into his eagerly awaiting hands.

And you both let out a matching sigh of relief when she immediately let loose with a piercing wail.

That had worked out.

This would too.

Whatever God or higher power existed wouldn’t dare take you or his babies from him. Not after everything he was put through and faced.

You, Jamie, Becca, and the baby were his redemption.

His light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

The world wouldn’t be able to handle James Buchanan Barnes without you.

So you would survive. You had to, if not for his sake.

Bucky couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief when finally the ‘Brookstown’ sign came into view. He always hated that sign, thought it attracted too much attention and would only bring trouble into their little town, and maybe he was right but he’d never been happier to see it than he is now.

It served, somewhat, as a beacon of hope.

He was close.

His chest tightened as he turned down the familiar path, leading into the woods. Just on the other side of this mini forest, was the truth and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face it.

He didn’t hear gunshots, in fact, he didn’t hear anything at all.

It was dead silent.

And that was enough to alert him that something was off.

No.

Something was wrong.

Normally, he could hear the life that lay beyond as he approached the front fence–giggles of children, people talking as they washed clothes in the river, and the clanking of tools because they were always fixing up and improving things around camp.

There was always something going on, even in the dead of the night.

He steeled himself, steps deliberate yet reluctant as he pushed through the bush and came out on the other side.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to expect but it wasn’t this.

The fence had been knocked down on two sides, a good amount of the dead had already rounded up, wandering around the completely lifeless camp, feasting on the bodies that were left behind.

Bucky didn’t let himself think, body numb as he took off in a sprint towards your shared tent on the other side of camp. His mind was on one thing and one thing only, completely oblivious and unaware as he screamed your name at the top of his lungs.

It didn’t matter that it attracted a lot of unwanted attention, the rage bubbling up inside him was no match for the infected that wandered his way.

They were nothing more than an outlet and he took whatever came his way out without batting an eye–a knife to the eye, a stab to the top of the head, a cut clean across the neck that sent a still growling head rolling across the flattened grass.

He intentionally didn’t look at the bodies littering the ground, kept his gaze up and his head held high as he moved closer and closer to his tent. If he stole a glance and connected each body to a face and name in his head..

It would only slow him down.

He couldn’t afford to feel or think about anything else right now.

Once the coast was clear, Bucky barged through the door of his tent, relief hitting him square in the chest as he took in the familiar space.

The backpack–gone.

All the coats–gone.

The chest at the end of the bed–open and rifled through.

You were in a rush, that much was obvious.

He pressed a hand to his head, letting himself have a moment of relief.

His girl.

His girl was strong. Resilient.

If you made it back here and had enough time to gather some stuff, there was no doubt you made it out.

Your next move would’ve been towards the fence–the back fence specifically and seeing as they attacked from the front, you most likely had a smooth escape.

You were okay. You were out there.

And he was coming after you.

Bucky snatched up his own backpack, quickly stuffing a few more smaller guns and knives in the pockets before racing into Becca and Jamie’s space to collect his worn blue blankie and her stained stuffed rabbit.

Once he had everything packed, he slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed his old M249 Paratrooper off the bed.

“I’m coming.”

He couldn’t imagine how scared you must be, didn’t even want to think about what you went through. But he knew you trusted that he would come after you and that he would find you.

With one last deep breath, he positioned his gun in his right arm and carefully pulled back the flap of the tent with his left.

But never in his wildest dreams, could he have prepared for the next moment.

Barely a step out of the tent and he was frozen in shock as his gaze locked on a familiar pair of warm chocolate eyes. The breath was nearly knocked from his lungs as he subconsciously jolted back, one hand over his frantically beating heart.

“You… You” He stuttered out. “What..”

“Hey, Buck.” Followed by a chuckle. “ Good to see you too.”

“Sam?”

—————

Taglist

@here4thespice @ameerakane20

@netflixxgodess @animegirlgeeky @futur3corps3 @toldyouitwasamelodrama

@ginger-swag-rapunzel @buckystevelove @snugglingbucky @slamminmine

[wexhappyxfew]

Yay!! So glad you are not tired of me in your inbox haha.

Also, I know my previous ask was Kennedy x Bucky focused, BUT I just want to reiterate that I absolutely love your other SB girlies and their guys, as well. Kennedy x Bucky are definitely at the forefront of my mind right now, but your other pairings are also fantastic.

Hope you have a lovely day 🩵

-☀️

I COULD NEVER BE TIRED OF YOU SUNSHINE ANON!!!!! <333333 you are too kind!!!! 🥹🫶✨

thank you SO MUCH for your general just love and support with the SB girlies (and their mota dudes). it truly means so so much to me, just to hear they’re loved like how i love them, cared for, looked after (haha)! and especially your ideas, or visions, or thoughts regarding the SB girlies (I EAT THEM UP. I LOVE THEM. ALL THE HEADCANONS. ALL THE IDEAS!!!!! i love them!) truly it’s so special to have that and i can’t thank you enough.

THE KENNEDY X BUCKY BRAINROT IS SO REAL!!!!! i think the thing about them is like….kennedy is SO against having help, being helped, always someone who needs to be strong for herself and others that having someone like bucky in her life? who lets her put down those guards and she can let herself be vulnerable and emotional and allow herself to talk about things she bottled up is just …. so so important (she’s so me lmfao). and so getting to write them is a JOY. AND I CANT THANK YOU ENOUGH FOR THE LOVE FOR THEM <3333333

enjoy the rest of your day! apologies if half of this is incoherent it’s fairly early in the morning and i’m still drinking coffee haha! (thank you though truly i love these messages sm!!!!)

[brnesblogposts]

waiting for my bucky hyperfixation to come to the forefront of my mind again, right now it’s smosh i fear

[loveforpreserumsteve]

Most Likely (high school reunion Stucky fic)

Two:

Holding the postcard in his hand, Steve wasn't sure what to make of the RSVP. To be honest, he hadn't given high school much thought in the past twenty-five years. Had it really been twenty-five years?

When he did take a moment out of his busy day to think of high school, he thought of Bucky. Bucky with his golden skin in the summertime and his frosted tips that he – and most of the boys in their school – thought was so cool. Bucky who never teased him for being scrawny in his youth, and who used it to his advantage to toss Steve into the Barnes' inground swimming pool at every opportunity. Bucky who had awful puns and terrifying scary stories to share around campfires. Bucky, who despite twelve years of friendship, ghosted him after graduation. It didn't even take a semester away from each other before he dropped Steve completely.

No, Steve shook his head. He wasn't doing this right now. He had things to get done. Things that were much more important than his pathetic, disastrous crush on Bucky Fucking Barnes more than two decades ago.

So, Steve set the postcard on the table beside the front door and headed upstairs. Clapping his hands as he reached the landing, he called out, "'You guys almost ready? We gotta be at the airport in two hours!"

Peeking into Harrison's room, Steve found the recently turned sixteen year old laying on his messy, unmade bed, the teen's suitcase abandoned beside him and containing a mountain of wrinkled clothes. But what did he really expect though? Harrison was staring moony-eyed at his phone, probably talking to his new girlfriend. His first girlfriend. And while Steve didn't want to be late, he still decided to give the teen a moment. After all, he remembered what that felt like, texting with that one person he couldn't get enough of. That one person that he'd move heaven and earth for.

A memory of Bucky's flushed face with tearstains from laughing at his own terrible puns came to the forefront of his mind. Steve shook his head. Even after all those years, it still hurt.

Leaving Harrison for the moment, Steve headed down the hallway for the three younger kids. First stopping at Mikey's room. The twelve year old wasn't any readier than his older brother. Sighing, Steve reminded all the kids, "You guys need to pack! And I mean, right now! We're going to be leaving soon!"

"You said we had two hours!" Maggie-Mae frantically yelled from her and Alice's bathroom.

Approaching the fourteen year old's bedroom, he further elaborated, "I said we had to be at the airport in two hours! We still need to leave in the next thirty minutes, so we can beat traffic."

"It's going to take that long just to straighten my hair!"

Rolling his eyes, Steve paused at Alice's room. Surprisingly, the ten year old was trying to close her packed suitcase. A little relieved that at least one of the kids were ready to roll out at any minute, he entered the vibrant lime-green room.

"Need a little help?" Steve offered.

Relief fixed on her freckled face, and she nodded. Explaining, "Moo-Cow and Ribbit don't fit."

Nodding, Steve crossed the room to her bed. Opening the suitcase, he found that her clothes were mostly all neatly folded – which was more than he could say for her older siblings – and the only thing in the way were the two stuffed animals. The incorrectly named pink pig, Moo-Cow, and the green frog, Ribbit, were going to be difficult to arrange for everything to fit.

Still, Steve tried his damndest to make them fit. After all, this wasn't just some trip across town to Peggy's. Oh no, this was a trip across the Atlantic to see their maternal grandparents.

And god, Steve couldn't get emotional now. Sure, it was just going to be for a month. But that was the longest that he had ever been away from his kids. In sixteen years, he had never spent more than a week – two tops – away from them. Not when they went to basketball camp, nor baseball camp, not even gymnastic camp. Not ever.

What was he going to do without them?

"Y'know," Steve cleared the emotion from his throat, "I'm gonna be awful lonely here by myself. Maybe one of them can stay here and keep me company?"

Alice looked up at him with those big blue eyes that she had inherited from him, and just studied him for a moment. Probably trying to see if this was going to be some trick. But she knew that her daddy wouldn't do that to her. So, she redirected her attention to the two stuffed animals. Then, she held up the old, ratty pig for him to take.

"Thanks," Steve smiled, wrapping his arm around her shoulders so he could pull her into his side. Leaning down, he kissed the top of her head, "I'll be sure to take good care of him."

She giggled at that and pulled away so she could close the suitcase. Deciding, "Moo-Cow will take care of you!"

Feigning offense, Steve brought his hand up to his chest, over his heart. "What makes you think that I need to be taken care of?"

When she turned to appraise him once more, Steve placed his hands on his hips and stood tall and proud, like Superman. And while his body definitely didn't come anywhere close to the superhero in his youth and teenage years, now, it did. It was hard-won and took some time to get used to, but Steve was glad that he had been able to shake some of his childhood illnesses.

"Moo-Cow will take good care of you," Alice reiterated.

Nodding, Steve carried the stuffed animal with him as he leaned against the doorway to the conjoined bathroom. Maggie-Mae's hair was a quarter of the way straight while the rest of it was frizzy and wild. It was clear that she was trying to speed through it, but that wasn't going to help any. And, well, Steve didn't know what to do to help her with that.

"Have you packed anything?" He asked the fourteen year old, hoping that he could at least help in that regard.

"Umm," Maggie-Mae started on a new section of her hair, "I was still deciding on what I wanted to bring."

Rubbing at his temple, Steve stressed, "You've known about this trip for three months. How do you not know what to bring."

"You know how indecisive I am! I have to look at the pros and the cons before I choose anything!"

Knowing that she didn't need to be worked up into an emotional ball of anxiety – that was Steve's being for today, lord knew that no other Rogers family member needed to be there with him – he held his hands up to appease her. Suggesting, "I'll help. Okay?"

Setting the hair straightener down, Maggie-Mae sniffled and nodded. Nodding, himself, Steve headed into her hot-pink bedroom. Her room was at least clean, which was more than he could say about her older brother. But he wasn't going to bug them more than he needed to. Not on their last day home for the next little while.

Seeing the large pile of clothes on the bed, Steve lifted two dresses. A pale pink lace and a teal polka dot. Making sure that the teen could see them in the mirror's reflection, "A –" pale pink "– or B?"

"Both."

Playfully, Steve narrowed his eyes at her, causing her to erupt into a fit of giggles. Trying to keep himself from laughing, Steve held up the dresses again, "C'mon, we don't have all afternoon."

"Fine," Maggie-Mae giggled. Moving onto another section of hair, she chose, "A. I look better in A."

"A it is," Steve removed the dress from the hanger so he could fold the item and place it in her suitcase. Grabbing two more dresses, he repeated the process. And again for another two dresses, wondering why she had so many dresses that she hardly ever wore.

With only half of her hair straightened, Steve's phone alarm went off. Their thirty minutes were up. Leaving the fourteen year old's room, he said, "You can straighten your hair when you land. For now, put the rest of it up and pack some underwear. I'm gonna bring the bags downstairs."

"But dad!"

"But nothing, Magdalena!" Steve left no room for argument. And, instead, took Alice's suitcase. Passing by Mikey's room once more, he spotted the twelve year old laying on top of his suitcase, trying to zip it. Shaking his head, Steve set down Alice's bag so he could help.

"Let's get a move on!" Steve announced, while handing Alice's lighter suitcase to Mikey so he could carry the older boy's heavier suitcase. Seeing that Harrison was still in his bedroom, staring moony-eyed at his phone, "I mean it, Harrison Joseph. You can talk to Katie in the car, now let's go!"

"Dad!" The sixteen year old protested out of embarrassment. Still, he got his butt in gear and followed his two youngest siblings and Steve down to the first story of the house.

Passing Mikey's suitcase to Harrison, Steve made sure that he had their plane tickets and passports. Calling out, "Magdalena Mae Rogers, I'm not gonna tell you again! Let's go!"

"Geez, don't have a cow, I'm coming," the fourteen year old carried her luggage downstairs and out the door.

Grabbing his keys and wallet, he glanced at the RSVP on the side table. With one last thought of Bucky Barnes, Steve exited the house.

[melodylnoelle]

Here I Am

The Cards Have Spoken - Week 3 (My cards) (A week late, my baaaaaaad)

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Characters: Steve Rogers x OC Category: Relationship Timeline: Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier Setting: Stark Tower Warnings/Notes:  Relates to Week 3′s which is NSFW!! This one does not have any of that though // We are trying to keep these all to a minimum of 500 words. You can use these same cards for your own story if you like, but please tag me and @brightsun-and-darkmidnight so that we can see what you do! Please enjoy Words: 1366 Summary: Steve surprises Jamie when he gets home from his battle with HYDRA Masterlist

           Steve straightened the collar of his shirt and he stared in his reflection in the shop window. He gave himself a once-over, making sure he didn’t look any worse for wear. Then he messed with the flowers, making sure the plastic wrapping wasn’t folded and every flower was visible. He was stalling, he knew, but he was trying to think of just the right words to say.

           This was an apology, after all. Well sort of.

           Jamie had known what she was getting into when she and Steve started dating – he had made clear to her that the work he was doing was important, and that there would be times where he would have to leave unannounced, He hadn’t planned on SHIELD completely falling apart right around their anniversary. Hadn’t planned on the distraction that came from Peggy’s death, or from finding out that Bucky was not dead. He was going after Bucky, but there was no harm in that waiting one more day for him to make this right.

           Finally satisfied with his appearance, he trotted over to the bar next door.

           The little dive bar was busier than usual. The wave of nostalgia hit him as it always did, more fresh now that Bucky was at the forefront of his mind. He could almost picture him, in his old uniform, sitting up at the bar waiting for him. He shook his head of that, focusing on the matter at hand. His eyes scanned behind the bar until they landed on her.

           Jamie was not working alone today. That was good. She moved quickly behind the other bartender – Rick, he recalled – throwing one more ingredient into the shaker in her hand. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she worked. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail as it was the first time they saw each other, with that one perfect curl falling along the side of his face.

           She put the lid on the shaker and began to shake the cocktail, looking around the room as she did. When her eyes landed on her, she froze with the shaker in the air away from her. Her eyes lit up immediately, moving between him and the flowers.

           “Steve!” She practically threw the shaker down onto the bar as she sped around it. She ran over to him, dodging the chairs around the low tables as she went.

           “Hey, doll,” he said with a laugh just before she wrapped him in a hug. He held the flowers out to not crush them as he returned her hug with the other.

           “I was so worried! Are you hurt?”

           She quickly pulled away, though she didn’t release her arms from around his shoulders. Her green eyes flitted over his face, examining it.

           He winced at the thought that he had worried her so much, but plastered a smile on his face anyway. “I’m fine, don’t worry. I heal fast, remember?”

           The tension lifted a bit from her shoulders at that.

           “I’m sorry I missed our anniversary.” He brought the flowers closer so that she would see them. “But here I am now.”

           He loved the way her smile always seemed to reach her eyes. It did so now, as she carefully took them from him. She brought them to her face to smell them, closing her eyes for a moment. “It’s ok. Savin’ the world is allowed to come first, ya know.”

           “I want to make it up to you anyway.” He looked over to Rick, where he had picked up her abandoned shaker and finished making the drink for her. “Think I could steal you from the bar for the night?”

           “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” She held the flowers close as she turned. “I’ll go let Rick and Martin know, they’ll be fine.”

           When she was ready to go, he drove her through town until they reached Stark Tower. He had her close her eyes when before they exited the elevator. Careful not to let her fall, he guided her to the roof door. The cool night air hit his face as the door slid open, relaxing him by a fraction. It was the perfect weather outside for this.

           “You can open your eyes now.” He moved so that he would be in view when she did.

           He watched as her eyes lit up again as she took in the setup for their date – A small table was set right near the edge of the balcony, giving them a view of the bustling city below. Soft music was playing from the speakers that lined the small space. Tony had his Legion help him string lights all along the rooftop, and the breeze was just gentle enough up here not to blow out the candles that rested on the table. On either side of the table was a glass of Moscato – her favorite, he had learned – and…

           “Tacos!” She started making her way to the table. “I have been cravin’ those all week but haven’t had the time to run for any.”

           He couldn’t help the chuckle that came out as he followed her to the table. He was glad that JARVIS reminded him to grab a vase as she set the flowers in, completing the setup on the table.

           “This is beautiful,” she said as she sipped the wine, looking around at all of the lights and flowers scattered along the roof. She turned to look at him with that smile he loved so much. “Thank you.”

           “You’re welcome, doll.”

           She sighed, picking up one of the tacos on her plate. “Not to ruin the moment, but… you wanna tell me what happened?”

           So he did.

           He told her about the way that SHIELD had played everyone – about their plans to take out people with the helicarriers. He had learned a while back that he didn’t need to hold back the details from her. He told her about seeing Bucky again, and about how heartbroken he felt that Bucky had no idea who Steve was anymore. Who he was anymore.

           By the time he had finished telling her about everything that had passed in the last few weeks, they had finished their food and polished off the bottle of wine. The wind had gotten a little chill to it after the sun finished setting.

           Jamie was listening very intently, her brows furrowed as she focused on the details. When he was done, she looked to him with sadness in her eyes. “You’re goin’ after Bucky.” It wasn’t a question.

           He didn’t bother trying to deny it. “I can’t leave him like that. I gotta make sure he makes it home this time. That he’s safe.”

           She nodded, understanding. She took a sip of her wine. “Just make sure you come home alive, too, ‘kay?”

           “I will. I promise you that.”

           She set the drink down gently, noiselessly against the table. She looked at it for a long moment before she asked. “When are you leavin’?”

           She asked the one question he didn’t have an answer to. He had no idea how long it was going to take to sift through the information that Nat was able to find for him. Even then, there was no guarantee that it would give him an exact place to start. But he knew as soon as he found somewhere to go, he would not be able to stop himself.

           So he settled with the one thing he did know.

           “Not tonight.” He smiled lightly, trying to reassure her. “And I would love it if you would share this dance with me.” JARVIS must have heard that, because the music was suddenly just a bit louder.

           She looked back up at him then, the slightest smile touching her lips. “I would love that, too.”

           He held out his hand, and she took it. They rose from the table and moved to the center of the roof. She let her hair down before placing her other hand on his shoulder. He pulled her in close and kissed her gently, and then watched the breeze play with her hair and he danced with her in slow circles around the rooftop.

[lamentingwclf]

He expected this reaction to what he's placed in front of her - that she didn't lose just moments of her life, but almost eighty years of it. And, not for the first or last time, he wished it was Steve sitting here helping her through this. Because he'd gone through it himself, once, and had found a way to cope. Instead, she was stuck with Bucky - who was only just now managing to figure things out himself and has now been thrust back into the role of care taker because it's what she was expecting from him. Hell, maybe it should have made things easier, but it didn't. It was complicated, and messy, and he desperately wanted to run from the room and pretend none of it happened.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't.

Nor could he fully deal with her tears, which is why, in a moment of weakness, he reached out and placed a gloved hand over her bare one.

"I don't know how much to tell you." He admits, but it's not because S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to keep her in the dark, it's because he genuinely doesn't know what she can and can't handle. So he starts with the things she will be able to assume. "Your parents died in a car accident in 1947." It was his fault. "Your brothers weren't in the car." He knows because he remembers. But what happened to them, he didn't know, never looked himself out of guilt and fear. He never searched his own siblings to know their status, and never searched her. Up to this point, he had no idea what happened to Gwen Adler, and maybe he, too, assumed Harry had come home, they'd gotten married, had children of their own, and moved on.

"I'm assuming their death and the political unrest surrounding Arnim Zola caused you to be forgotten." He pauses for a moment as anger courses through his veins. No one knew Gwen had been part of an experiment aside form her parents and the doctor. Zola must have dropped the project when his war charges were dropped and a new test subject had presented itself: him.

Bucky's survival and the success of his recreated serum had taken the forefront. They'd equipped him with an experimental arm, trained, and tortured him. They pushed the limits of his body first, then his mind, then kept him in an updated version of the same tube on and off. But he reveals none of this, instead, just giving her enough.

"I did fall, into the Danube river." Which he still hates trains and heights because of it. "No one knew I survived, or how, for a long time; but it's because of my time in the camp in Austria. I had a run in with Zola...a recreated serum that just took a while to activate." This is where it gets tricky for Bucky, and each bit of information given next is stated carefully. But he knows a general rule for believable lies, keep details to a minimum and vague...he'd be lying to say he wasn't about to play on Gwen's own naivety. "I was found by a Soviet soldier and dragged back to a camp where I was kept until the end of the war. The details are a bit fuzzy from there. I have a lot of lost time, likely due to a head injury."

And he shrugs it off, "We can talk about it later, but right now, if you want to leave, you have to cooperate with someone. Why did your father get involved with Zola?"

The force of his voice causes her eyes to shut, and there's such a boom to it that it reminds her of Bucky's father and she can't help the way her body flinches. Her eyes open again to watch as one by one the men and women with guns disband from the room and it isn't until the man leaves the room before tears start to slip down her cheeks and that godforsaken chill comes back and it isn't long before her teeth are chattering.

Cloudy eyes fixate on the door when she hears the click of it, watching as the man approaches her again. Instantly her fear spikes, but she's too far under to try to run. A small noise leaves her as he goes for her wrist, though is surprised when she feels the release of the metal...and then the sweet warmth of the blankets as he tucks her into bed. How many times had Bucky done that to her and Steve in the past?

Her eyes stayed glued to him, they're heavy, and all she wants to do is sleep, but she hangs on. Her thoughts, for the first time since being awake, swirl around Bucky. Would this be how he looked if he'd had his life ripped mercilessly away from him. How he'd look as a husband? As a father? Would have he wanted children? Would he have married her? Would she have married him? She'd hoped she would now....a couple kids, nice house....and happiness back in her life.

Slowly the drugs begin to wear, but he finally then begins to speak and she wished they were back in her system. Immediately Gwen shakes her head, feeling more tears come. "Stop....stop it." But he continues and each memory is so sharp and painful that it feels like she can no longer take a breath. It's when he speaks about his mother that she finally realizes there is no faking who he is. She remembered the bandage on Winnifred's ear, she remembers the mark on their table. Bucky never told her, and she never asked. Rebecca once mentioned that her father cut her mother, but she never knew...she never knew how.

"Bucky?" Gwen chokes out, though this time there's no smile coming to her features this time. But he continues...and the information he gives her takes away what should have brought a blush to her cheeks. She never understood why in films the women always fainted when they were troubled. Personally, Gwen had never witnessed that in her life, and she wondered if that was just a dramatic action men decided women should have. And it made her mad....until now.

Instantly her head feels fuzzy, ears ringing loudly, and she breaks into a cold sweat. Somehow she crunches the numbers. 2024. It was 2024. Her father was 131 years old, her mother 125. Which meant her brothers- her brothers. A sound of horror leaves her lips and somehow Gwen manages to grab onto the rails. Harry. "Help me," she pleads, feeling more of the color drain from her cheeks.

Her breathing soon quickens and she turns her head to look back at him. "I-I know I don't deserve it....b-but I'm scared....I'm really really scared. Will you hold- will you hold my hand please?"

Finally the sobs come, knees coming to her chest as her head falls to them, her frail body heaving with each of the cries that echo throughout the room.

There's no telling how long she cries for, but her throat is raw, and she no longer hold her body up so she lets herself fall back against the mattress. "What happened?" Gwen chokes through tears. "My family- my brothers....oh God- w-what happened? I was- I was only supposed to be in until the war ended. They were supposed to come back. He was supposed to come back. Y-You- You fell....you fell from a train. You-" Her head shakes violently. "No. I-I want to go home. I would really really like to go home right now. I-I....I want my family- I want- please.....please."

[labyrinthof-fan-fiction]

Laughing on the Outside (Crying on the Inside)

Bucky X Fem!Reader

A/N: Hi, me again, with another fic inspired by a song from my Vera Lynn Playlist….. I’m sorry. Should I be considering these Song fics? Does it count if I’m not directly quoting the lyrics through the whole thing….? But I love it. Dinah Shore’s ‘Laughing on the Outside (Crying on the Inside) is our new muse. Recorded in 1946, made it to #3 on the Billboard Charts. Written by Bernie Wayne, Lyrics by Ben Raleigh.

Summary: You and Bucky had broken up a while ago, but who should you come across at a dance club, the night before he ships off to war?

Warnings: Angst, again. Alcohol consumption, minor swears. 

Disclaimer: I do not own Bucky, Steve, any of the Marvel Universe. I do not own ‘Laughing on the Outside (Crying on the Inside).’

Word Count: 2,920

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was the happiest man on Earth, at least to most of the people who saw him. There were only two people who could see through is mask, his best friend, Steve Rogers and you. But now there was only one, Steve. You had left him, for good reasons too. He was an arrogant prick, at times. And you had called him on it, he snapped. You  left him, something he never thought would happen. The ring he had stored in the top drawer of his dresser was proof of that.

To the whole world he was a carefree young man. Dancing and romancing all the women he could find. Each night there was a new dame on his arm. Women wanted to be with him, men wanted to be him, and he just wanted you. Steve had walked in on him holding your picture with tears streaming down his face. It had been months since you walked away.

“She’s gone, Steve. She’s not coming back.” Bucky muttered. “And I’m still in love with her.” His thumb brushing gently over the cheek of your photo.

“Buck….” Steve began, but he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He knew Bucky loved you, and he was still confused on why the two of you broke up. Bucky never gave him the specifics. And you had kept your distance from him to the point that he was sure you were avoiding him.

Bucky wiped the tears from his eyes, placed your photo back into his wallet, and turned to the blonde man in front of him. “How ‘bout we go out tonight?”

“If you’re sure…” Steve said warily.

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine.” Bucky answered, running a hand through his short hair. A smile splitting his face, not quite making it to his storm cloud grey eyes. Steve was wondering if the blue would ever return to his best friend eyes. Bucky went through the door first, Steve paused, his eyes falling on the unmistakeable black velvet box on top of Bucky’s dresser. He was frozen for a second, surely, that wasn’t….. He shook his head. Buck would have told him if he was going to propose, wouldn’t he?

He scampered after his dark haired friend, who had already made his way into the street. A suave air surrounded Bucky, but Steve could feel the falsity of it. Even when Bucky ended the night with a girl wrapped in his arms, smile on his face as he walked her home, Steve trailing behind with the girl’s reluctant friend. When they bid the girls goodnight Steve could feel the shift in his friend. The carefree attitude melted away and he was left with a sulky Bucky.

More months passed and Bucky was out with a new woman each day and night. Sometimes there were even more than one on his arm. Steve was concerned for his friend. While the rest of the world saw him having the time of his life, “Just as a young man should.” One of Bucky’s neighbors said. Steve hoped they remembered that sentiment as he lugged his much larger, very drunk, best friend back to his apartment.

“Dammit, Buck,” Steve said as his friend leaned against the wall of his apartment building, swaying from the amount of alcohol in his system. Steve cursed his smaller stature, he would have thrown Bucky into his room if he had been able.

A chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips, “Dammit is right, Stevie.” He hiccuped. “Dammit, Barnes. Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Steve let a sigh escape his lips. He didn’t want to discount the feelings Bucky was having, but damn did he wish that his friend had a healthier way of dealing. “What’s going on Buck?”

“It’s her birthday, you know what I was going to do for her birthday?” Bucky asked, his hand going into his pocket. “I was going to give her this.” He pulled the black velvet box out. He opened it and Steve could see the diamond sparkling in the moonlight. “I was going to ask her to spend her life with me.” Tears started streaming from his eyes. A sob broke through his lips.

Steve’s heart clenched as he watched his friend sink to the ground, cradling the engagement ring to his chest. Full bodied sobs echoing in the alley. Steve sat next to Bucky, remaining silent.

“I’ll love her until I die, Stevie.” He said, his head resting against the wall as he stared up at the sky. “No one else will compare.”

“I know, Buck, I know.” Steve said, he knew that Bucky meant every word he said. If only he could get him to say them to you. But he doubted that was possible. First off, you had been avoiding him. Second, he had heard you had a new beau. He hadn’t brought it upon himself to tell the man next to him just yet. He didn’t know if he could, he feared that if he did it would break his best friend.

Bucky sighed and wiped the tears from his eyes, placing the ring in his pocket. “We can’t sleep out here.” He pulled himself up shakily, Steve quickly standing and throwing Bucky’s arm over his shoulders to give him something to lean on. Steve managed to help his friend into bed, Bucky rolled over and looked at Steve. “Do you think she loves me still?”

Steve paused, he had almost made it out the door. “I don’t know, Buck. You’d have to ask her.”

A dry chuckle fell from Bucky’s lips, “Yeah.” Steve heard soft snores from his friend and made his exit, not before he heard your name fall from Bucky’s lips.

A year had passed since the break up and Bucky was out on the town. He was feeling like no one could stop him, he was on top of the world. Confidence oozed from his pores as he walked down the street. Steve had been busy today, so Bucky decided to take a walk around the block. He waved at a few dames he came across, opened some doors, charmed an uptown girl. He stopped in his tracks when he rounded the corner and he came face to face with you.

“Watch where you’re……going.” You snapped, slowing down when you saw who was in front of you. “James…..”

“Y/N.” He said softly, before a grin fell across his face. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

You were taken aback by his smile, “You know I work here.”

He glanced around, “I guess you do, I forgot. Been a while.”

“It has.” You said softly, taking in the sight of the man in front of you. He seemed happy, or at least he wanted you to believe he was happy. But you knew better. It’s not your responsibility anymore, you made sure of that. You reminded yourself.

“Well, it was nice seeing you. Take care.” He said, giving you a nod continuing on down the street. You could hear him whistling down the street. You felt a small pang in your chest as you watched his retreating form, a small part of you wishing that he would turn around, but he never did.

As he walked away he felt his eyes stinging, but tears refused to fall. His heart felt like it was weeping. But he whistled as he walked, trying to distract himself from the tearing of the feeble repairs he had made to his broken heart.

Two more years passed before you found each other again. You were at your favorite dance hall. It was packed with men in uniforms, looking for a dame to dance the night away with, before they were sent to war. You were more than happy to spin around the dance hall, it took your mind off of him. At least, it did until a man who reminded you of him took you out onto the floor. A flash of dark hair or grey eyes were enough for you to imagine you were in his arms again. You found yourself wondering if he was going to war, was he there already, was he alive? You stopped yourself, you couldn’t think about that right now. The man whose arms you were in didn’t need you staining his uniform with your tears over another.

Bucky straightened the tie on his new uniform. It felt odd to him, standing in front of his mirror, looking at this version of himself. Sure, this was what he had wanted, but it still didn’t feel like him. He glanced down at the drawer in his dresser, the ring box still there. He opened the drawer and pulled the ring out of the box and tucking it into his breast pocket. He knew most of the boys took tokens of their girls with them. He didn’t have you anymore, but he could pretend, he thought as he placed his hand over the ring.

“Buck, c’mon. I’m not getting any younger.” Steve called, “If we want to go dancing you need to get out of your room and stop staring at yourself. Damn narcissistic bastard.”

“Comin’.” Bucky called to him as he made his way to the door, placing his hat upon his head. Time to dance the night away and pretend it was you in his arms.

Steve and Bucky entered the dancehall, Steve quickly felt uneasy. Something in his bones made him want to flee. Bucky’s eyes swept the hall, looking for his target. He stopped when he saw you in the corner, alone against the wall. This couldn’t be right, there was no way you were here. He pinched his wrist, he wasn’t asleep. This wasn’t a dream, but did it feel like a dream to see you standing there.

Steve followed Bucky’s eyes and realized why his best friend had frozen. “Bucky…”

“I’m not going to go die without telling her I’m still in love with her.” Bucky cut Steve off, the ring in his pocket feeling heavy.

Steve stepped in front of him, he may be smaller, but he was far superior in the stubbornness department, that was if you asked him. “Buck, think about this before you do something stupid.”

“Steve,” Bucky began, looking down at his friend in front of him. “I might not come home. And damn it all, I’m going to tell her everything. It might not change anything, but I will go over there knowing that she knows.” He pushed aside his friend and made his way over to your corner. Your back was to him, intently watching the band. He removed his hat and put it in one hand. “Hello, doll.”

You turned quickly, fearing that if you were too slow that voice, that man would disappear. But he remained behind you, nervously tapping his fingers on the hat in his hands. A smile came across your face.

“Is there room on your dance card for me?” He asked sheepishly.

“Always.” You answered, his eyes lighting up, he placed his hat on the table next to you and offered his hand. You took it in yours and allowed him to lead you onto the dance floor. His hand pulled yours to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close to him. You wrapped your empty arm around his neck. You felt his heartbeat pounding in his chest. You instinctively put your hand in his hair, massaging his scalp.

You felt a warm puff of air on your cheek. “Doll….” He murmured low into your ear. Your knees grew weak and you were glad for the grip he held on your waist.

“Darling. I’m so sorry.” You whispered. You could feel the tears falling from your eyes. He burrowed his face into your neck, breathing in your scent. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He remained silent for a moment. You stiffened, wondering what he would do, how he would react. His hand at your waist moved in circles along the small of your back. “I’m sorry too.”

You remained in each others embrace, lucky the band had chosen to do a slow set. “I still love you, doll. I always have.” Bucky stated abruptly, breaking the silence. “I had to tell you before I go. I don’t know what’s going to happen over there, but I needed you to know…”

You cut him off by pulling away from his embrace, causing a panicked look to come across his face. You ignored this and pulled him closer to you, pressing your lips to his. The world around the two of you faded away as you deepened the kiss, his left hand remaining on your waist, his right threading itself in your hair.

You broke apart for a moment to allow each other air before his lips crashed back into yours. You let out a small hum as he pressed even closer, you doubted that even air could be between the two of you. He pulled away, breathless and stared into your eyes. He didn’t press you for a response to his confessions, he didn’t ask for an explanation, he just stared into your eyes.

Neither of you said a word, continuing to remain in each others arms for the rest of the night. Last call was announced and Bucky held his arm out to you. “Let me walk you home, just one last time.”

You accepted the arm, noticing Steve out of the corner of your eye. A small smile was on his face.

The walk home was quiet, but comfortable. You had so much you wanted to say, but no words fell from your lips. When you made it to your doorstep you turned to the man in front of you. When you had broken up a boy was in front you. Impulsive and headstrong. Here was a man. Here is the man you love.

He glanced nervously between you and the door. Right now the only thought in your minds was the very really possibility that this would be the last time you saw each other. Your rational side begged you to think things through, but you threw caution to the wind. You could not send him to war without letting him know how you felt.

“I’m still in love with you.” You blurted out, at the same time he said, “I love you.”

You both chuckled. Bucky placed a hand on your cheek. “Some way, some how, I’m going to make it back to you, doll. I swear it.”

You leant into his hand, “Don’t make promises you don’t know you can keep.”

“Come hell or high water, I won’t spend anymore time away from you. I will not spend any more time pretending that I am not hopelessly in love with you.” He took his hand from his cheek and pulled out the ring. “I have carried this for years, holding onto the hope that I would give it to you. It is going to stay in my pocket until I get the chance to properly give it to you, when all this is over. I swear to you, that I will come back. I will marry you and will love you until my dying day.”

You were stunned into silence, you didn’t know what to say, so you pulled him in for another kiss. This one more urgent than those on the dance floor. Bucky pulled away, you stared into his eyes, the grey seemed to be breaking away into pale blue, much like the sky after a storm. You could feel the weight of Bucky’s promise in the air, but you would worry about that when, if the time came. You threaded your fingers through his and opened your door, dragging the new soldier in behind you. “Stay with me.” You murmured.

Bucky knew he could not refuse you, as you lead him to your bedroom. “Doll…..we don’t have to.” He started, stopping in the doorway.

“Buck, please hold me tonight. Like you used to.”

He nodded, stripping down to his undershirt and boxers as you changed from your dancing dress to a nightgown. Bucky pulled the covers back on your bed and burrowed under them, opening his arms for you to settle into. You placed your head on his chest as his arms wrapped around you. You felt his heartbeat begin to slow as gentle snores fell from his lips lulling you to sleep. You woke the next morning in his arms, his grip tightening before he was pulled from sleep. He placed a sleepy kiss to your forehead. “I have to go.” He murmured, tracing patterns on your back.

“I know.” You answered, tears falling onto his chest.

He shifted underneath you, and you knew this was your cue to move, you pulled yourself from his arms as he released you. He rolled from the bed and dressed himself in his uniform. When you were both dressed you stood at your door.

“I love you.” You whispered, putting a hand over his heart. “Please come back to me.”

He placed his hand on top of yours. “I promise.” He placed a gentle kiss to your lips before turning to the door and leaving. You watched his broad frame fade from view. Both of you oblivious to the fact that he would break his promise to come home to you. But neither of you ever broke your promise to love the other until your last breath.

[pellucid-constellations]

A Correspondence of Obligation - Six

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader (Royal AU)

Summary: Obedience, duty, pristine smiles—raised as the princess of an oppressive kingdom, you knew nothing else. Your father signed your life away at the ripe age of five, black ink bleeding into a contract between nations, fate cemented with the flick of a quill. So when the time came to fulfill the promises you were too young to make, you expected much of the same in the land of Brookshire. But Prince James had other plans, as did the enemies looming outside the castle walls.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Angst, cannon-level violence, injury, tension ;)

a/n: Writing this chapter was so fun (even though action is my weakness)!! Let me know what you think! Thank you for reading ♡♡

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

~~

The world didn’t make sense.

Turned on its axis, flipped and then aching, nothing made sense in the scene around you other than the way the trees swayed in front of a fading sun. Only it shouldn’t be fading, not yet—not when it was so clearly overhead with no clouds to hinder its path. So then, the trees and the sun didn’t make much sense either. 

Grass prickled beneath your fingertips, a heaviness weighed down the thoughts in your mind; you were on the ground, you realized, and the ground was thumping. You considered, for a moment, that the consistent disruption could be due to the dull ache clouding your mind, but then the horses made their appearance, and you still couldn’t move. 

Where was Natasha? Where were you? The last time you had felt this perturbed, you had fallen out of the walnut tree right outside your father’s study. He had boomed into the gardens with an obvious rage that made your already sore knees hurt that much more, and his drawn expression didn’t yield as he banned you from the gardens henceforth. 

But it had been cold then—snowy and biting and brisk. And now, as you lay in the grass beside the place the horses were pacing, the sun warmed you. It was a pleasant feeling, and that kind of calm could only be associated with Brookshire. 

Brookshire. You were in Brookshire and so was Natasha. You had left the castle for a trip. You were upset with Bucky and he had been touching you—your face in his gentle grip as his lips moved in panic. 

Darling, they were nothing compared to what I feel for you.

A groan escaped you as you finally found the muscles needed to move your head. The once dim sun now assaulted your eyes with an unfiltered harshness, and the sounds. The sounds. Each and every one left a throb at the base of your skull, building so much pressure you were sure it would explode. 

“Grab her. Quickly. She has a whole guard back there that’ll be coming for us if we don’t leave now.” 

“Think we oughta be fine, boss. The girl’s out of it and her side of the carriage flew past the rest. Plus, we got the gang back there keepin’ em company.” 

“That’s not just a girl, you fool. That’s the princess,” the first voice seethed. Your lashes fluttered at the malice it held. “Now grab her like I said or there won’t be any ransom for us, just the dungeons in that pretty little castle.” 

A grumble followed the command, punctuated by a pair of heavy feet kicking down from a horse. The sound reverberated in your mind and you knew you needed to move; Natasha had taught you better than this, her many lessons on how to survive if you somehow found yourself alone pushing to the forefront of your thoughts. 

You sat up with a dizzying effort, ignoring the aches in your body that would surely manifest as bruises later in the day. The motion seemed to stop the burly man in his tracks, his gaze snapping back to the angry one still on his horse. As you gripped the grass between your fingers, you attempted to form a coherent thought. 

“What—what do you want?” you slurred. Your dress was ripped down your shoulder, the breeze drafting past your skin. “Money? The crown will give you money.” 

The leaner man scoffed, his horse restless beneath him. “We already have money coming in. And we are not foolish enough to think your court would let us live after attacking you. Now grab her, Roger. Enough of this nonsense.” 

“I dunno, boss,” Roger posed, running a stocky hand through unkempt locks. “What if they give us more than those other people?” 

“You are simply mercenaries?” you choked out, trying to buy yourself time. Someone had to be coming soon. 

But the “boss” didn’t like your tactic. He narrowed his eyes at your form on the ground, the fire behind his piercing gaze making you shuffle back a few paces. He threaded a material between his fingers, rolling it back and forth, taunting you with it. Rope. He had rope and you had nothing but a bleeding head. 

“Funny,” he laughed, dry and sickening. “You call us ‘simply mercenaries’ but you find yourself helpless under our hands.” The boss kicked off of his horse, his wrinkled face puckered in distaste. “Royals are really nothing but pawns—empty husks to move around for benefit. And you, my dear princess, will benefit me greatly.” 

And it might have been pathetic, but your head was throbbing so terribly and you were so hopelessly alone and so you sobbed as he came near—a helpless sound, deep within your gut that sprang loose and consumed you. You tried backing up, tried to protect yourself with your battered arms, but what did you have against him? A single day’s worth of training and a newly freed spirit? 

Not enough to match two armed men. 

Not enough by any stretch of the imagination. 

But you still struggled against him; it might’ve been the last thing you ever did, but you still kicked and you bared your teeth as he shoved you against the dirt. Because you didn’t have much, but you’d be damned if you died the same way you lived—compliant and meek. You’d be damned if you allowed yourself to be whisked away to another hell.  

A knee pressed into your back, embedding a soreness into your spine that ran through your body. You groaned under its pressure, another sob held at the base of your throat as you battled with the feeling of desperation boring a hole into your being. 

“Stop. Moving,” the boss hissed. “Roger! Another rope.” 

Dirt in your mouth—gritty and bitter and ugly. You couldn’t remember a time in your life that you had fought this hard for something, and it briefly occurred to you that you might never get the chance again. That you might never get the chance for anything again. 

Anything good. 

Anything with Bucky. 

As if your thoughts were spoken aloud, a disruption in the foliage kept frozen hands glued to your newly bound wrists. A heartbeat of restless horses and an unforgiving breeze, and then it wasn’t silent anymore. There was an enraged scream filling the space instead. 

Natasha. 

Swords bashed with an unbridled fury. Grunts were plentiful but only among the men. You knew it was Natasha, simply because no one else would have fought so hard for you, so passionately.

She slid beneath their uncoordinated arms, aiming for their knees and catching your eye for long enough to make sure you were conscious as you laid still on the ground. When she confirmed that much, she was up again, and angry. 

You tugged against your confines, head still throbbing and bones still weak. Natasha shouldn’t be doing this alone, but you had no idea where the rest of the guard was. The smaller man, Roger, had mentioned more mercenaries. Had they taken out your entire guard? Did they have Bucky?

An icy panic crawled along the edges of your lungs, threatening to steal the labored breath from your body. The dirt in your mouth already stole your voice and the rope around your wrists stole your movement. And then, to make matters worse—to seal your fate and damn you to a lifetime of imprisonment—the ground started shaking again. 

At the sound, your hands were taken into a gruff, cruel grip. Your body was dragged up from the ground, a sharpened point at your back making your head pound. 

“Stop fighting or she gets it,” the boss commanded, his voice vile and hot at your ear. “We have dozens of men on their way. We get paid no matter what state she’s in.” 

Natasha’s sword was instantly an echo amongst rustling trees, her eyes calculating and cold as she took in every point of contact the man had with your skin. Horses could still be heard in the distance, but your heaving chest and the red-tint to your head was all she was focused on. 

Her voice alone was a threat as she growled, “You will pay for this with far worse than your lives.” 

The man simply tutted. “You seem to forget who has the upper hand here. And with—” he tugged you closer to his chest, the pressure making you nauseous “—the princess so comfortable here in my arms, it appears to be me.” 

You could hear the horses draw nearer as you struggled against him. You had no idea if they were on your side or theirs, but the futile tugs you continued to make at his iron grip bought more time for Natasha, and if that was all you could do, you’d do it. 

That didn’t mean the boss was going to like it. 

“Natasha!” a strangled voice called out from above the trample of hooves, halting the hand that had begun to tighten around your throat. “God, tell me you found her… Natasha!” 

Natasha’s eyes widened at the voice—Steve’s voice. Another one that wasn’t Bucky’s. You tried to ignore that fact when you were spun around to meet the devastated look on your cousin’s face as he took in the scene. Your head split open, Natasha’s weapons in the hands of some short, round mercenary, rough hands holding you captive; the grimace he held was more than warranted. 

But that look very quickly turned into a stoic anger. 

“Let her go and you live.” Hardly a request, not with his sword drawn and his eyes aflame with rage. 

Roger laughed, an abrupt harshness in the space. “You lot are a bunch of fools. Can’t you see we got our whole crew behind ya? And much more than that if you count the lads back in—” 

“Roger,” the boss seethed, and perhaps it would have startled you if you weren’t already desolate with fear at the dozen men that lined the trees behind Steve. The dozen of men that haughtily smirked at the sight of you being held captive. 

Your body sagged, all of the fight leaving you with the small falter in Steve’s stance. He could sense the men behind him, and even worse, he knew that there was very little he could do when he was so unnumbered. But you knew Steve, and Steve would fight until there was nothing left within him. Same with Natasha. 

You couldn’t let that happen. 

To be a royal was to sacrifice everything—love, family, yourself. It felt as if the only thing you could offer was the latter, and so you did. 

“Stop,” you choked out, the words filtered past an unrelenting grip on your neck. “Let them—let them both go and I’ll come with you. I will not resist.” 

“Y/n. Don’t,” Natasha hissed. You were sure if you could see her face, she would be glowering. 

You ignored her, along with the few steps Steve had taken toward your slumped form. “You have the upper hand as you’ve said. I may be a woman, but I am not blind to the vastness with which we are outnumbered. Spare them. Spare them and I will… I will be compliant.” 

Each word felt like fire in lungs; to give up your freedom was a fate worse than death, but you’d do much more to protect those you loved. You’d live a thousand lives in which a comfort so new and serene were to find you, only to have it ripped from your grasp with a shameless harshness if it meant their safety. Because to know that warmth and to watch it ice over like a summer turned to an immediate winter, to know seasons and to fear the impending cold… an eternal ice paled in comparison. And you had known both. 

“I will give you anything you want,” you continued, stressing each word the tighter the grip held around your body. “Anything. Please.” 

The boss hummed, his smile a brand on your skin. “Oh, how I love to hear you beg.” 

“I expect I will enjoy quite the same out of you.” 

Bucky’s voice was like a melody to your ears, pricking at your skin and delighting your senses even with the pain that still resided there. He was alive. He was alive and well enough to sound utterly enraged. More tears slipped past your cheeks at the realization; you’d cried enough over the past few days to last you a lifetime, it seemed. 

From behind you, you heard the subtle slide of Bucky’s blade against its sheath, followed quickly by the unsubtle intake of the boss’ breath. 

“Did none of you think to watch the Prince of Brookshire during your fight?” he barked over your head, but there was an unsteadiness to it now. 

“I believe you could watch me just fine,” Bucky taunted, voice low and so dark you almost couldn’t recognize it. “Now release her, slowly, and maybe I won’t kill you where you stand.” 

With a quick glance, you caught the silent conversation Natasha seemed to be having with Steve. Roger, with what little brain he seemed to covet, was too busy eyeing Bucky’s form to notice their slight, but purposeful, movements. You could almost see the plan between your friends’ narrowed eyes: get you into Bucky’s arms, and then all hell would break loose. Still vastly outnumbered, but with the royals safe.

You wanted to scream at them, to force them to allow you to just be taken instead, but Bucky was speaking again, and Natasha and Steve were too busy blocking you from the men in the trees to see your objections. 

“I said, release her. I already have your grave marked in blood for the attack alone. Do not fool yourself into thinking I will show mercy if she is injured any further.” 

The blade at your back stiffened, but didn’t relent. “You will not kill me,” the boss mocked. “My men would have no qualms with killing a prince. And not only are you alone—” his fingers left bruises on your neck. You choked. Bucky seethed. “—but if I were to die, you’d never learn who wanted your dear princess ten feet under.” 

“You mock my court’s abilities, put hands on my bride… I don’t care if you are the only source of information left on this earth. There is no reality in which I would allow you to take another breath.” 

A sound, so disgusting and wretched you were sure it would have you waking up in a cold sweat for days, boomed—echoed—in your ear. The boss gasped for what you assumed would be the final time, and the unmistakable slice of a blade followed. The heaviness upon your shoulders was instant, final. He was dead. 

Your lungs grappled for air as you fell, the dirt on your palms a welcomed alternative to the feel of that man’s grip on you. You expected to feel Bucky’s tender touch soon after, but war cries sounded off instead. From both sides. Your guard had survived, and they were here. 

Steve slid into view, panic stricken with quick hands and kind eyes, rushing you back until you were against a tree and away from battle. 

“Look at me, y/n. Don’t look over there,” he stressed. “Can you breathe for me? How Natasha taught you?” 

You felt cold now, an unforgiving chill seeping into your veins and stealing your comfort. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and Steve kept talking in between your rapid blinks. His brow was furrowed, his shoulders tense. He looked the same as he had when he bid you goodbye all those months ago, the fear of leaving you alone in Hyland shown on his face. 

Your head tilted to the side as you took him in, but still, none of his words made sense. 

Perhaps you were stuck this way; with the sound of the boss’ final breaths on a loop in your mind, unable to break free of the ache that consumed you, blind to the battle slowly dissipating in the trees. Perhaps this is what became of those that couldn’t protect themselves. Perhaps… you were dead. 

You would certainly believe that. 

But something else was calling to you, making you certain that you couldn’t be dead. Not yet. It was kind and gentle, but held an edge that had you straining your ears to hear it—an urgency. A plea. 

“Y/n,” it called. Underwater, maybe. “Darling, please.” 

You gripped at the roots of the tree under your fingers, wrapping around the cracked bark and squeezing as if you had the strength to break it. It splintered some in your hands; it scratched the indents on your skin and made sounds beneath your fingernails. Solid sounds.

“My beautiful girl.” The same voice. “Come back.” 

Your next blink was disorienting, the light filtering through stagnant branches finding a way into your eyes. You went to take a look back at Steve, to let him see that you were at least able to hear something over the heavy ringing in your ears, when you weren’t met with Steve at all. 

Dark hair was wild behind a strong face, billowing out and wisping with the wind. But it did little to compete with the blue hues skimming worried traces across your face. Like the currents of the sea Bucky had offered to you, those blues pulled you in, their softness and vibrance not lost, even after so much anger had been held within them, so much fear. 

You wanted to slip into the shade—to disappear as you had moments ago and be lost. A touch on your cheek stopped you, jerking you out of your trance and allowing you to make a connection to the man kneeling before you. 

“Bucky?” you breathed. 

His sigh was overcome with relief as he leaned forward to press his head to yours. And as he held it there, a pained whisper met your lips. “Thank god.” 

He pulled away almost as quickly as he had leaned in, scanning your face further and titling your head in his hands. “Where else are you hurt?” he asked, as if his own skin wasn’t littered with more bruises and cuts than you would obtain in your entire lifetime. 

One particular gash along his eyebrow had you reaching up, ignoring his question.  

“Your head,” you strained. Your voice felt unfamiliar. “It’s bleeding.” 

Bucky’s face softened, an unbearably choked laugh escaping him, closer to a sob. “So is yours.” 

You brushed past his touch and rested your forehead to his shoulder, a wave of exhaustion sweeping through you. He placed his hand on your back, wide and comforting and everything you were about to have torn from you just a moment ago. 

“I don’t mind,” you mumbled. 

Bucky curved his hand along your spine, his lips by your ear as he whispered, “I do.” 

You fell asleep to the sound of Natasha and Steve discussing some second guard on the way, a carriage and more swords. You woke up only for a moment to the feeling of being carried. The descent never came. 

~~

The room was lonely, the crackling hearth the only sound that resonated within it. Natasha had fallen asleep ages ago, her body tired and folded onto the chair by your bedside. You had told her many times that she could go back to her own room, enjoy a rest after such a gruesome day, but she ignored you. 

After the healers had wrapped your head and assessed your bruises, you were sentenced to a week of bedrest. You hardly thought you needed it; knights walked away with injuries much worse than yours and were back on the training grounds the next day. But you were a princess, and as much as Brookshire awarded you your freedom, some things would always stay the same. 

Of course, you would listen to them, but at this moment, with Natasha’s eyes certainly glued shut, you were restless.

It had been hours, and Bucky hadn’t made a single trip into your room. You didn’t notice at first, with how many people were bustling in and out, but it was painfully obvious now that you were left alone with your thoughts. Just yesterday you were wishing him away, and now, you wanted nothing more than his voice at your door. 

You weren’t sure if you forgave him, but there were things left to say—assurances you still desired. 

Answers you needed. 

Your legs were wobbly as you slipped them from your bed sheets. The frame beneath your mattress creaked, and you paused with wide eyes when Natasha stirred. Luckily, she did not wake, but your heart was then pounding with your head as you tiptoed to the door. 

You didn’t recognize the guard at your room, nor the one at Bucky’s, so slipping past them without conversation was hardly a struggle. You tugged your robe tighter around your body, felt the cold of the hallway through your thin slippers, and knocked at his door. 

He answered it far quicker than you thought he would; you expected him to be asleep, or maybe reading in bed. But the swiftness with which the hinges creaked had you questioning whether he may have been pacing the room. His disheveled appearance definitely made it seem that way. 

“Princess,” he greeted, running a bandaged hand through his hair to tame the curls. “Are you well? Did you need anything?” 

You sunk back on your heels, fingers clasped behind your back. “I am fine. As fine as I can be, given—” 

“You should be resting. In bed.” 

“And you shouldn’t? It looks to me that you haven’t even changed out of what we traveled in.” 

Bucky shifted in the doorway, looking awkward as his hands twitched at his sides. “I am… I am more accustomed to battle.” 

You took your lip in between your teeth, letting your gaze wash over his candlelit features. He was tense and rigid and stubborn, but more than that, he was concerned, his brow low and his eyes never leaving the bandage on your head. Although, you weren’t sure how concerned he could have been when hadn’t even come to check on you once. 

A slight breeze drafted through the hall. You spoke.

“Can I come in?” 

He waited a beat. “Of course you can.” 

You almost regretted it the second you stepped into the room. It was charming, as expected; candlelit desks and books strewn about, drapes that billowed in the balmy night air, a bed with blue covers and portraits of his family on the walls. And by the balcony, a rug. 

You stepped over it when you walked to the chairs by the fireplace, avoiding the material even when it held little significance. You wondered, for a moment, if Bucky caught your evasion—if he would even understand what it meant. 

When he stood in its center and watched you play with your fingers by the fire, you knew he missed it all. 

The words left you before you could help it. “That’s where she kissed you,” you said, eyes glued to his feet on the carpet. “The doors were open.” You looked up, observing the gardens from beyond the glass doors and brass handles. 

Bucky’s feet met stone faster than you could blink. The air was awkward after that, an unspeakable damage looming between you after so many days of ignorance. You wanted him to speak up, to say something, but it was obvious that he was giving you this time. That after his speech in the carriage and your lingering question, it was your turn to voice your thoughts. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Not yet.

You swayed a bit as a log popped in the fireplace. Bucky reached out for you. 

“You should sit, princess. Your head is still—”

You were the one to cut him off this time. “You did not come to see me.” Your eyes finally snapped to his. “While the healers were there, you did not come.” 

His lips parted. A tree groaned from the gardens, and then, “I did not want to bother you. I did not mistake your earlier relief for forgiveness.” 

“I could’ve been dead.” 

“I was being updated every few minutes.” 

An explanation for the clothes, then, and the speed with which he answered the door. But there couldn’t have been many updates within the last stretch of time; the healers had left your room over an hour ago, claiming that you were out of the woods and in need of rest. 

Bucky must have stayed by the door, anyway. You remembered the panic that had briefly crossed his features when he first came into view, the desperation. Had he assumed your condition changed? Would he have raced to your room, helpless and aching and inconsolable? 

You didn’t let your mind wander too far; you simply hummed in response instead, and the sound was loud in the room, vibrating. 

Bucky shifted his weight between his feet and let out a long breath through his nose. To others, the sound could be translated as annoyance. To you, it was a painful pause, a switch in his demeanor. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to fix this.” 

“Do you want to fix it?” 

The atmosphere went stiff, Bucky wincing at the insinuation, his hair falling against his brow. He looked almost hurt that you would suggest such a thing, so you stumbled over your words to explain yourself. 

“Would it not be easier—“ you began, raising a shoulder in a small sort of defeat. “—to simply play our parts? Perhaps this mess was proof that people like us aren’t meant to reach for more. Perhaps… you would be happier pursuing women that come with less pressure.” 

The words burned as they left you; they singed your lips and your throat and, most notably, your heart. 

You didn’t want things to be easy, you wanted Bucky. You wanted to hold him and for him to kiss you, even when doors were shut. You wanted the love people said your parents had, the kind that stole your breath and promised warmth, even on the coldest days. You wanted the impossible, perhaps more than anything you had ever wanted in your life. 

But you still hurt, and with that hurt came words that needed to be said, propositions that needed to be made clear. It didn’t matter that the man you were sure you might love looked destroyed at the prospect; you had felt destroyed just days ago, and there was no room in your life for more of that. 

So you stood firm as his eyes searched yours. You held your head high, even as he approached you so slowly you could hardly notice the movement. 

“Y/n,” Bucky began. Your name on his lips always sparked something within you, because it was so rare. “You must understand, you have ruined me.” 

Your head jerked in objection, the argument quick to bubble up in your chest. He stopped you before you could utter a single word, stepping forward until you could feel the heat of him. 

“I mean that in the realest sense. You have ruined me. I cannot fathom a world in which I could stand you being so close and yet completely out of my reach. And to even suggest that another woman would be worth—“ 

“Bucky—“ 

“I love you. I know you say it is impossible, that I couldn’t because you aren’t even sure of who you are yourself. But if that is the truth—if you look in the mirror and find yourself at a loss—then I want to spend the rest of my life introducing you to her. To the woman that glows beside me, even when she doesn’t believe she is allowed to. The one that makes me laugh and steals the breath from my very chest and shows me that no, she isn’t the woman I dreamt up as a boy. She is better.” 

Bucky paused at the silver lining your eyes, reaching up to brush his hand along your cheek. “I also want to spend the rest of my life apologizing for the pain I caused you. When you came here I promised you a lifetime of happiness. I failed you. But if you allow it, I promise, you will never feel that way again. I will never let those who threaten your joy into this castle again.” 

You shook your head, the prince’s fingers gliding past your bandaged head and along your hairline. “My happiness does not come before treaties—before kingdoms,” you argued. 

Another hand came up to encase your head, and you finally felt a sense of safety after so much fear. Bucky’s eyelashes fluttered as he held you there, as if he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by your proximity. As if you were the one that had just proclaimed such a hearty love. 

“Your happiness,” he whispered, his thumb gently passing over your trembling lip. “Is what brings mine.” 

You touched him, grip timid and light around his wrists. There were so many emotions that you couldn’t assign labels to, so many dips and jolts throughout your body that were sending you ablaze. Bucky was looking at you with no expectations, only clear, unbridled hope; and you’d be lying if you said you felt none of it yourself. 

“I do not think I have forgiven you just yet,” you spoke, blinking up at his softened expression. 

“I understand—“ 

“But I… I want to do something.” 

“Anything.” His voice was a wisp of disbelief, at what you couldn’t tell. 

Your next breath was nervous and shaky, and Bucky’s eyes widened as you rolled up to your toes. Your hands slid from his wrists to rest on his chest, the trembling in your fingers obvious against his wrinkled tunic. But you ignored it, instead feeling the warmth of the prince’s own hands as they covered yours with steady palms. 

The distance between you was so small, but held an insurmountable meaning; you’d never been kissed, and just days ago, his lips had been on another’s. Not by choice, but the image was still impressed upon your eyelids and would be for some time. 

So the space between you, it was something new—something you had been waiting for and something that had nothing to do with jealous queens or meddlesome friends. 

Your lips parted, and Bucky watched the movement. “I asked you before why you didn’t want to kiss me. Do you remember?” 

“Yes,” he spoke, as if he was catching his breath. His gaze hadn’t left your mouth, and you could feel his heart hammering beneath your fingertips. 

You leaned closer. Bucky stood still. 

“Is there truly a reason? Or would you object to me—”

On par with the evening, you didn’t get to finish your question. You didn’t get to finish because, instead, your words were lost in Bucky’s lips. And in his breath and his hands and the way he groaned against you.  

You had nothing to compare it to, but even so, you could tell it was a hungry kiss. Fingers kneaded into your skin as if you’d disappear. Bucky’s neck craned as he fought to press closer to you. You gripped the thin material of a tunic in between your fingers, surprising even yourself as you yanked and yanked until the prince was prone to you. 

There were no thoughts demeaning you for not knowing how to kiss, no cruel voices demanding that you stop. There was only Bucky and this kiss that belonged to you. 

All too quickly—although it could have been hours and you wouldn’t have been the wiser—Bucky pulled away, resting his forehead to yours with a gentle caution. The space between you was now filled with labored breaths and relief, the latter clear in the soft circles being rubbed into your back. 

“I have wanted to kiss you from the second you stepped foot in this court,” he assured. “I have wanted nothing more than to press you against every wall within this castle and finally learn what sounds you would grace upon my lips. But if I had scared you away, I never would have forgiven myself. You mean more to me than stolen moments in hidden alcoves. You are my future.” 

“Can I not have both?” 

His smile was so fond as he took you in, the hand along your spine smoothing up to your shoulder blades. He brushed his nose against yours. In the days you hadn’t seen him, you had forgotten how much the simple smell of him brought you comfort. How the warm citrus and cool morning air enveloped you and made you lighter. 

“I will see what I can do.” 

He kissed you again, softer than the first time, tender against your lips. And you let him. 

Later, you would talk about the attack. You would listen while Bucky smoothed your hair down and told you that your guard hadn’t gotten any information—not yet. Roger had been taken captive and was being questioned, but there was little hope that he was privy to anything of value. 

And you would worry and stress and fear, but for now, you let Bucky kiss you. 

[boxofbonesfic]

here’s lookin’ at you, kid

Title: here’s lookin’ at you, kid

part 1|| part 2

Pairing: Chef!Bucky x Aspiring Chef!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Kitchens are loud and hot, but you’ve never minded that. Never minded the burnt fingers, and cut hands. What you do mind is Chef Barnes, the cocky talent that put Black Adder Brewery on the map. You’re even less used to hating someone quite this much, but you’re sure, somehow, you’ll manage—if you don’t stab him first.

Warnings: THE SMUT HAS ARRIVED, kitchen typical misogyny, Bucky being way too full of himself, light hazing, enemies to lovers, fluff, a little angst, light love triangle, hate-sex! (specific to this chapter), unprotected sex

A/N: inspired by this headcanon i wrote!! hello my lovelies! Part 3 is here, and I couldn’t be more excited to share it because, well… the smut has finally landed. I know I made you all wait two whole chapters (very uncharacteristic for me, but hey), so please enjoy, and as always, please let me know what you think in the comments and reblogs!! 😘

This is a work of FICTION, and there will be ADULT themes and content included therein, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! MINORS, DNI!

🔪Those poor potatoes. Or, the one where you christen the walk-in.🔪

You watch nervously as Clint lifts the fork to his lips, and you hide your hands behind your back so he doesn’t see your twitching. He chews slowly, thoughtfully, licking the peach juice from his lips. 

 “That is damn good.” He takes another bite, and you release the breath you were holding. He looks up at you, nodding as he chews. “Christ, kid, what’d you put in here? Coke?” He jokes. “And the cream—perfect consistency.” He stops talking to you abruptly, and leans around the counter to see who else is in the kitchen. “Hey, Bruce, man, you gotta try this,” He points down at the cake with his fork. “Kid made it at home.” 

 You don’t like kid, but it’s better than short-stack. Bruce is stirring something in a pot as he walks over, holding the handle with one hand and the whisk with the other. “Can’t stop.” He offers by way of explanation, before Clint holds out a forkful of cake. “Holy shit. Oh you’ve got to get Bucky to try this. There’s enough, right?” At the mention of Chef’s name, you blanch. You’ve got more than half a cake left, and the wild urge to throw it out to avoid the entire situation altogether crosses your mind. 

 “Yeah, of course.” You say, instead of marching to the walk-in to accidentally on purpose throw it on the floor. You don’t even want to see Bucky, not after the night before. Plus, you’re not quite sure where you stand anymore. People greet you warmly when they enter, and for once you aren’t invisible. 

 “What, we eatin’ cake over here?” Sam’s voice makes your cheeks burn, but you keep your face neutral as you turn and step aside with a flourish. 

 “Ask and you shall receive,” You joke, and he pokes a third fork into the plate. His eyes roll back as he tastes it, groaning. 

 “Damn, girl. That is… that is something else.” Sam’s praise makes warmth bloom in your belly, but you hate the rogue thought that echoes at the forefront of your mind. What would Bucky think? Clint frowns, and tugs the plate away protectively, knocking Sam’s fork aside with his own. “Hey now, hold up, let me get a little more of that—”

 “Go cut your own,” Clint grouses. “I want mine.” Bruce pokes his head around the range to interject offendedly. 

 “Wait, there’s more cake?” The entire kitchen erupts when you carefully carry the remaining half a cake out of the walk in and set it on the main counter. It’s just your luck that as you’re cutting it, Bucky walks in. He doesn’t say anything, but you hear the door, and you just know King Asshole has entered the room. Don’t turn. Don’t say a goddamn thing. 

 “Got treats for the class, short-stack?” He asks, leaning against the counter. His eyes flick up to Clint, who waves at him with the fork. Your eyes dart between Chef and the plate of cake Clint is holding, and you’re not sure which is worse. The anticipation of him finally trying something you’ve made, or the fact that he fucking kissed you. 

 “You need to taste this, Chef.” he motions at it, and then makes a kissing face. Bucky looks at you expectantly, and you move to cut him a slice. You put it on one of the small app plates, and he grabs a clean tasting fork from the cup next to the expo station, and digs in. You hate the way you’re reminded of how soft his lips are as he wraps them around the tasting fork, his tongue flicking against the metal to catch spare drips of clotted cream and peach. How heated and demanding his kiss was. You hate the way your heart hammers in your chest with anticipation, the way you can’t look anywhere else as his eyelids droop and he chews and swallows slowly, savoring each taste. You see his eyebrows rise a fraction in surprise as he looks down at the plate. 

 “You made this?” he asks, looking back up at you. You feel your chest swell a little with pride. 

 “Yes, Chef.” 

 He wrinkles his nose. “It’s good. Cake’s a little dry though.” 

 You fucking son of a bitch. 

 He’s not smirking, but his eyes shine like he is. “The peaches are a nice touch, though. Tasty.” He nods at you, before jerking his head toward the dish pit. “Play your position kid.” You’d been hopeful that after everything, maybe—just maybe—he’d let go of his irrational hatred of you (perhaps not completely irrational, but still). Clearly he hadn’t, and seeing other people enjoy your food seemed to spark it even further. You uncurl your fingers from the counter stiffly, and answer with a curt nod as you pull the clear plastic apron over your head. 

 “Actually… I need her.” Clint interjects. You watch the YES printed on Bucky’s left knuckle bulge as he clenches his fist. “I want to make that for the special dessert tonight. Maybe we can do something about her sponge.” You wait with baited breath. Clint is sticking his neck out for you, and you can tell Bucky is weighing the decision to swing the axe down or not. His steely eyes skip over Clint to rest heavily on you, and you know he’s trying to see whether or not he can get away with denying the reasonable request. 

 The anger in his eyes makes uncomfortable heat flare in your belly. 

 “If it doesn’t sell, you’re eating the cost,” Bucky says at last, his voice tight. He sneers at you. “I guess you’re on dessert, kid.” You hadn’t brought your knives, but a victory was a victory nonetheless, and you beamed at him before abandoning your dish-apron in the pit with Peter.

 Clint is waiting for you at the dessert station, and he gestures at his tools. “What’s mine is yours.”

 “Thank you,” You say immediately. “I mean, for everything. I’d be over in dish right now if it weren’t for you.” He shakes his head. 

 “Don’t mention it. Buck’s got a real bee up his bonnet, but we’ll get that out before too long. Hate to see a young talent go wasted.”

 “Especially when it’s going to do your work for you,” You retort, giggling. Clint chuckles at you. 

 “Let’s get started, we open in four hours, kid. Cakes aren’t gonna bake themselves.” 

 So you did. You baked three cakes—sixteen slices each. You grilled the peaches in slices on the range, before you put them into the walk-in to cool. You showed Clint how to make your special clotted cream—and a vegan version, just for kicks. By the time you were done assembling the last cake, your face was smudged with flour, and dinner was only an hour away. You’d made it, but only barely. 

 You were reminded of that old fairytale, the one where the girl had to spin rooms of straw into precious gold—you felt like that. And you’d succeeded. You’d quietly—humiliated—asked Clint what you could do about your sponge cake recipe—and he’d laughed outright. 

 “Nothing.” He replied gruffly, slicing strawberries for his crepes. “It’s fine the way it is.” 

 You watched Scott carefully carry it out to the display case, where it would be kept cool all night until someone sliced into it. You wiped the sweat from your forehead, uncaring when you noticed the streak of flour across the back of your hand. You glanced up to see Bucky—he was chatting animatedly with Bruce about something, gesticulating wildly. He’d been watching you all day, peering over your shoulder as you mixed, coming over to “check” on something with Clint, all while the heavy weight of his gaze rested on your shoulders. 

 “Cakes look amazing, kid.” Clint replies from beside you, clapping you loudly on the back. “Don’t worry, they’re gonna sell.” he says, as if somehow reading your anxious thoughts. “Let’s see if they need any help over in cold-prep.” 

 🔪

 For the first time in about a goddamn month, you hold a knife. It’s not your knife, but that’s okay, you’re just happy to heft its weight in your hand, hear the satisfying thunk as you cut a paper thin strip of rutabaga. You peek over your shoulder, hoping Peter isn’t getting too overwhelmed over in dish by himself—but he’s fine. He’s weirdly strong for such a slim guy, and he moves with prenatural speed and grace.

  You turn your attention back to the root vegetable roses you’re making, assisting Vis—short for Vision, apparently?—who’d gotten rather caught up in the beautiful construction of his roses, and not considered the time. He mumbles his thanks to you, and you smile, giving him a thumbs up. You can feel Bucky’s eyes on you, and you can’t help but twist the knife, just a little. 

 “I play my position, Vis.” You reply cheerfully. The mandolins aren’t graceful enough, don’t provide thin enough cuts, he says when you ask why you’re not using those instead. It’s a load of shit to you, but you’re happy enough to help him get the job done. When you’re finished, there are almost twelve full sheet trays of little vegetable roses, and you watch Vision sprinkle his own seasoning blend on each of them, after brushing them gently with olive oil. 

 “I need those damn roses, Vis!” Bucky’s voice rings out loudly amongst all the other noise, and you see Vision roll his eyes. You snicker. 

 “They’re coming, Chef!” He hands you a tray. “Take this to the line. Tell them five minutes under the broiler for each one. Got that?” You nod—easy enough to remember. And you’re itching to see the line, with Bucky’s attitude, this might be the closest to the action you ever get. You’re not foolish enough to think that his ego’s been cowed enough to allow you a permanent place of importance in his kitchen. 

 You heft the tray onto your shoulder, expertly weaving through the organized chaos of the kitchen, dodging servers and other chefs as you make your way towards the line. “Behind!” you shout as you turn sideways, stepping foot over foot as you move down. “Chef, I have your roses. Twenty on a tray, five minutes in the broiler.” You hate him and he hates you, but it doesn’t matter now, not when there are plates being made, when there are garnishes to put on and sauces to taste and tables waiting. 

 It’s almost like you forget it as you look obediently up at him, waiting for direction. His face too, is void of the dislike that usually lines his features when he looks at you. “Take those down to Ray, have him fire them. Bring me two more.” He turns away from you, his fingers flying over the plate as he positions and swipes and sprinkles. You continue down the line, handing off the tray and going for another.

 You were finally back in your element, and for the first time since you started at Adder, you don’t go out for a smoke with Peter when he waggles the cigarette carton at you. You don’t think your night can get any better—and then it does. Sam bursts through the doors, holding an empty cake tray. 

 “I need another one of those cakes! I’m out!” He grins at you. “Looks like it was a hit after all.” His sunkissed eyes wrinkle at the corners as his smile widens. “I knew it would be.” Your cheeks burn as you head for the pastry fridge, carefully sliding another cake from the shelf. The only way your cake could be selling this quickly is if someone was getting a piece at every table—which was…Christ. I’m gonna have to call mom. You replace the cake on the shelf so you don’t drop it as you do a little happy dance, whooping loudly in the semi-soundproofed space of the walk in. 

 “FUCK YES!” 

 You bring Sam another cake an hour and a half later, and then another—and then you’re out. You’re completely out of fucking cake. Your heart hammers in your chest as Chef declares the kitchen closed and everyone starts cleaning up. Sam brings the cake stand back into the kitchen, and there’s just enough left for the entire staff—sans King Asshole—to stand over it. They pick at the carcass of your once beautiful—though still delicious—confection like vultures, about a million forks clanging against the glass as they each sought out the perfect bite. 

 Chef Barnes watches hatefully from across the room, but not even the dark cloud hanging over his head can dull your good mood. Peter loops an arm through yours, and waggles his eyebrows at you. 

 “I really think you should come outside.” He shakes the cigarette carton, and as you’re telling him you don’t smoke anymore, Sam pokes his elbow into your side. 

 “No, you really should.” 

 You leave your coworkers to continue cleaning the cake plate as you stride outside with Sam and Peter. It’s easy to be with Sam when there are other people around, and he hasn’t said anything about the kiss—taking it all in stride. You’re glad for it, and you feel just a little bad that he was caught in the drunken crossfire of your battle with Barnes. They peek around before Peter shakes a cigarette out of his carton—your eyes narrow. Not a cigarette, a joint. 

 You grin. 

 You’re probably outside too long, but you don’t care when you walk back into the kitchen, your throat raspy and your head buzzing. When you return, Clint looks at you with an amused grin, and simply directs you to start breaking down the pastry station and take your dirty dishes over to Peter. You dump them into the slop sink, and when you turn, Bucky is behind you. 

 “I’d like to chat.” 

 I bet you would. “Sure.” 

 “Sure Chef.” He corrects you as he turns on his heel and heads for the hallway with the offices and all of the walk-ins. You stick your tongue out at his back—of course. It’s closing time, so your grace period has ended. Clock’s struck twelve, Cinderella. Your fairytale is done-zo. 

 He stops in front of the far produce walk-in, far enough away that no one will overhear. “What did you change?” He asks you, his voice accusing and aggressive. You narrow your eyes. 

 “Excuse me?”

 “What did you change?” He repeats angrily, and you scowl up at him. 

 “Nothing, Chef.” You spit mockingly. “I didn’t change anything.” You glory in the shock on his face as he mutters “gonna kill Clint” under his breath. It’s the weed that’s loosened your inhibitions, and you blame it fully for the words that leave you next. “Looks like it wasn’t dry after all.” You can tell immediately that you’ve gone too far, but Kara isn’t here to drag you away like with the tomato, and there are no interlopers to provide a buffer as he pushes you into the walk-in. You yelp as you stumble inside, almost tripping on the slick floor. Most of the produce has already been put away for the night, and you try not to knock over anything placed precariously on the shelves by people just trying to get out and get home. 

 You see Bucky pull the latch behind him, effectively sealing you in. “You’re a real bitch, you know that?” He says, crossing the small room in two strides. You’re pressed against the boxes of potatoes in the back, his finger poking accusingly into your chest. 

 “And you’re an asshole.” You spit back, knocking his hand away with your own. He catches your wrist, and suddenly you’re pulled against him as his mouth finds yours with an angry growl. You’re kissing him back just as fiercely, your teeth tugging at his fucking pillow soft bottom lip. “Fuck.” he curses against your lips, pulling away as his hand creeps underneat the hem of your loose chef’s jacket. The snaps come undone easily, and then you’re in your bra in the cool, humming air of the walk-in. His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate a little as his eyes hungrily trace the cocoa-butter soft smoothness of your exposed skin. 

 Not to be outdone, you tug his apron down and he steps out of it, shedding the simple t-shirt he wears underneath. He is, of course, allowed to break the rules—everyone else has to wear a chef’s jacket, but he gets away with a t-shirt over his kitchen pants. You run your hand up the muscular planes of his chest, and he growls again, pushing you back as he kicks your legs apart. You land on the box of potatoes with a soft oof, but Bucky’s not paying that any mind. 

 “Fuckin’ mouthy little brat.” He breathes, brushing his thumbs across the taut pebbles of your nipples underneath the lace of your bra. He cups them, testing the weight of each in his hands as his teeth sink into his lower lip. “Told you to change it.” He tugs the cups down and your breasts spill out into his waiting hands. He groans.

 “Cake was fine,” You say defiantly, a breathy little pant escaping you when he bends his head to catch one of your nipples between his lips, tugging at it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. “My cake—ah—sold out.” You reminded him. He tugs again, and you whine. 

 “Doesn’t matter.” He says sharply, looking up at you with those steel-blue eyes, a curl of chestnut dark hair falling across his forehead. “You do what I tell you.” He licks a hot stripe between your breasts and up your throat, where he nips your skin. You moan, your toes curling as your kitchen clogs slide off of your feet. You bury one hand in his hair as you drag his lips up to yours, and the other draws thin red lines down his chest. 

 “Just admit you were wrong,” You mutter against his lips, and he snarls against you, thrusting his tongue into your mouth to shut you up. He gathers your wrists easily in one hand, pinning them above you as he thrusts the other into the loose waistband of your pants. Your thighs are slick already, and he grins triumphantly. 

 “Not wrong about you needing a stiff dick, though, was I short-stack?” He asks mockingly, pulling your panties aside to slide a thick finger through your messy folds. “Fuck, way that you’re sucking at me says you haven’t had anyone give it to you good in a while, ‘s’that right, doll?” God you hate the way his grin widens when you lie and shake your head. “Oh baby. You shoulda’ told me sooner.” His fingers prod at your entrance, and he curses at your tightness. “I’d have fucked you that first day.” 

 “Oh fuck,” you moan, your voice still harsh from the weed earlier. “Fuck, gonna cum, fuck—” He chuckles darkly in your ear. 

 “Oh yeah, baby? You gonna cum?” He slows down, and you let out a frustrated groan, hips bucking as his fingers slip almost completely from your core. “Tell you what. Next time I fuckin’ tell you to do something, you’re gonna say yes Chef, and you’re gonna do it, right?” He’s breathing hard, and you can feel his cock pressing against your hip through both your clothes. You’re desperate, trying to force your hips down onto his fingers as he teases you. “Why don’t we practice now, doll? Say it.”

 “Yes Chef,” You gasp, and he thrusts his fingers back in with an approving grunt. 

 “Good girl. Again.” 

 “Y-yes Chef!” 

 You’re used to vulgar men in the back of house, but this takes the cake, filth spilling from his lips as he stretches you around his fingers. His thick, calloused thumb flicks hard against your clit and a gurgle escapes your lips. Your head falls back against the boxes and then his mouth is on yours again, his tongue thrusting between your lips to swallow the wail you loose as you soak his hand. Your pussy sucks hard at his fingers and your entire body convulses. You’re sure you’d have slid right to the floor if not for the cage of his muscular arms. Your brain is fried, and even though you’re not trying to, mumbled pants of “yes Chef” keep falling from your trembling mouth. 

 He tugs your hips forward with one hand as the other tugs down the elastic of his waistband. You lick your lips at the sight of his cock, swollen and throbbing with a glistening streak of precum down the side. On his hip, in the same script as his YES CHEF tattoos, you spy the words EAT IT. He rubs the tip through your folds and groans. “Shit, you liked that, didn’t you doll?” You whine in response. “Been wanting me to wreck this tight cunt since you started, s’that right?” 

 Your brain was still on autopilot, and you nodded eagerly, your hips pushing up hungrily as he slapped the head of his cock against your pussy. “Y-yes,” You mumble, and he repeats the motion before sliding against your clit. 

 “Yes Chef.” He corrects you again snidely, though you take pleasure in the rough, grating tone his voice takes on as he tries to maintain his cool control. “Say it.” You open your mouth to reply, but the scathing retort fizzles on your tongue as the throbbing head of his cock pushes against the tight, wet opening of your pussy. He’s thick, so thick the stretch of his entry is almost painful and you release a gurgling moan in the back of your throat as the words he wants to hear tumble from your lips in a drawn out breath. 

 “Ye-es Che-ef,” it falls from you in a groan. Your back is pressed uncomfortably against the boxes, your pants around your ankle as he hooks your thigh around his hip, seating himself even further inside you. You’re so full, it’s too much and not enough and it feels so good you’re fucking melting. He places a hand on your belly and grins at you.

 “You feel me all the way up here, don’t you, doll?” He pulls out slow, only to bottom out again quickly, leaving you gasping. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so good.” he pants, and you can feel his cock throbbing as he fills you to bursting with heavy, measured thrusts. You couldn’t control your volume anymore, your cries bouncing off of the cool walls. You cant remember a single time you’ve ever felt this full, felt the same spine-tingling pleasure that makes your eyes roll and your toes curl against the plastic floor-mats. 

 He releases your wrists only for his rough hands to find purchase on your hips, pulling you against him as he thrusts wetly into you. You’re not usually a repeat performer, but you can feel yourself tightening around him, the heat he’s eagerly stoking at your core threatening to overwhelm you again. He knows it too, and he catches your lips in a snarl, teeth sinking into the delicate flesh as your walls flutter and pulse around his cock. 

 “Can feel you squeezin’ me, doll, you gonna cum again? Gonna soak this fucking cock?” He’s fucking you hard, the head of his cock punching against your cervix as you sob against his shoulder. 

 “Yes Chef, yes Chef, yes Chef—” you don’t care that it’s humiliating, that it’s a mockery of what’s meant to be a respectful working relationship—all you can concentrate on is the white hot pleasure rocketing down every one of your nerve endings. If your first orgasm was powerful, this one is herculean, crashing over you with so much force that your entire body shakes and your toes go a little numb. Your loud, shrill cry is muffled by his shoulder, and you don’t think twice about sinking your teeth into his flesh as you whimper. Your pussy is sucking hungrily at him, and wetness gushes out to coat your thighs. He hisses at the pain, and his hips stutter against you. 

 “Aw, fuck, gonna make me bust, doll—” he sputters, groaning and gasping as he barely manages to pull out of your cunt with a wet sucking noise, thick jets of his spend shooting across your belly. He’s panting, and you watch—mesmerized—as he rubs it into your skin with surprisingly gentle hands. You’re a mess, your hair loose from the bandanna and falling around your sweaty face. You’re almost afraid to move, afraid to break the silence, but luckily, someone else does it for you. 

 You both jump at the sound of the bang and the muffled curse. “What the hell…?” it’s Bruce’s voice. He’s usually among the last to leave, and you wonder if there’s no more room in the other walk-ins for his leftovers. “Someone in here?” 

 “Shit.” Bucky curses, fumbling his softening cock back into his pants. You urgently shoved your other leg back into your pants, and Bucky motions at you impatiently to hurry up as he clears his throat. “Yeah, knocked some stuff over. Didn’t want it rolling out into the hall.” You rise from the—now crushed—box of potatoes, and your cheeks heat as you see your wetness shining slickly against the cardboard. Bucky sees it too, and for a moment he looks far too pleased with himself before ripping it off and tipping the box, sending potatoes rolling everywhere. You’re still snapping the buttons closed on your jacket when he wrenches the door open, warm air flooding inside. 

 You’re on your knees, picking up potatoes with trembling fingers as you peek up at Bruce’s face. You hope you don’t look too obvious, but he only glances your way before heading to the back rack. 

 “Damn, those were good potatoes too.” Bruce says, clucking his tongue. Bucky shrugs, the callous mask firmly back in place. 

 “Kid knocked ‘em over putting stuff away. Keep tellin’ her she needs to watch herself.” Your stomach curdles as he blames you, and you know you have no choice but to shoulder it—after all, it’s not him who’ll incur Steve’s wrath for decidedly untoward activities in the produce fridge. You glare up at him hatefully, and he blows you a kiss over Bruce’s shoulder. You know this is your punishment for your success, and it makes the taste of it just a little bitter in your throat. 

 Bucky doesn’t even stay to help you clean up. 

 It takes you thirty more minutes to track down every last spare potato and throw them into the trash. You’re a little sore, and you can feel the sticky evidence of Bucky’s loss of control—and your own—between your thighs. You’re the last one to leave tonight, so you make sure everything is locked and closed and off before making your way past the office. 

 “Short-stack.” You jump at his voice, and nervousness churns in your belly. You look up to see him behind Steve’s desk, his face illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp. He puts down the papers in his hands as he addresses you, those eyes resting heavily on your form. You reluctantly meet his gaze, the frown etched permanently onto your face as you regard him. 

 “Yes, Chef?” you wince as you recall how needily you said it earlier. 

 “Play your position.” He grins at you wickedly. “See you tomorrow. And we’ll see if we can’t do something about that sponge.” 

[omg-just-peachy]

honey, honey | sambucky

prompt #24 (honey) from this prompt list

1.2k, sickfic bc when in doubt, my brain will always default to sickfics / some version of hurt/comfort <3

****

Bucky’s half asleep on the couch, trying not to think about the fact that his throat feels like he’s swallowed glass. Or fire. Or glass lit on fire, if such a thing was possible. He winces at the thought, then forces his eyes closed, willing himself to sleep.

It doesn’t work like this, he knows. He’d tried plenty of times over the years, when his mind was hardly his own, and all he’d wanted was an escape. Now, things are hardy that bad, even though he’s pretty sure he has the cold from hell. Bucky's too wired to sleep for longer than a half an hour at a time, his head is throbbing with congestion, and his throat is so sore he hates even the idea of eating, drinking, or speaking.

He's miserable.

After yet another failed attempt at a nap, Bucky's determined to distract himself with a book, one of the many that Sam had recommended him since they’d become… whatever they are right now. Coworkers feels too impersonal, friends feels like not enough, and yet... anything more feels like wishful thinking.

Bucky decides not to think about this, either, and instead he tries to focus on the words on the page, a mystery about a train that had been keeping him up reading late into the night the last few days. Now, though, he can’t focus for longer than a few minutes before his eyes feel heavy, or he has to pause to cough into his elbow or blow his nose. He wants to relax, remembers urging Steve to do the same all those years ago when he would be sick every few months, he just can't.

It’s not like he’d never been sick before, of course. Bucky’s been sick plenty of times before now. It’s just that… usually he had someone with him. Steve, or his Ma, or Becca. No one likes being sick alone, especially not in a new town, where the only person likely to keep you company is also the last person you wanted to see you looking like shit, but also the only person you wanted with you during any life event.

Sam.

His face flutters to the forefront of Bucky’s mind without warning, and he fights the urge to give his head a shake and clear it away. Sam does not need or want his germs, nor does Bucky need someone to take care of him. What he needs is to sleep for twenty-four hours straight, until he wakes up and feels like himself again.

With a sigh, Bucky turns back to his book, more determined than ever to read until he falls asleep. He makes it all of one sentence before a knock sounds at his door, bringing him back to reality once again. He shuffles to the door, tugging his sleeves down and adjusting the drooping socks at his ankles before pulling the front door open.

Bucky doesn't get many guests, so he knows before he looks that it's Sam standing on his porch. He hasn’t been living in Louisiana very long, just long enough to buy some furniture, cover most of the rooms in a fresh coat of paint, and cobble together a few mismatched throw pillows with Sarah’s help. It isn’t much, but it’s home.

When Bucky pulls the door open, he’s not surprised to find Sam standing there, a CVS bag in hand and a smile at his lips that’s warm enough to make Bucky think that maybe he wouldn’t need the pile of blankets he’d assembled after all.

“Sam?” Bucky says dumbly. It’s very clearly Sam.

Sam grins in response. “Don’t tell me you’re so sick you don’t recognize me,” he teases.

Bucky shakes his head, looking down at his rumpled sick day clothes before running a hand over his face. He’s never been happier to see someone maybe ever, but this is very much not how he wants to spend a Saturday afternoon with Sam, either.

“I figured you might need some stuff,” Sam says, letting himself in and walking past Bucky and into the living room. He takes in the blankets, the muted TV, his abandoned book, and shoots Bucky a sympathetic look.

“You didn’t have to…” Bucky trails off as Sam unpacks the bag, revealing a box of tissues, some cans of soup, a box of tea Bucky has seen Sam drink at night, and a bottle of DayQuil. Something in his chest flutters at the sight of it, of Sam, here, in his living room with everything someone might need when they’re sick.

“Clearly I did,” Sam says, laying a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You look like you could use the company. And maybe…like you need to sit down before you fall down,” he adds, smiling slightly.

“I would hate to get you sick.”

“I won’t get too close,” Sam promises, which makes Bucky frown despite what he’d just said. He has a tendency to always want Sam close.

“Go sit down, I’ll make some tea, and then you can tell me what kind of sick day movies Bucky Barnes indulges in,” Sam says, walking into the kitchen before Bucky can protest further.

By the time he gets back, two steaming mugs in his hand despite the warmth of the day, Bucky’s half asleep, comforted by the sounds of Sam bustling around his kitchen and the idea that Sam had been thoughtful enough to bring him all of this, that he wanted to spend the day with him when he felt like shit.

“Honey,” Sam’s voice is saying. He sounds far away, and the word jolts Bucky from half-asleep to wide awake.

Honey.

“Uh... w-what?”

“Tea with honey,” Sam repeats, shooting him a look. “What’d you think I said?”

Bucky shakes his head, feels his cheeks heating. “Oh. No, nothing. Thanks for this,” he says quietly.

“Anytime, honey,” Sam says, smiling fondly now, and Bucky knows he didn’t mishear him. He looks up, sure he's really and truly dreaming this time.

"Sam—"

"Buck," Sam says, dropping down beside Bucky on the couch, much closer than they'd normally sit. He grabs the remote, unmutes the TV, and asks Bucky what he feels like watching.

Bucky can't formulate an answer, his mind still reeling at the thought that Sam might have... that he was here, warm and solid beside him, calling him honey.

"This looks good," Sam says, settling on an action movie they've seen together at least once already. He shifts so they're sitting pressed in close together on the couch, Bucky's heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with how terrible he's felt all day.

He sips at his tea and tries not to over think it. They'd have plenty of time to talk about whatever was happening here when Bucky is more clear-headed.

"You good?" Sam asks, when Bucky's settled again. He doesn't seem to mind when Bucky lets his head rest again his shoulder.

"M'good," Bucky says, suddenly feeling warmer and more relaxed than he had all day.

They can talk about everything later. Right now, Bucky's eyes are too heavy, and he's too happy to have Sam here beside him to do anything but melt into the warmth of him as the TV plays on around them.

[forever-rogue]

what do you think bucky would be like with his baby? i was just reading obvious (which is the cutest) and just got the thought of what he would be like with his baby

idk why i always imagined bucky as a girl dad, i just feel like he'd want a girl really bad

On James Barnes and Fatherhood;;

Bucky Masterlist

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“She’s so small,” Bucky was somewhere between incredulous and horrified as he looked at the tiny baby nestled against your breast. She looked so impossibly minuscule and fragile; suddenly every single worry in the world was at the forefront of his mind. How was he supposed to protect this newborn life, a life he helped create, when he still had moments of doubt in himself?

“Come here,” you whispered as you reached for his hand, gently beckoning for him to come closer. He hesitated slightly before nodding and coming closer, “it’s okay, my love. You have nothing to fear. I’m right here and so is she - she’s your daughter. Can you believe it? We made her...”

“What if...what if I hurt her?” he watched in awe as you stroked the newborn’s chubby little cheek. She already had a shock of dark hair and the sweetest little face. You swore that she had smiled at Bucky as soon as she laid eyes on him, “I don’t...”

“She’s not glass, Buck,” you motioned for him to sit down in the chair next to you, “it’ll be okay. I promise - I love you. Just hold her like we’ve practiced and it will all be fine.”

“Okay,” he agreed softly, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat. You shifted as gently as you could, trying your best not to wake her up as you passed her to Bucky. He was stiff as a mouse as he gingerly took her in his arms and let her rest against his chest. She made a small sound for a moment, wiggling slightly and he immediately panicked. But she quickly settled back down, “is she okay...”

“Of course,” you put your hand on his cheek, stroking it gently, trying to get him to calm down. Bucky had forgotten to breath for a moment, so choked up as he studied your daughter - his daughter, “she’s just getting comfy. It’s alright, Bucky. It’s okay to be nervous, I am too. We’re both new to this, but we’ll learn, we’ll get through it together.”

“Is it possible to love someone so much, without even knowing them?” he looked at his daughter with nothing but adoration written on his face as she curled her little fist around his finger. He made a small sound in the back of his throat as he vowed that he would be the best father; he would do anything in his power to protect her.

“Of course it is, “ you laid back and watched the two of them. Your whole world was right there next to you, your (now) husband and your daughter. It amazed you that everything you could ever love or want was found in those two people. Bucky turned back to you with a nervous smile before leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, “I love you, Bub.”

“I love you, pretty girl,” his nerves had quickly dissipated and turned to into a beaming smile. He looked back down at the small bundle in his arms. He thought she took after you, but you were already insistent that she’d taken after him, “and I love you too, baby girl.”

“She’s going to have you wrapped around her finger,” you teased as you watched him already get lost in her. Gods, it reminded you of when you first told him that you were having a little girl. You knew that it didn’t matter to either of you whether you had a boy or girl, but there was something about finding it was a little girl that had set Bucky over the edge. The man had practically broken down as he fell to his knees and hugged your belly, pressing gentle kisses to the swell of it. He was smitten with her from the start, just as he had been with you.

You knew then that it was about a lot more than just finding out what you were having. It was about the whole lot of it; Bucky had been through so much, often at the sheer mercy of others, and been told over and over again that he didn’t deserve anything. He was a killer, pure and simple. It had taken him years and a lot of love and patience, from himself, you, and others to finally get to where he was at now. But you always, always, made it a point to remind him of how amazing he was, of how loved he was.

It was in that moment, as he stared down at his newborn daughter, that you realized he knew. He knew that he deserved this, and that you both loved him more than anything.

“That’s totally fine with me,” he whispered as he sat back and realized that although he was nervous and anxious, he could do this. Together, the two of you could do anything, “it worked for you, didn’t it?”

“I like to think so,” you laughed lightly you laid back and closed your eyes. It had been a crazy couple of days and you were thoroughly exhausted. You knew that it would be tons of sleepless nights ahead, so you were more than happy to take advantage of as much sleep as possible, “i love you both so much.”

“Hey,” Bucky tenderly brushed a few loose strands of hair out of your face, “rest now, I’ve got her.”

“You sure, Bub?” you yawned as you grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, “I can s-s-stay up with you.”

“You just had a baby,” he reminded you, “a whole ass baby. You deserve some rest. Besides, I think I’ll be okay. I can handle this.”

“I know,” you promised as you closed your eyes and yawned again, “love you both, Bubs.”

Bucky sat there in gentle silence for a few moments, finding himself more and more at ease with each passing second. His stomach that had been in knots slowly lessened up as he watched his daughter sleep soundly tucked into his chest. You had a gentle grip on his arm as you too succumbed to slumber.

He almost couldn’t believe it; his own little family. It was perfect.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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[wkemeup]

Eclipse

summary: When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8.4k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, PTSD, dissociative episode, nightmares, a rapid switch from sweet/fluffy to pain, angst with a happy ending 

An eclipse finds its home in the darkness Thriving as it suffocates the sun and shadows her light In its passage she lays in wait Waiting— for the moon to give way and grant her morning

Bucky thinks he’s found heaven when he lays with you under the cover of thin, linen sheets; the soft, white of the fabric touching over curves and edges of exposed bodies, peaks and dips, like snowcaps nestled upon the crest of mountaintops. Lying flushed with heat, hearts beating a little faster, breaths a little labored, Bucky reaches out and traces the lines of your face.  

The tip of his finger brushes over your nose, slips down along your jaw, touches the sun kissed stream of light against your cheek as it seeps in through the sheet thrown over your heads. You giggle as he pulls you in for a kiss, chaste and sweet, his hand curling into the hairs at the nape of your neck and he tugs you closer. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the way you laugh to his lips, muffled in his kiss but still uncontained.  

Hidden under sheets, shared breaths between you in your own little world, Bucky decides he will be content if he stays here forever.

“I won’t be gone long, you know,” you tell him as you press lightly on his chest, just enough to get draw his attention away from the trail of kisses along your cheekbone and down your jawline. He pouts playfully at you, but you soothe your hand along his shoulder, recognizing the shift in energy as his eyes flicker a shade of hesitancy. “I’ll can handle myself.”

“It’s not that,” he replies quietly, voice soft, barely a whisper, as his smile begins to fall. It’s subtle, but you notice.  

“Then what?”

Bucky shrugs, swallowing back the anxiety that begins to pool deep into his stomach every time you leave on assignment. But he pushes out a smile, one you do not question, and he leans in to kiss the button of your nose.  

“I’ll just miss you, is all.”

You grin and it lights up wide across your face. The cast of sunshine behind you as it filters in through the sheets tossed over your body drapes down like a halo, an illumination of an angel, and Bucky commits the image to memory. Stored to a safe place in the back of his mind for the dark nights alone in this room. He’ll find you those moments, even when you’re miles away.  

“You’re a sap, Bucky Barnes,” you laugh, ruffling his hair as you toss the sheet up from over your faces and take in a deep breath of fresh air. It’s brighter in the room than you realized and you squint your eyes, tucking your face to the crook of Bucky’s neck to shield yourself from the sun.  

“Only for you, sweetheart.” He tries to ignore the bright red flicker of the clock beside you as he crawls out from under the safety of the bedsheets, the fantasy fractured by the reminder of your impending assignment; four weeks in a classified location, entirely on your own.  

A smile presses tight to his lips as you steal a glance back at him full of bright eyes and sunshine.

He does his best to swallow the anxiety though it churns like blades through his stomach.  

***

Bucky paces back and forth in his room, stealing looks at his phone as it sits face up on the bedside table. He taps the screen every few seconds, as soon as it dares to fade to black, so he can see your face again; the picture of you laughing behind an ice cream bar melting down your hand. A shimmering red bow and mouse ears on the top of your head from your trip to Disney last spring. He can still smell the melted vanilla and hardened chocolate when he looks at it and he tries hard to focus on the memory, but he knows it’s an excuse to make sure he doesn’t miss your call.

Tap.

Still nothing.

You’ve been gone over a week now and though he does his best to busy himself with time spent sparring with Sam in the gym, running out along the lake behind the compound, cleaning the kitchen until the stench of bleach burns up to the floor above him, you’re still at the forefront of his mind.  

He knows you’re safe. He knows that you can protect yourself and that you were capable of solo missions long before Bucky came crash-landing into your life, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying. It doesn’t stop the incessant twitching in his hands as he curls them to fists, doesn’t stop the frantic pacing and the wear he drives into the carpet, doesn’t stop the panic that skips the beat of his heart when it’s two minutes past check-in and you haven’t called.  

“Stop it,” he grumbles to himself, “she’s fine. Stop worrying. She’s fine.”

Another glance back at the phone. Tap-tap on the screen until it lights up with your smile. Nothing.  

Three minutes past check-in.  

He has half a mind to track down Fury himself when suddenly, the phone rings.

A ringtone you’d changed early in your relationship - a synthetic, almost electric, instrumental of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You right when the music starts to pick up and the trumpets are blaring and it throws him straight into overdrive.  

Bucky lunges it at, hands fumbling for the phone but it falls to the floor in his hurry. He hits his shoulder against the edge of the nightstand with a loud thump and collapses down to the carpet as the phone bounces down under the bed.  

“God-fuckin’-- ugh!”

He grips tight to the phone by the chime of ‘I love you, baby!’ and quickly brings it to his ear. He’s out of breath but he stills himself, takes a moment before he says anything and he hopes his voice is calmer than the rush in his chest.  

“Hi.”  

You snicker on the other end of the line and he knows in an instant he’s been busted. “Thought I told you not to wait by the phone, Buck.”

“I wasn’t.” A full faced lie. He grimaces as it comes out.  

“Sure, you weren’t,” you drawl, a laugh tucked sweetly into the hum of your voice.  

Bucky can hear floorboards squeaking faintly through the speaker between your breaths. Old wood, the whistle of the wind in the distance; a motel built in the early sixties with poor insulation and cracking foundations. He wonders where you are or if the image of you pacing amongst faded shades of burnt orange and green curtains, of once brightly colored comforters and pealing wallpaper only exists in his imagination.  

“You okay?” he asks first because he needs the confirmation. Despite hearing the even tones in your breath, the sweet laughter in your voice, he needs to hear you say it.  

“Always am, honey,” you respond lightly and Bucky lets himself take in a deep breath before you add, “I miss you though. It’s awfully cold here and I could really use a super soldier to keep me warm.”

It makes him smile; the first one that pushes up into his cheeks without force since you left. God, he misses you.  

“Don’t go calling Steve now, okay?” he teases, the anxiety draining from his body in gentle waves, cast out by the flow of ocean water through his bloodstream in the sound of your voice and the image of your smile as you tug your lower lip between your teeth.  

“Never. I prefer my men one-armed and dangerous.”

Bucky laughs as he sinks down further onto the floor, the carpet rubbing against his tailbone though he doesn’t mind. He’s grinning, listening to the sound of your voice as you tell him about how much you’re craving popcorn and chocolate chip movie nights and he feels like you’re sitting right next to him. He can see the creases in your smile, the lines by your eyes, the faint markings of old scars on your skin. He hears your voice and it reminds him of home.  

“It’s beautiful here, Buck,” you sigh and he wonders if you’re staring out a window to mountains or ocean or tundra. “I wish you could see it.”

“Where is ‘here’ again?”

You giggle and—God—it's the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, even crackled and broken through the speakers of an old satellite phone miles away. “Nice try, baby.”  

The timer on his watch starts to ding and his heart clenches.  

“Time’s up, huh?” you whine playfully, but he can hear the disappointment in your voice. It’s never long enough, these three minutes that Steve allows for you, but he’ll take seconds if he can get them. Just long enough to calm his nerves, to give you the motivation to keep going on your own, without the possibility of the call being traced.  

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, clenching at his hand. He brushes closed knuckles against his forehead, presses deep into his temples because he can already feel the pit in his stomach forming again. “Stay safe, alright? Come home to me.”

He pictures your smile, the soft edges and the curve of your lips.  

“Always do, don’t I?”

You do. He knows this.  

But his mind is cruel and it wonders when the day will come when you won’t.

***

“I’ll raise a Kit-Kat,” Bucky concedes nearly two weeks later with a tired huff, tossing a chocolate bar to the center of the table to accompany a handful of M&M’s and mini-Twix. It knocks over Natasha’s carefully constructed tower of Milkyways and she shoots him a warning glare.  

To his right, Sam snickers under his breath, a laugh too confident for a man with a dwindling stash of chocolate in front of him to the mountain sitting beside Natasha. He hides his face behind the fan of cards, but Bucky can still see the crease in his brow, the pinch of lines together at the center that tell him Sam is bluffing. Natasha is as stone cold as he would expect and he has no interest in challenging her resolve, so he decides to weed out Wilson first.  

“When’s your girl getting back, Barnes? Think you might need her around to console you after I obliterate your snack drawer,” Sam taunts, changing the subject abruptly. Another tell of his.

“End of the week, I think,” Bucky replies with a shrug, playing it off casually because he knows Sam is trying to throw him off his game.  

“As if you aren't counting down the seconds.” Natasha scoffs, a smirk pushing at pursed lips.  

“You're an absolute goner for her, you know that don’t you?” Sam says as he pushes a few more M&M’s to the center. Brightly colored pile at the center and he plops one from his own stash into his mouth.  

Bucky, meanwhile, chews on the inside of his cheek, avoiding Sam’s wandering eyes because he knows it’s true. You’ve only been together a little under a year, but he’s spent twice that loving you from a careful distance, just out of fingertip’s reach until he’d come back from a mission with one too many bullet wounds in his body and he couldn’t take the tension between you anymore.  

He could still picture the smile on your face as he told you, the way your eyes lit up and you jumped into his arms; IV drips and wires to machines and all. The press of warm lips to his cheek, his temples, his nose, his mouth. Sun streaming in through the window and casting a halo behind your hair. 

“Yeah, I know.”  

“Atta boy.” Sam nudges Bucky’s arm, grinning wildly.  

They turn to Natasha as she nods in approval before setting her cards down on the table with the kind of look in her eyes that tells Bucky the game was over before it even began. Royal Flush.  

“Not again!” Sam whines, slumping down into his chair.  

“It’s starting to feel cruel playing with the two of you.” Natasha reaches into the center and gathers the mountain of chocolate to drag it towards her towering pile. She starts to unravel a mini-Twix, keeping a taunting eye on Sam as he glares back at her. The chocolate passes behind parted lips and she bites down with a contented hum.  

Sam rolls his eyes. “You owe us drinks, ma’am.” He gestures to his empty glass.

Natasha smirks, conceding easily as she stands to grab their glasses. She turns to Bucky. “You want a refill, Barnes?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

As Natasha makes her way back to the kitchen, Sam sneaks a few M&M’s from her pile and quickly plops them into his mouth with a cautious glance over his shoulder. Bucky begins to shuffle the cards and he can feel the burn of Sam’s stare even before he opens his mouth.  

“What do you want, Wilson?”

“When’s Y/n coming back? For real.”

Bucky glances up. Sam’s arms are stretched out along the backs of the empty chairs beside him. He’s relaxed into his position, chewing on the stolen chocolates as he raises an eyebrow.  

“End of the week... like I said.”

Sam leans in closer. “That a question?”

“No,” Bucky retorts shortly, though Sam clearly isn’t buying it. He exhales a tense breath as he bridges the deck. “She’s supposed to call tonight. Longest stretch without a checkpoint since she left.”

Sam nods. “What about the three minute calls?”

“Last one was four days ago. Same day she checked in with Fury.”

“You worried?”

Bucky slices the deck. Shuffles it for the fifth time. Bridge. Repeat. “Course not. I’m sure she’s fine. I’m not worried at all.”

“You sure?” Sam chuckles, leaning back into his chair with another quick grab of a few stray green M&M’s.  

“Fuck off, Wilson.”

That gets Sam laughing. He reaches across the table and snatches the cards out of Bucky’s hands before he can shuffle for a seventh time. He flashes Bucky a smile, dimples into his cheeks and all.  

“I’m dealing this round.”

Bucky nods, letting the tension slip easily from his muscles. He pushes out a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

But then, a glass shatters behind him and Bucky jolts up to his feet.  

“Nat? Are you--”

He freezes in an instant, tension burning through him like marble; the full force of a train straight to his chest and knocking the wind from his body, fracturing the stone to pieces around him.  

Natasha stands just a few paces ahead of him, her hands clasped at her mouth in an array of shock and horror, glass shattered at her feet. Ice along wooden floors and the smell of vodka burning into the air.  

Bucky almost doesn’t recognize you. There’s a slump in your shoulders, a far off look in your eye like you can’t quite focus on what’s in front of you, and a knife in your hand that won’t stop shaking.  

But that’s not the worst of it.  

You’re covered in blood. Deep red seeping into your hair, sticking thick and wet to your face and down your neck; trails of it along your cheeks like raindrops against a windowpane. It soaks into what remains of your suit, ripped and torn, exposed skin stained with grim and dirt. You look like something out of a horror movie.  

“Oh God,” Sam mutters out, pulling Bucky from his trance.  

He wants to sprint, wants to scream for help and sound every alarm he can find, but instead, Bucky only manages broken exhale as he slowly walks towards you. He moves with cautious steps, a hand out towards you defensively, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. It’s what you used to do when the line between him and the Soldier blurred, how you’d seek him out amongst the trauma and distortion and bring him back home.  

“Y/n?” he calls gently and finds his voice rough in his throat.  

You don’t respond, don’t even look at him as he stands within a foot of your reach. Nat and Sam are close behind, but they hold their distance.  

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Bucky asks as evenly as he can manage, eyes glancing down over your body in search of injuries. There’s too much blood and he doesn’t know how much of it is your own. He wants to tug you into his arms, tell you that he’s got you, that you’re safe now, but for the first time since Shuri removed the triggers from his head, he’s afraid to touch you.  

Your lips part, a few short blinks of your lashes, and you mumble out, “I came to find you.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too flat, too void of emotion, and it rips Bucky right to his core. It’s a defense mechanism, he knows that. You’re still in there somewhere, he just needs to get you through this first.  

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he tells you, trying his luck as he sets a hand on your back. You don’t flinch, but you don’t lean into him either. He shares a worried glance with Sam and Natasha before he turns back to you, pushing out a smile. “You did good.”

“How did she get all the way here from the Hanger without anyone stopping her?” Sam questions, eyes trailing over the mess of blood in your wake, footprints following you from the staircase by the elevator.

“She’s covered in blood and God knows what else,” Natasha whispers back. “They were probably afraid of what might happen if they did.”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from you, vision tunneling on the mess of blood rooted in your hair and the stains of red on your face, your chest, your hands. Natasha and Sam’s voices become muffled beside him as he slides his hand down your back and gently lays it over your grip, still shaking as you hold onto the heel of the knife as if your fist had molded to stone around it. The tremors stop as he holds your hand.  

“It’s okay, honey,” he whispers, impossibly soft that not even Nat or Sam hear him, “I need you to give me the knife, alright? You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

It takes a moment, but your grip on the knife slacks. It falls to Bucky’s palm and he gently guides it out of your reach and hands it over to Natasha. He doesn’t know what happened, but he knows what you’ve done for him when the Soldier has taken over his mind, when he didn’t feel like himself and needed reminded who he was, where the ground was solid under his feet.  

He knows what he needs to do.

“Nat,” he starts, but she’s already a step ahead of him.  

“I’ll go find Steve,” she says, like she can read his mind. “I’ll tell him what happened, see what he knows about her assignment that would have led to this.”

Bucky swallows back the bile in his throat and he nods. “Sam--”

“I’ll sweep the jet, see what I can find,” Sam replies quickly. He sets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze, and pushed out a tight-lipped smile. He was your friend long before he was Bucky's. The determination reads in his eyes.  

"Thank you,” Bucky whispers.  

Sam and Natasha disappear down the hallway and then, Bucky is left alone with you. He’s suddenly made aware of how harsh your breathing sounds, like you’re gasping in air through a straw. You stare beyond his shoulders, though he can tell you’re not looking at anything at all. You’re existing. It’s all your mind can cope with.  

“Love?” Bucky calls, willing his voice stronger than it is. “Can you come with me?”

You don’t respond. Bucky clenches his jaw and tries again.  

“I’m going to take you to our room, alright?”  

He thinks it’s better not to present you with choices. It never worked well with him when he got this like; too much stimulation. He knows you’ll resist him if you need to. He slips his hand along your back to guide you towards the bedroom and you take a step as he does.  

You’re limping, he notices, as you cross the threshold into the bedroom. He tries to push his mind away from what caused such an injury, what could have possibly happened to result in the amount of blood drenched over you.  

That’s Sam and Natasha’s job. Bucky’s only concern is you right now, in this moment, bringing you home, making you feel safe. He guides you to the bathroom.  

“I’m going to start the water, okay?” Bucky tells you. You used to do the same for him, telling him what you were doing step by step in an effort to orient him. It grounded him back to his reality, brought him down from the plane of existence above his own head.  

The room starts to fill with steam, enough to fog the mirrors, and Bucky tugs his shirt over his head. He removes his sweatpants, but he resolves to leave his boxers on.  

“Sweetheart?”

You look in his direction and Bucky can’t help the wash of relief as it floods through him. You don’t smile and it’s almost as if you’re looking straight through him, but it’s something. Progress.  

He extends a hand to you, waiting patiently. Though you do not take it, you step a take closer to him, then past him as you walk into the shower fully clothed in your tattered suit. Bucky steps in behind and closes the glass door.

There’s enough room inside that he can stand comfortably behind you as you approach the stream of water. You stare at it for a moment before you reach out and let the water fall over your hand. You watch as the water around the drain begins to turn a dark red.  

“I’m going to wash this off. Is that okay, honey?” Bucky reaches steadily for the loofa behind you, though he pauses as he feels the texture of the sponge: exfoliating mesh. It’ll be too much for you in this state. He resolves for the body wash squeezed into his empty palm.  

“You let me know if you need a break.”  

Still, there’s no response.  

Bucky pushes back the burning lump in his throat and gingerly reaches towards you. He places a soap lathered palm against your shoulder and finds your muscles so tense they could have been made of steel or the vibranium seared into his own arm. You stare at his chest as if you could see through to his heart, maybe beyond that to the shower wall behind him, as he begins to peel the dried blood and grim from your skin.  

The water at his feet becomes muddied and red, the water slipping down your legs tainted by the aftermath of violence laid upon your body. He’s careful to only use his flesh hand as he washes you, something softer and kinder than the harsh touch of metal.  

You start to relax the more he works, your rigid stance easing as the blood cleans from your body. Your suit is still plastered to your skin, ripped and torn and cut open, and Bucky knows he needs to get this off of you. There’s blood behind the fabric, seeped behind the open slashes.  

He thinks of the softest clothes he has to dress you in when you’re clean and dry, something too big for your frame that smelled of fresh laundry or maybe the sweatshirt draped over the chair – the one you liked to wear when he was out on missions because it smelled like him. He just wants you to feel safe, to feel warm and protected.  

But he needs to get you out of this suit first.  

He reaches for the zipper at your chest and the next thing he knows, he’s pressed up against the shower wall, his head pulsing at the impact as you grip tight to his wrist. You’re panting, eyes unfocused at the center of his chest.  

He lets you hold him there. He doesn’t try to resist though he knows with his strength he could easily overpower you.  

“Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Bucky,” he tries, his voice soft against the fall of water behind you. “I’m not going to hurt you, love.”

You don’t move, but your breaths start to come in a little more even. Your grip falters on his wrist though you don’t let go. His heart feels like it’s shattering inside his chest, stray shards embedding themselves into his stomach, his ribs, his lungs.

“Honey, look at me,” he pleads. “You’re safe now. You’re home. Let me take care of you.”

It takes a moment, but your eyes begin to trail up his collarbone, hesitant sweeps along his neck, his jaw, and then – his eyes. The hard resolve upon your features begins to crumble. Your lip quivers, your hand gripped tight around his wrist slacking in the tremors, tears burn into your eyes and Bucky doesn’t waste a moment before he gathers you into his arms, presses you tight to his chest and encases you against him.  

It's like something finally clicks, a floodgate burst open, because you’re clutching onto him like a lifeline. He can feel the sob as it travels up your spine and shakes your body as you cry. He’s grateful for the mist of the shower that hide his own tears as he rubs gentle circles along your back, easing you the best he can. It’s torture seeing you like this and feeling so powerless to help.  

He doesn’t know how long he stands there with you, but eventually, you stop crying. The exhaustion begins to take hold and your legs begin to shake under you, too weak to hold yourself up.  

“I’m going to take your suit off, okay? You’ll be more comfortable without it,” Bucky says, gesturing to the zipper. You follow his gaze in understanding and then, you nod.  

The suit already clings tight to your skin without the added pressure of the sticky residue of blood drenched into the fabric and the soak of water from the shower. He slides the zipper down to your navel and slowly peels what's left of the sleeves off your shoulders.  

There’s cuts and slashes underneath, wounds where blades had cut through your suit and nicked your skin. They’re superficial, better than they could have been if not for the suit taking the brunt of the attack, but they’re still painful to look at.

Bucky helps you step out of the suit and he leaves it in the corner of the shower. He glances at your underwear and you slide it down your hips without question.  

“Can I wash your hair, honey? Please?”

You nod and Bucky works quickly. You’re starting to shiver as the water loses its heat, so you stand a little closer to him, seeking out his warmth. It removes just an ounce of the boulder sitting upon his chest.  

When he’s finished, the water at the drain is clear again. The fresh scars upon your body and the distant look in your eye the only evidence remaining of what happened.  

Bucky reaches around you to turn off the water. He pulls a towel from the rack and begins to gently pat it over your skin until you’re dry. Then, he scrunches out as much of the water as he can from your hair, before he leaves the towel resting on your shoulders to soak up the rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you as he finished drying himself off. “I’m going to go grab some clothes for you.”

He doesn’t even make it a step out of the bathroom before your hand is on his wrist again. He stills, looking back at you. Your eyes fall to the floor.  

Bucky swallows back the burn in his throat as he nods. “Okay. Okay, honey. Can you come with me?”

You nod.  

By the time you’re dressed in a fresh pair of his boxers and the t-shirt he slept in the previous night, you can hardly keep your eyes open. He wonders how long it’s been since you slept, if maybe it was since the evening he spoke to you four days prior. You sway on your feet as Bucky guides you to the bed.  

He lays you down, pulls the covers up to your chest and quickly rushes around to the other side of the bed to crawl in beside you. You come into his arms, curling up against his chest, and Bucky tries to pretend for a moment that this is just another night, that you just returned from a successful mission and there’s a relief in holding you again.

But he can’t shake the crippling dread as it burns into his skin. Even as your breaths fall even and you slack into his arms, Bucky stares up at the ceiling, eyes brimming with tears. He doesn’t sleep at all.  

***

A few hours later, the soft tap of a knock draws Bucky from his trance. He blinks a few times, realizing how long he’d been staring up at the ceiling before he lifts his head and finds Steve peering in through the doorway. There’s a solemn look on his face as his eyes flicker towards you.  

Bucky gently slides out from under you, careful to place a pillow under your arm where you’d been laying upon his chest as not to wake you. The bed rises a little as he stands and he takes a moment to brush the hair from your eyes before he makes his way to the door. When he meets Steve in the hallway, he’s careful to leave the door to the bedroom open a crack, just in case.  

“What did you find?” Bucky asks.

Steve sinks down onto the couch. A hand brushes over his face.  

“That bad?” Bucky can already feel the nausea beginning to take hold.  

“We recovered footage from her last know whereabouts – the safe house in Juno,” Steve says. He leans forward to rest his elbows upon his thighs, staring out into the empty space of the kitchen. He sighs. “She was ambushed, Buck. The feed cut out a few minutes into the fight.”

“Who were they?” Bucky chokes out. His throat is made of sandpaper.  

“We don’t know,” Steve admits, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Mercenaries, probably. Could have been hired in retaliation against SHEILD. Her mission was to identify the point of contact for an illegal arms distributor that was shipping assault rifles into Canada and carrying them over the border. She wasn’t supposed to see any action, Bucky. It was a surveillance op.”  

Bucky doesn’t realize how tight his hands are clenched until he looks down to find puncture marks in the palm of his right hand from where his nails buried into his skin. He thinks of the woman who left him behind that morning, with sun kissed skin and a smile so sweet it made his heart melt, who has barely spoken in the hours since returning home, who’s bright eyes have dimmed into something empty and lost.  

He’s missing something, he’s sure of it. Maybe if he could just see the footage for himself, identify the bad guys, track them down... maybe he’ll be able to fix this. He could bring you back, make you smile again. Killing those men who hurt you will be a small consolation prize for his efforts.  

Bucky is determined as he stands. “I want to see it.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve shoots back. Bucky doesn’t even need to clarify before Steve puts an end to it. “What purpose will that serve, Buck? You don’t need to see the tape, okay? Just trust me on this. I’ve got everyone we have analyzing that video frame by frame. If there’s anything on it to lead us to those assholes, we’ll find it.”

“I have to do something, Steve. I can’t just sit here. Not with her like that...” Bucky glances back at the door to the bedroom. He can’t muster the energy to conjure the image of you standing before him drenched in blood that was not your own, a vacant look in your eyes as if you could see straight through him.  

“She needs you here,” Steve argues, rising to his feet. “What do you think will happen when she wakes up and I’ve gotta tell her you’ve run off on some vengeance mission? That you’ve left her alone to face this by herself?”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Yes, it is!” Steve clenches his jaw as his voice echoes into the hall. It’s quiet for a moment and they listen for the bed to squeak, for any sign that you’re awake, but they’re only met with silence, Steve relaxes again. He takes a step forward and places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It startles him for a moment, but he can feel the tension as it melts in his muscles. “Just be here for her, man. When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you.”

Bucky keeps his stare on the thin crack in the door, the moonlight peering in from the window and seeping out into the hallway. He listens for the even breaths as you sleep soundly for the first time in days and he knows Steve is right. He doesn’t know if he could leave you like this even if Steve handed him the direct files of every man who laid a hand on you.  

“I should get back to her,” Bucky resolves, offering Steve as much of a grateful smile as he can manage. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Steve understands. 

***

It takes days before Bucky can get you to leave the bedroom. He’s only been able to get a few words out of you here and there, short answers to direct questions, and you can’t hold his eye for very long, but he takes it as improvement.  

It’s the small steps.

He remembers you saying that when he was at his worst, when he could barely get himself out of bed, when he could hardly touch you without fear of breaking you in half, when the guilt tore and ate through him unchallenged.

So, every time you lift you head when he speaks, when you glance in his direction, when you nod in answer of a question, when you curl against his side and seek out his warmth – it matters. It’s more than what you were able to do the day before and that has meaning.  

When you finally do venture out into the living room, Bucky is sure to keep a hand on you at all times. Whether it’s wrapped up tightly in your own, pressed gently to the small of your back, resting against your thigh, over your shoulders – it helps to ground you, remind you that he’s there. You start to drift off into yourself otherwise.  

Meanwhile, everyone else is walking on eggshells around you.  

Tony turns out of the room before he can even step foot into the kitchen when he sees the back of your head over the couch. Peter is constantly shoveling food into his mouth to keep from his usual rambling one-sided conversations. Steve is deceptively quiet, constantly glancing in your direction as if he’s just waiting for something to set you off. Even Natasha keeps her distance, which surprises him. She stays in the room but she keeps to the corners, observing, like Steve.  

Sam, on the other hand, was never one for subtleties.  

“Hey kiddo!” Sam throws himself onto the couch beside you, bowl of popcorn in his hand as it jumps up into the air before landing back safely in the bowl.  

You flinch at the sudden intrusion next you and Bucky all but stares daggers into Sam for startling you. Bucky was trying to keep your environment as calm as possible as not to set you off into one of those dissociative states again. It could take hours just to get you to acknowledge his voice after that and Bucky can only take that so many times before he’ll simply crumble.  

“You know what I’ve been dying to watch?” Sam says aloud, as if someone is listening to him. He shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Sam, no.” Bucky warns as he pulls you closer to his side. That movie has far too much violence, even for an eighties film. He doesn’t know how you’ll react to it.  

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sam shoots back. He settles into the couch beside you, grinning as he turns in your direction. “Come on, Y/n. It’s been ages since we’ve watched Indie. I know the first is your favorite anyway.”  

Bucky is all but ready to clock Sam ten ways to Sunday when you mutter out a quiet, “okay” and Bucky stills completely. It's the first time you’ve even acknowledged anyone besides Bucky since you came home. He stares at Sam with wide eyes, but Sam doesn’t seem to be surprised at all.  

Instead, Sam simply sinks into the cushions, turns on the movie he must have already lined up in the queue, and leans the bowl of popcorn in your direction. 

Indiana Jones starts his first trek into the cave in search of the Golden Idol and you reach your hand into the bowl. A few bites of popcorn within the first minutes of the movie and it’s more than Bucky has been able to get you to eat without coercion in days. A whisper of a smile crosses your face as Sam almost chokes on the handful he shoved into his mouth.  

Sam Wilson might be a massive pain in Bucky’s ass, but he’s a damn good friend. He’s the only one who hasn’t treated you like you’ve lost your mind. He gives you a sense of normalcy when the floor has been pulled out from under you.  

For that, Bucky owes him everything.  

***

Bucky finds out a week later that there are no bad guys to track down, no one to enact vengeance on for the trauma they’d put you through. There is a reason you came home covered in blood and grime with barely more than a few superficial scratches on your body.  

You’d killed them all.  

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks Steve, hands planted firmly on the conference table. The night sky is littered in cloud covered stars beyond the windows, crickets chirping in the distance. Bucky stares down at the mug shots of a dozen men now presumed dead.  

“We’re sure.” Steve slowly reaches out to gather the images, sliding them back into the file and out of sight. “We’re still working on who sent them but it was probably the arms dealer she was sent to identify. Fury’s sending out a team in the morning to bring him in.”

“That’s... that’s good.” Bucky doesn’t have the strength for revenge anymore. He’s grown tired of carrying it in his chest, on his shoulders, weighing him down as if sinking him to the trenches of an ocean.  

“How’s she doing?” Steve asks, gesturing towards the doorway as they begin to walk back to the elevator.  

“Better,” Bucky replies honestly.  

He’s even seen you crack a smile a few times watching movies with Sam in the living room, maybe even heard a breath of laughter when Sam dropped an entire bowl of popcorn and threw a fit about it.  

You’re talking to Bucky more, asking questions, starting brief conversations outside of the necessary ‘yes’ and ‘no’s, humming to yourself as you shower with Bucky standing just a few feet away. It’s something. Small steps.

“She’s strong, Buck. She’ll get through this.”

Bucky takes a deep breath as the elevator doors chime open. He presses the button for his floor. “I know. I just hate seeing her like this in the meantime.” The elevator reaches his floor and he waits as the doors begin to part. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Steve nods. “You got it, brother.”

Bucky makes his way down the hall from where he’d left you just a few hours earlier. You’d insisted that you’d be alright on your own while he met with Steve. Sam is still sitting on the couch watching Netflix just a few feet outside the bedroom, leaving a blanket of security in Bucky’s absence. He can hear Sam singing along to the theme song as he passes by.  

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he approaches the living room, but a sudden, gut wrenching scream stills him in his tracks.  

Sam jumps up from the couch, popcorn spilling to the carpet and Bucky stares back at the cracked door to the bedroom with wide eyes. He exchanges a glance with Sam and as another scream echoes out into the hall in a broken cry, the two of them rush into the room.  

Bucky shoulders his way through the door, breaking the hinges on the top of the frame as he stumbles his way inside. You’re lying on your stomach, arms clutched under the pillow, sweat dampened sheets kicked off down by your feet. You’re whimpering, tear tracks into the pillowcase and your whole body is trembling.  

“Y/n?” Bucky calls as gently as he can, his voice breaking in the effort. He moves closer to the bed, his hand hovering over your shoulder, almost afraid to touch you. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

You cry out again, face contorting in pain as you press your face into the pillow. 

“I should get Cho,” Sam says behind him, starting to inch towards the door, but Bucky barely hears him as he runs into the hallway.  

“Come on, honey,” Bucky tries again. He sinks down to his knees beside the bed. His heart is stammering in his chest. It’s pounding so loudly he’s sure the whole compound can hear it. He feels the tears burn in his eyes as you start to sob. “You’re safe. You’re alright, love. I’m here with you. I’m here, baby.”

Bucky lets his hand ghost over your shoulder and he barely has a chance to react before you jolt upright and there’s a sudden, stinging sensation across his chest. Your eyes are wide, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. It takes a minute before Bucky sees the hilt of the knife gripped tight in your fist.  

“Bucky?” you gasp. “What are you—Oh my God...”  

The knife drops from your hold as your hands clasp against your mouth. It falls at Bucky’s knees. You’re trying to stifle a sob as it threatens to consume you whole and Bucky tries to reach out for you, but you scramble away from him, fearful eyes staring below his collarbone.

Slowly, Bucky follows your gaze to his chest. There he finds that his shirt is torn in a long, pristine cut. Blood begins to soak into the light grey of the fabric from the open wound underneath. The knife you’d held in your hand bares his blood upon the blade.  

“What have I done?!” you cry, shaking your head as you scurry off of the bed and into the corner of the room. You sink to the floor and Bucky shakes himself of his stupor to rush towards you.  

“I’m alright,” he tries to reassure you, though he knows it’s no use. “Baby, I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’ll heal in a few hours. I’m okay.”

“Oh God, Oh God! No... I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to--” Your words are barely distinguishable, slurring together in your slobs, and you can barely catch your breath. You shake your head, fresh tears streaming on your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m-- I’m so s-sorry. I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Bucky coos. He can feel the itch of a tear as it passes his jawline. “Honey, I need you to breathe for me. Please, let me hold you. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

But your eyes are glued to the open sliver of his t-shirt, the blood as it soaks into the cotton, and the slash underneath. It only makes you cry more. Its uncontrollable, like you might pass out if you can’t allow yourself to take in enough air, and Bucky feels like he’s reaching out into a fucking void because there’s nothing he can do for you.  

“Sergeant Barnes,” a stern voice calls suddenly from behind him. Helen Cho stands in the doorway with Sam just beyond her shoulder. She steps into the room, uncapping a syringe. “Hold her down.”  

You’re in hysterics as Bucky pulls you into his arms. You don’t resist as you fall against his chest, but he can feel the unease with which you sit in your own body, like your skin is crawling and you’re caged inside of yourself. He knows the feeling well.  

You barely notice as the needle punctures your neck, heavy head falling to rest against Bucky’s shoulder. He eases his left hand down your spine, hoping the chill of the metal will help soothe you as your breaths become more even and the sobs fall weak and far between.  

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispers. You start to close your eyes, giving into the sedative. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest, love. I’ve got you.”

No one relaxes until it’s clear you’re out cold. Sam lets out a heavy sigh from the doorway, slumping into the arch. Helen sinks onto the floor beside Bucky, tossing the syringe into the disposal bag before she rubs a tired hand over her face.  

Bucky feels like he can hardly breathe. He waits until Helen and Sam retire to their own rooms before he allows the lump in his throat to consume him whole, before the tears on his face mirror the watermarked stains on his shirt. He doesn’t move from the floor until sunrise, unwilling to disturb your sleep.  

***

“I don’t know why you haven’t left me yet.”

The words pass your lips and they puncture straight through Bucky’s chest - like a knife embedded through his skin, nicking over bone and tearing through flesh. He feels sick, a wave of nausea crashing through him as he turns to look at you. 

Your eyes are swollen red, lips chewed raw. It only takes a flicker of your gaze to the long faded pink scar across his chest to know what’s on your mind. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says firmly. 

You shake your head, unconvinced. “I could have killed you.”

“Don’t you go underestimating me, now,” Bucky teases, lighting his voice despite the burning ache he feels in his chest. He smiles at you but you can hardly meet his eye. 

Your legs are swung over the bedside, hands wringing in your lap, reddening the skin. Your breaths are shaken, lower lip trembling, and he knows you’re trying to hold back tears. He can practically feel the lump building in your throat, suffocating you. 

He sighs, sinking down to his knees in front of you. His hands reach out for your own and you flinch at his touch. It takes a moment before you can remind yourself who’s hands are holding you, who’s love you’re surrounded in, and you relax. 

He thinks of the woman who taught him how to love again, who woke him from a decades long nightmare with the sweet touch of her hand and the adoration in her smile. He conjures the image of you he preserved before you left on your last mission, with sun kissed skin and laughter in your chest, as he stares up at the dark circles under your eyes, the frown upon your lips, the aching claws of shame draining you of the light you possessed. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.” He tips a finger under your chin and guides you to meet his eye. He smiles, softening under your gaze. 

“You hold so much space in your heart for compassion and forgiveness,” Bucky eased, stroking his thumbs gently along the backs of your hands. “You never hesitated once to absolve me of my sins as the Winter Soldier. It didn’t matter how may nights I woke up empty, not knowing where or who I was. It didn’t matter how much I thought I was a burden to you and the team, or whether I deemed myself worthy enough to be loved by you. You were patient with me, kind beyond what I ever believed I could deserve. Can you not reserve some of that for yourself, too?”

He watches the sob creep up your spine before it breaks. There’s little more either of you can say and he resides to holding you in his arms, caged protectively against his chest where not even the demons lurking in the back of your mind can find you. 

He knows, eventually, you’ll be okay. You taught him that. Even when the tunnel was its darkest, when he could barely see beyond the tips of his fingers, and the sun was cast over in shadows -- you showed him that as long as he kept walking, he’d find the light again. 

***

“Come on, Y/n, what is the matter with you?”

Bucky hears you grumbling to yourself in the kitchen. He wipes the trail of sweat off his face from his morning run as he approaches the island covered in stray dollops of pancake batter, bottles of maple syrup, and mixing bowls. He smiles as he leans against the counter, waiting for you to notice him.  

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” you groan, catching Bucky out of the corner of your eye as you dump a plate full of burnt pancakes into the sink. Your hair a little out of sorts, a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. It’s almost endearing if it wasn’t for how fast your heart was beating. Bucky could hear it down the hall.  

“Missed you.” He shrugs casually, testing a smirk and you started to smile in return; all shy and sweet and full of the woman he adores. He glances to the mess in the kitchen and the smoke piling on the ceiling. “What happened here?”

“Pancakes aren’t my strongest suit.”

Bucky laughs at that. “I can see that.”

You sigh, scratching at the back of your neck. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, Bucky.”

Bucky can feel his heart sinking but he holds the smile to his face. “You do a thousand nice things for me all the time. Just being here is enough for me, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean,” you say under your breath, eyes falling to the floor by his feet. “After everything I put you through since that awful mission-”

“Hey, hey -- Don’t do that.” Bucky crosses the kitchen and places his hands gingerly on your cheeks, guiding your eyes back to his. “You didn’t do anything wrong; you hear me? You survived. You’re still surviving and I’m just... I’m so proud of you, Y/n.”

You part your lips to say more, to argue against him, but it dies on your tongue as Bucky smiles at you as if you hung the moon and the stars and every damn  

“You don’t need to bring me coffee in the morning,” Bucky says before he presses a kiss to your forehead, “or bribe Stark into making new tech for my arm,” then a kiss to your nose, “or make me burnt pancakes to thank me for loving you through this.”  

He pauses as he pulls back. You’re watching him with an expression somewhere between awe and relief, but it’s the warmth of your smile that does him in completely.  

“We take care of each other, okay? That’s what we do,” Bucky says, leaning in to kiss your lips sweetly until he can feel the smile grow against his mouth. He pulls back, chuckling a bit under his breath. “Besides, I’m the last person who is going to be scared away by trauma.”  

You laugh as you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling yourself closer to his chest. Engulfed in the sweet smell of maple and butter and batter, Bucky feels a wash of calm for the first time since you left on that mission.  

He thinks you may have finally found your way home.  

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[duuhrayliegh]

europe - request

pairing: sebastian stan x singer!reader (seb!pov)

summary: singer!reader writes another song, this one is about seb

warnings: suggestive content (*wink wonk*), language, the works ya know

a/n: this took so long bc im not lyrically inclined and there isn’t even that many lyrics in here. i can’t even guys this was a nice break though. i liked the concept, i hope i lived up to your dreams. :)

p.s.: my requests and tag lists are both open loves!

check out my other writing on my full m.list

Sebastian was doing a press interview for his new movie. It was his first on television interview. First time being back in the studio for The Late Late Show with James Corden. First time since you and him had gotten together. He was eager to see what James had in store for him.

He was wearing a bright yellow shirt paired with a red leather jacket. His legs were clad with a different pair that he wanted to wear originally because you couldn’t get quite enough of his thighs. Had he worn the other pair, there would’ve been a prominent wet spot on one leg where you rode him to your own satisfaction. The memory made him bite his lip and adjust his pants to try to quell his oncoming boner.

“Good luck out there tonight, lovey. You’re gonna crush it.” Your voicemail warmed Sebastian’s heart. He missed you a lot, but you were currently on your own press junket. Your new album finally came out and your manager had been running you ragged. Sebastian was so proud of everything you’ve accomplished, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

“Hi, Mr. Stan. You’re needed on deck in five minutes.” He nodded at the assistant producer who stuck her head in his dressing room. Sebastian ran his hands through his hair one more time before deciding enough was enough.

“Well, this is as good as it's gonna get.” He murmured to himself as he walked out of the dressing room. He rolled his shoulders, snuggling into the leather jacket encasing his back. Sebastian took a swig of a water bottle from the table backstage. He still got nervous when doing interviews, always worried that he’s going to say the wrong thing.

“And now I would like to introduce our next guest. You’ve seen him as Bucky Barnes in the Marvel Cinematic Universe for the last ten years. He’s played the borderline psychotic Jeff Gillooly in I, Tonya, and the corrupt Sheriff Bodecker from The Devil All The Time. It is my pleasure to introduce the one, the only, Sebastian Stan!”

James stood, clapping as Sebastian made his way to the main set area. He raised his right hand, his left remaining on his stomach. As he approached James, Sebastian switched hands, his left coming up as an offer for James to shake. Afterwards, James held his hand out to the chair beside his desk, waiting for Sebastian to sit down.

“Hi, Sebastian! It’s so good to have you back.” James’ accent broke Sebastian’s name up into three distinct syllables, bringing a smile to Seb’s face.

“It’s good to be back, man.” He grinned big, waiting for James to ask the first question. Once they got into it, the interview went smoothly. Sebastian was able to avoid giving out spoilers for his new project, leaving just enough to the imagination. James was in a fit of laughter after Sebastian had told a crazy story from being on set. James wiped tears away from his lower lashline, calming down just enough to catch his breath.

“Okay, so I want to move onto something else.” Sebastian sobered up quickly, unsure of where James was taking the conversation. “We want all the juicy details about your relationship with Y/N.” Sebastian’s brow raised as he pulled a face at James’ question. He laughed to himself for a minute before answering.

“Ya know, we really have you to thank for that.” Sebastian pointed at James, before bringing that same finger to rub his eye.

“Really?” The man’s voice pitched up, brows hitting his hairline.

“Oh yeah. We were only introduced because of your show.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair, remembering that night with you. The two of you had gone out for drinks, talking for hours at the bar and then even longer in his hotel room. He remembered waking up with you wrapped up in his arms. You didn’t have sex that night, but you definitely did the second night.

And oh god, if  that second night wasn’t just as amazing as the first. The face you made whenever you climaxed danced it’s way to the forefront of Sebastian’s mind. Not good, definitely not good. He had to readjust himself in his pants again, crossing his legs to cover up his rather large problem.

“Yeah, we started dating that same week. Kept it quiet though.” Sebastian held his palm out in the air, bouncing it up and down.

“Right, right. And do you want to tell everyone how you did end up revealing that you and Y/N were an item?” Sebastian looked down at his lap, smirking to himself. “Or should we just play the clip?”

A clip played for the studio audience. It was Y/N doing her makeup for the Vogue Beauty Secrets Youtube video. Sebastian waltzed in the background of the shot. It then cuts to Sebastian kissing Y/N on the cheek, brandishing the hickey’s that she had sucked onto his cheek the night before. Mhm, I remember that night too.

Sebastian had surprised Y/N by coming to see her. He wasn’t doing anything and he missed you, so why waste a perfectly good opportunity. He spent the night there completely ravishing you until you begged him to stop. That night he proudly wore your thighs as earmuffs, burying his face in you. He really needed to stop reminiscing during an interview.

“How adorable. Was that planned at all? Or did you just do that because you could?” Sebastian shook his head, his right hand scratching at the stubble decorating his jaw.

“Oh, no. It definitely wasn’t planned. I honestly don’t remember if I knew Y/N was filming that morning, so I’m just glad I put on pants before I left the bedroom.” James laughed at Sebastian’s comment.

“Okay, so I’ve gotta ask your opinion on something though.” Sebastian made a hum of acknowledgement, signalling for James to continue. James leaned back, pulling out a cardstock of your new album. “So, this is Y/N’s new album, it just came out about three or four weeks ago?” The crowd clapped for you, and Sebastian cheered along with them.

“What do ya want my opinion on? If it’s the album, then I gotta tell ya, I loved it. Every single song on there is absolutely amazing.” James nodded, a smirk forming on his lips making Sebastian think he made a mistake.

“So you’re aware of the song Europe?” Sebastian smirked, nodding his head because he knew where this was going. “Would you like to tell us what that’s about?” James laughed as Sebastian stammered, looking for the right words. “I mean, let’s just read some of the lyrics.” James looked at the cards in his hands as Sebastian drifted into his thoughts again.

You had brought him into the studio before finalizing Europe. He remembers watching you twist your hands at your waist and continuously cracking your knuckles. Sebastian was curious because you hadn’t ever been like that when showing him a song before. Every question he had about your anxiety revolving around the song was thrown away when he heard it.

Europe was an ode to Sebastian, all of Sebastian. He couldn’t help pulling you down onto his lap by your waist as he listened. You were the only two in the studio, so the two of you were free to do whatever you wanted. The funny thing about that night was that there was a new track recording.

“Oh shit, Seb.” The dam broke afterwards, peels of laughter leaving your lips without explanation. Your right hand raised to your mouth, attempting (and failing) to quiet your giggles.

“Babe, why the ‘oh shit’?” You held up a finger to your lips, telling him to be quiet and listen. He strained his ears, waiting for his own ‘oh shit’ moment. Then, his own voice filtered into his ears, making him crease his brow in confusion. “What is that?”

“That’s the audio from when I first played you Europe.” Small giggles passed your lips again. “I was going to ask you if I could use, like, a sound byte from it for either the beginning or the end of the song.” Sebastian nodded, slightly amazed that you were so creative with your work. “But, I forgot to turn off the recording.” Sebastian’s eyes locked on your expression, waiting for him to connect the dots. He pulled a face and then,

“Oh shit.” His eyes widened, a huff of laughter escaping. “Wait, so it caught all of it?” Your lips rolled inwards, holding back laughs as you nodded your head. Sebastian raised a brow, his eyes flicking over your face. “Use it.” He had a few new hickeys after that night too, but not after decorating your body with a few of his own.

“Sebastian, I would like you to read a few lines from the song, please.” James handed Sebastian a card, a snort leaving Sebastian’s body involuntarily. He glanced at the cards, know the lyrics by heart already. He took a big breath, reading the lines that James chose. He threw him a look with his eyes, head tilting slightly toward the British man.

“Uh, okay, here we go.” Sebastian laughed to himself, blowing out a breath through clenched lips. He lifted the card again, “You know,” dropping his hand back to his lap while raising his other hand. “You know, she’s gonna make fun of me for this right?” James laughed, looking into the camera as if he was on The Office, then to the audience with a duh look on his face.

“Sebastian. We’re going to make fun of you.” The crowd didn’t hesitate to join in James’ amusement. Sebastian dropped his head into his hands, groaning loudly. “Do you need a little encouragement?” The audience began cheering and clapping for Sebastian.

“Fine, alright, alright.” He shook his head before starting. “Long nights with hickeys earned like a badge of honor. Teasing kisses, twisted sheets, all signs of true seduction.” Sebastian looked up from his hands, expecting James to say something. All James offered, though, was a wave of his hand for Sebastian to continue. “I never have to worry because all my sins are forgiven when I’m with you.” James held his hand up, stopping Sebastian from continuing.

“Okay, let’s dissect that, Mr. Stan.” James propped his elbow on his interview desk, placing his head at an angle in his palm. “What is this song about?” Sebastian’s lips curled inward, stopping himself from laughter.

“James,” Sebastian leaned forward against the arm of the couch. “I thought this was a family show.” The British man quirked a brow, sweeping both hands in front of his body gesturing to the studio.

“This is the Late Late Show, Sebastian.” He turned back to the audience, addressing them and the cameras. “And that is all the time we have tonight! Thank you to Sebastian for coming on the show with me tonight! And thank all of you for tuning in tonight. We’ll see you next time.” The producer beside the camera signaled that the show ended and Sebastian turned back to James.

“It’s a good song.” Sebastian smiled wide afterwards, saying his goodbyes to the crew. He was back in the safety of his dressing room when his phone started ringing.

“Hello?” He knew that it was you from the personally assigned ringtone you picked out when he wasn’t looking.

“The Internet is going to eat you alive.” Sebastian grinned as your peels of laughter trickled in through the speaker of his phone.

“Oh yeah, could you imagine if I told them that it wasn’t just random sounds at the end?” He could just imagine your smirk at his mention of your little addition to Europe.

“We’re gonna have to do that again.” Sebastian paused, waiting for you to explain. “Although I think next time we should do a visual along with the audio. You pickin’ up what I’m putting down Stan?” Sebastian smirked to himself, thinking about being able to watch himself bring you to the brink over and over again, even when you’re not together. His pants got tighter at the idea.

“I think we might have to look into that, Y/L/N.”