#decided to post the grey vers too cause why not?

[giulzart]

making out in the woods is hot, okay?

[sarah-writes-marvel]

Don’t: Bucky Barnes x Reader (platonic)

S.S: Heyo, its been a while since posting a story so here you go! BE CAUTIOUS!!! This fic ca nbe ver ytrigger so read at your own risk! Thank you guys hope you all had a wonderful holiday season!

Warnings: !!TW!! cutting, depressive/sucidial thoughts, anxiety, bleeding, needles, MAJOR ANGST and some fluff

Word Count: 1,798

Again, please read at your own risk!! Thank you!!

MASTERLIST

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The events of Endgame had affected everybody. The loss of Tony, Nat, and Vision, the resignation of Cap, Thor off in space, and Bruce was somewhere in Europe helping develop cures for diseases, everything had changed. There were only a few who stayed around the reconstructed compound anymore. Those few including Bucky, Wanda, Sam, and me. 

It was usually quiet, sometimes Pepper, Morgan, and Rhodes stopped by to see how things were going. Peter always came after school to see if we needed help on missions. T’challa and Shuri always checked in over the video call, same with many of our off-world allies. Valkyrie even checked in every once in a while, per Thor’s request when he couldn’t. It was nice, but nothing would ever be the same, and everyone knew that.

We each had our own ways of coping. The four of us that lived in the compound did our best not to bother each other. Bucky usually locked himself in his room, Sam went on runs, Wanda meditated and I blasted music so loud that I couldn’t hear my thoughts. It probably wasn’t the best way to cope but if it helped, it helped.

It was one of those days where memories flooded and tears fell without a second thought, so I plugged in my headphones and laid back in my bed getting lost in the bass vibrating in my eardrums. I watched the blades of my ceiling fan turn painfully slow while the urge to eat crept on me. I turned to my clock and realized that it was around noon and I hadn’t eaten since sometime yesterday. So I wiped the few stray tears away and managed to roll out of bed, feeling the cold wooden floor beneath my feet.

I pulled an earbud from my ear, even turned the music down just slightly as I walked down the hall. Even though there was plenty of room to spread out the four of us decided to share a hallway, the close proximity giving some comfort in the time of difficulty. It was nice.

As I passed a certain door, the sound of a muffled cry reached my ear. It was Bucky’s door. I understood why it had been so hard for him to lose Steve. He had been Bucky’s anchor in life, and his comforter after the whole Hydra situation. He had to put on a brave face before Steve left to return the stones, knowing that the punk of a friend would stay and live his life. He had to bite back the tears when he saw Steve sitting on the wooden bench, hair turned white from age and skin wrinkled. 

I took a step closer, removing my other earbud and pausing my music so I could hear better, pressing my ear gently against the door. Another strangled sob came from the other side along with a guttural scream. I felt awful, I wanted to check in but I didn’t want to bother him if he just wanted to be left alone. But I went against the latter and gently knocked on the door.

“Bucky? Are you ok?” I asked. The only reply I got was muffled sobs. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. So I knocked again a little harder. “Bucky?” Again, nothing but crying.

I took a minute, maybe he just needed a minute before he answered. So I waited, listening to the pained cries until I couldn’t take it.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” I called through the door. I turned the knob and opened the door to see Bucky on the floor, sitting against the side of his bed, a throwing dagger in his metal hand, and fresh bloody cuts along his flesh forearm.

“Bucky? What are you doing, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” I closed the door before moving towards him, tossing my headphones and phone onto his bed before kneeling beside him. I took the stained knife from his metal grip, tossing it across the floor to pick up later, and pressed my hand over his cuts to minimize the bleeding causing him to hiss in pain.

“Please, please don’t.” he cried, his metal digits wrapping around my wrist.

“Buck, I’m gonna help you no matter how much you might not want it. I’m not gonna leave you,” I told him, looking into his lifeless blue-grey eyes.

“That’s what Steve said, now he’s gone. How do I know you aren’t lying?” his voice was weak and quiet, scared almost.

“I’m not Steve, I’m not going anywhere. I swear on my life,” My hand still pressed against his bleeding cuts. “But this needs to be a mutual agreement, so you cant leave me either. At least not right now. So I need your help, alright? I need you to work with me here Barnes.”

His gaze was hazy but he nodded and let go of his grip on my wrist.

“We need to get you to the bathroom, and I know I might be strong but your much heavier than you look, no offense.” I smile, trying to bring some light to the situation. Luckily I saw a small smirk form on his paling face before he nodded again. 

I removed my hold on his arm, standing up and reaching my hands down to pull him up, which was successful as he used the bed to help. His left arm wrapped around my shoulder as we shuffled to the bathroom where I set him on the toilet.

I grabbed the darkest washcloth in his cupboard of towels, pressing it against his wrist and placing his metal hand over it.

“I need you to keep the pressure on that, please. I know it probably hurts but you gotta do it,” I commanded gently, squeezing his hand around his arm. He simply nodded as his eyes followed mine lethargically. I continued to look through the cupboards for his first aid kit.

“Top cupboard to the left.” He sounded tired and I didn’t blame him. I had walked in on him sitting in a small puddle of his own blood and the emotional toll this event has all taken on us was more than enough reason to be tired. I opened the cupboard he suggested and retrieved the kit from the shelf opening it quickly and pulling out what I needed.

Even when the blood had been dripping from the cuts I knew some were deep enough for stitches, so I pulled the needle and suture thread from the box, gaining a groan from Bucky.

“I’m sorry but I know those cuts are too deep. It’ll only be a stitch or two and ill make it as painless as possible Buck, you just gotta stay with me.” I replied, looking at him. He replied with a nod as tears streamed down his face. I quickly wiped one away before sending him a small smile and returning to my task.

“Alright hun, we need to clean your arm so I can make clean stitches,” I stated, standing in front of him holding my hands out again to help him to the sink. He took my hands and hauled himself from his position and made his way to sink and began washing the cuts under the running water, wincing at the stinging pain.

Once he was back on his seat, I carefully patted the area dry with the used towel and began stitching the larger cuts. I only paused when Bucky hissed in pain or jerked away after I had pulled the thread through. A chorus of apologizes came from my mouth, and from his.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” his usual stern, strong voice was broken and came out in whispers.

“Buck, you dont have to apologize. It’s alright, life gets hard, it’s only logical to find a coping mechanism. It’s ok hun. It’s not your fault.” I cooed, trying to calm him.

“But I do, I just tried to kill myself because, what? Because I’m sad that my friend left me to be happy? How pathetic is that?” He denied, shaking with anger and sadness.

“It’s not pathetic because it is completely valid.” I began pulling the last stitch tight. “Life gets hard, and you have been through hell and back too many times to count. We have to cope with it somehow and pain can be a distraction, though not always the best option.” I continued looking at his sorrowful tear-filled eyes.  “Steve was your rock, the person you went to with every issue. And now without him, you feel lost and your drowning under the metaphorical waves of life. So your feelings are valid, and your actions were valid, just not the right way to go about it.” I finished as I wrapped gauze and Coban around the fresh stitches.

A moment of silence filled the bathroom as I finished wrapping his arm and cleaned up the supplies that had been used.

“How are you so good at this? Why weren’t you phased?” he questioned, breaking the eerie silence.

“That, my dear friend, is a conversation for another time. You need to focus on yourself right now.” I said with a smile while I watched my hands.

He looked away, down to his bandaged arm flexing his fist as the muscles shifted the bandage.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For helping me.” His eyes looked to mine, the small spark of hope back in his irises.

“It’s what friends do,” I replied. “Now you need some sleep,” I said helping him from the toilet and leading him back to his bed. Moving my phone and headphones out of his way, he settled onto his bed grabbing the fleece blanket from the foot of his bed and pull it over himself.

I carefully help before grabbing my phone and the knife on the floor and turning to leave. 

“Wait. I-uh- could you stay? Please.” he sounded like an innocent little boy who was scared of the monsters under the bed.

“Ya, of course I can.” I smiled, crawling into bed next to him. I sat with my back against the headboard, Bucky’s head on my lap, and his bandaged arm wrapped over my legs. My fingers found their way through his brunette locks as his breaths became heavier.

“You know you can always come to me,” I said quietly, leaning my head against the backboard. “I’ll listen, always.”

“You can come to me too. Tell me anything and everything,” he mumbled through his tired state.

“Love ya Buck. Sleep well.” I hummed quietly, closing my eyes.

“Love you too Kenz.” he murmured quietly before the room was filled with soft snores from both the soldier and me.

Things might not go back to how they were but they will get better.

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THanks for reading. IF you ever need someone to talk to if you ever have thoughts like these dont be afraid to send me a message! Im alwasy willing to talk through lifes troubles with soemone if it helps them! Also know that there are hotlines that you can call! 

[bittysvalentines]

You Shine in What I Am / Mas Brilhas No Que Sou

From: @aceinhyperspace

To: @sailorsav

Fic Summary: When Whiskey turns 18 years old, he receives his Gift. But what is he supposed to do with Love? No Content Warnings. General tags: Gen (no pairing); Asexual Whiskey; Eric Bittle; Magic Au; Message: I was so happy to see that I got your gift! Your magic AUs are some of my favourite fics and when I saw that Asexual Whiskey is your jam, I just KNEW what I was going to be writing about. I hope you enjoy!!

Connor knew what love was long before he knew he was ace. It was six year olds holding hands and twelve year olds sneaking kisses because they wanted to be grown up. It was the women in movies, pining after men and demanding roses. It was his teammates in the locker room, talking about bases and the girls they wanted to hook up with after games.

Connor knew that love was something physical and scary and frankly, he wanted no part of it.

Thankfully as everyone in his grade crept closer to their 18th birthdays, the “plant boy” jokes wound down. There was much more interesting news as people got their letters.

“I can’t believe Lauren got metal-bending and I got nothing,” Adriana complained one day at lunch, sprawled on the floor of the hallway outside their 5th period class.

“You know the Guild doesn’t actually call it metal-bending.” Whiskey said into his sandwich.

Adriana rolled her eyes so violently, her head moved as well, dragging her tightly coiled hair across the linoleum. “Ugh, you nerd. That’s not the point. Pretty white girl, I wear bows even on days where there’s no football games, Lauren. She gets to manipulate metal, Connor Whisk. Me-tal.”

“We don’t get a choice, Adri. And frankly, I’ll be thrilled when I get my letter and the Guild tells me ‘Hey, Connor, you’re off the hook. Go play hockey and don’t worry about accidentally setting your college dorm room on fire with this super exciting new superpower you manifested.’”

“Give Peder a break. He’s doing much better now.”

“Yeah, whatever, Adri.”

That evening when he got home, his mother was already at the kitchen table, Skyping her sister in Brasil, hands elegantly shaping the lump of clay spinning on the wheel.

Connor loved watching his mother work- ancient techniques interacting seamlessly with her magic. Her deep brown hands skimmed the edges of the vase, feeling for form sleeping inside the unshapen material. She once told him that her Gift was so much more than moving dirt around. From the rock beds lining the back of their desert home to the red dust she could sweep away with the movement of her hand, Ana Maria Francisca da Silva Whisk saw potential. She saw the shape of things that had been and were meant to be.

“I think I always knew,” She told him a couple years ago, combing her fingers through his hair, loose and chestnut colored, like his father. “Your avô had a farm when I was little. He couldn’t keep me out of the animal pens! He and my mother would lose sight of me for a minute, and they’d find me pelado como Adão e Eva-

“Mãe!”

“-sitting in the middle of the pigs, covered head to toe in mud.” She laughed and laughed.

That day, Connor didn’t feel much like laughing.

“Mamãe?”

“Si, meu amor?”

“Do you see anything in me?”

“O que você quer dizer?” His mother stopped the wheel and looked directly at him. Her eyes were dark, warm.

“I guess…” He stopped, unsure of the words. “I guess I’m worried.”

“Your letter?”

“Sim.”

She took a deep breath, the fine grey dust covering her hands loosening, gently floating to the floor. “Is that it?”

“I don’t know. I’m just ready for highschool to be over. Jake decided to spend all of bio making uncreative jokes about cellular reproduction. And how my gift would be to clone myself.”

“Meu amor, when we spoke about you coming out, I did tell you to be prepared. People can be cruel.”

“Okay, but I thought you meant that about the bi part, not the ace part.”

A small smile flickered across his mother’s lips. Her hand reached out to touch his cheek gently. “I just want things to be easy for you.”

“Eu sei, mamãe.” Connor sighed. “I guess I wanted to know that I’ll be something more than the weird kid.”

“Meu filho. You are so much more than I can tell you. I get glimpses of the man you will be and can only be proud.”

“Ugh, gross mom.” Connor complained, his voice rising in pitch, swatting her hand away.   

“Ah! Sem graça! Deixe seu mãe dá amor quando ela pode. Amanhã você vai ficar uma homem grande!”  

“Mom!” He ran off, and his mother tossed bits of clay at his retreating back.  

-------

Connor had to fight to open his eyes the next morning.

His eighteenth birthday. The day he would receive his Gift.

His feet couldn’t even lift off the ground as he drug himself down the hall towards the kitchen.

Please don’t let it be clones. Please don’t let it be clones.

It wouldn’t be clones, Connor reasoned with himself. His whole family had natural gifts or no gifts at all. If he was lucky, maybe he’d be like his father and oldest sister, who got to live life normally. That way he could focus on hockey and school and not worry about things exploding like Peder. His oldest brother’s pyrokinesis was the coolest thing ever for approximately five minutes.

He stood in the doorway, the glass door separating the kitchen from the rest of the house an immovable barrier. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.

“Meu amor, vem aqui,” his mother called gently from inside. Her black eyes, sometimes so disarming, were as soft as he ever had seen them. Using all of his strength, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, his mother stepped forward and wrapped him in her arms. “Voce ‘sta pronto?”

“Nunca.”

“Whatever it is, you can always decline, okay? There is no shame in that.” Her chin rested gently on his shoulder. When had he gotten so much taller than her? She’d always been a towering figure in the family, carrying them through.

“Okay.”

She stepped back, pulling the letter from her work apron. He took it with trepidation, carefully tearing the seal and unfolding the heavy paper.

After a few moments, most of which the words on the page didn’t register, he spoke.

“I… I think... the Guild sent the wrong thing, Mamae.”

“They’re just messengers. You know they have no control over what manifests.” His mother responded, hands already buried in the clay lumped on the wheel of the kitchen nook. “Deixa eu ver.”

His mother’s hand left gray fingerprints on the paper, but she didn’t seem to notice as her eyes scanned the letter.

“Amor.”

“Yes, mom?”

“Nao, not you amor. Amor amor.”

“I think it’s a mistake.” Connor whispered. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Love magic.

For him.

Connor Whisk, asexual extraordinaire, whose longest relationship was with the Shane Doan jersey pinned lovingly to his bedroom wall.

Love magic.

“Connor Silva Whisk.” The letter gently thwapped across the back of his head. “I raised you better than that. Now, if you don’t want it, that’s your decision to make. But what can you do with love? That is a very stupid question.”

Fast forward six years and behold: Whiskey, collegiate hockey champion, in possession of a liberal arts degree, bartending license, and a certificate in business administration, still has no idea.

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The day that Whiskey meets Eric Bittle, the lights go out.

No, seriously. The lights are actually out.

“I’m so sorry! That just, happens sometimes? I’m workin’ on it. Oh Lord. There is nothing worse than these delicate wire light bulbs, one short and they’re toast! I am so sorry. You know, they make LED versions of these now? Not that I’m telling you how to run your business but-”

Whiskey only stares at the man in front of him, blonde and tanned from the summer sun, already on his knees gingerly picking up shards of glass with his bare hands, words running at a thousand miles an hour.

Poetry, early readers, maybe a teacher? Needs something smoky to drink… whiskey… no, red wine. I have the perfect Zin in the back.

His quick scan of the other man’s desires only takes a second or two. His needs sit close to the surface, close enough that he was probably on his way to ask Whiskey himself.

“If you want to help, at least use a broom. I don’t need to clean up your blood too.” Whiskey says from behind the bar.

The young man freezes, hands already filled with glass. “Well, I suppose that would make much more sense.”

“Yeah, probably,” Whiskey says. He reaches out with a metal bucket. “Here.”

The glass clinks as it’s dropped into the bucket.

“I really am sorry about that. I’m Eric. Eric Bittle. I live up on the third floor. And uh, I have a gift for electricity. Well. Usually. Sometimes unfamiliar systems don’t react well to my emotions. Have you read that fantastic book by Derek Nurse? That’s what caused this whole mess in the first place.”

“Connor Whisk. People call me Whiskey.”

Somehow, even after their disaster of a first meeting, Eric becomes a staple of Whiskey’s bookstore-slash-bar. Most nights find Eric in the corner sofa, a glass of red wine in hand, grading papers for the kids he student teaches.

On a slow night, Whiskey sits next to him, reading through new releases he wants to stock.

Eric’s head hits the back of the sofa.

“Why can’t I just become an electrician?”

Whiskey snorts. “That’d be too predictable. Also, you clearly adore children. You’ll make a great teacher.”

“You’ve never seen me with a child in your life, Connor.” Eric groans.

“Trust me, I just know.”

Not that Whiskey was ever planning on telling him how.

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The day that Whiskey meets Jack Zimmerman, the lights go off again.

This time metaphorically.

It’s a busy Wednesday night, which puts it right between a quiet Saturday and an overwhelming Monday. Ford and Tango from upstairs are arguing over a game of scrabble; Ransom laughs at them from above his post-rotation beer, hand on Holster’s knee. Dex and Bitty are finishing a diagram of the best way to rewire the bar lights to save energy while still providing ample lighting. Nurse helps stack chairs after his poetry reading. A couple other folks float in and out of the store, occasionally stopping to ask a question. And Whiskey is hovering around all of them, making sure everyone is satisfied.

The seating area is small, so when a stupidly handsome man wearing a godawful black tracksuit walks in, everyone notices.

Grad student… maybe? He’s here for history? Queer Theory? Well, he’ll get more of the latter, but he’ll see that out soon enough. No alcohol. I’ll make some tea in the back after I check in with everyone.

“Excuse me?” Eric leans forward, bridge of his nose crinkled in interest.

“What?” Whiskey asks, picking up the empty glasses on the low coffee table.

“You just started talking about Queer Theory and tea?” Eric says. “I wasn’t hallucinating was I?”

Dex shakes his head. “Nope, I heard it too.”

Whiskey’s stomach drops. “Uh, nothing, just restocking the shelves.”

“If you say so.” Eric is completely unconvinced, but is too polite to push the subject in public.

Yellow.

The echo of desire floats from among the shelves. The new customer’s hands rest on a book, the cover a bright canary, and Whiskey smiles.

With that, he leaves Eric to his drink to help the customers that are reclining against the bar.

About 5 minutes later, the customer had taken a seat at one of the couches in the reading corner, setting the book on the coffee table between him and Bitty.

“Do you mind?” Whiskey, hears him ask. Bittle’s face is flushed.

“Not at all! On second thought, let me move my mess so you don’t have to be competing with… whatever this book is-” Eric waves animatedly at the pile that had been forming in front of him.

Whiskey barely restrains himself from snorting.

Bittle hurriedly shoves his work into a stack and then escapes to the bar counter, “Good Lord, it’s a good thing that man dresses like a russian mobster because if he paired his face with nice clothes, it’d be over for the rest of us.

Ford, two seats down, snorts into her coffee mug.

“This is a small shop, Bits.” Whiskey laughs, “Careful with the volume.”

“Honey, this is New England. I travelled 3,000 miles to be unabashedly loud and gay. This is a queer bookstore for God’s sake.”

“You can say what you want, just know that the object of your unabashedness can probably hear you,” Whiskey says.

They look over to the man in the corner and sure enough, his eyes are on the both of them, a deep furrow in the middle. The intensity of his gaze and the concerned frown on his lips seem to indicate anger. But Connor feels something else.

It hadn’t been the book.

Oh.

OH.

Yellow.

It smells like Quebec in the summer (had he ever been to Quebec?), and feels like a long car trip, singing into the wind, stealing ears of corn from the farmer’s field, grilling it over a campfire at night. There is expensive whiskey and cheap beer on his lips, elation.

Yellow like the afternoon sun reflecting against the pond in winter. Blinding and exhilarating, flying with no sense of direction and no hope of stopping.

“You.” Whiskey whispers.

He can’t hear if Eric responds, his head still filled with desires not his own. It takes him another moment to come into the present, shaking his head subtly to remove the extra noise.

“Connor? Are you alright?” Eric says, gently laying a hand on his arm.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just caught up for a moment.”

“You sure?”

“Just a side effect. I try not to go that deeply but some people suck me in.”

“Oh I knew it! You are a telepath!” Eric whispers excitedly. “Did I tell you my PawPaw once-”

Whiskey cuts Eric off, running an embarrassed hand through his hair. “No, no. I definitely can’t read people’s minds. But, uhhh. I can see what they… love?”

Eric’s eyes widened. “My Lord.” There’s a reverent sparkle in them that Whiskey can’t explain. “You have a Love Gift. That’s something special. Much more special than electricity.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. “Sure. Really special. I can’t do anything but tell what drink someone wants before they order.”

“It’s a real shame you think that way, Connor.” Eric shakes his head. “Well, now I know how you’ve managed to draw us all here like flies to a sty.”

“Isn’t it flies to honey-”

“Think about it. All of us were floating around, not from the same place or backgrounds. Some with gifts and many without, but now we’re here. Together. That’s because of you.”

Eric saunters back to the couch, oblivious to the distress rising in Whiskey’s chest.

“Hey, Ford. You mind watching front of house for a second?” Connor manages to say before he loses his breath completely, slipping into the back room before receiving a response.

The phone is clammy in his hands, but, like clockwork, she picks up on the second ring.

“Amor?”

“Mom.

“Que está acontecendo, filho? Você ‘tá no trabalho?”

“Mom, I did it again.”

There’s no sound on the other end of the phone for a brief moment. When his mother’s voice comes back on the line, he feels his breath release.

“Okay, I can talk now. Tell me everything.”

“Well, there’s a group of people that come to the store a lot. And I like them, mom. I like all of them. But Eric-”

“That’s the Southern boy, right?”

“Yes Mom, but Eric found out about my Gift today. And he said that everyone is here because of me. It’s my fault. It’s like college all over again.”

“Did he say he didn’t want to be there?”

“No but-”

“Did he say anything about being in love with you- romantically I mean.”

“No, that’s not-”

“Then this doesn’t sound anything like what happened back then.”

Connor takes a few deep breaths. “Mom, I don’t know what to do with this Gift,” he barely whispers into the phone.

A few more seconds pass.

“This may not be my place. You are a grown man now and can make your own decisions. But my love? You need to get your head out of your ass.”  

Whiskey stops, shocked. “What?”

The voice on the line is firm, like the earth she manipulates. “I am your mother. I would give you the world, make it kind and easy. But I can’t. You told me, all of seventeen shaking years old that you were bisexual and ace and I let you make the choice to tell others on your own. You received your Gift and kept it on your own. And then when you transferred out east and graduated and started your own business- you did that on your own too. If you want to live the rest of your life away from others, separated by your fear, that is a choice you also make on your own.”

A deep sigh breaks the tension across the line and when his mother speaks again, her tone is gentle.

“I am here for you now, whatever you need, but that won’t always be true. What happened in college was awful, amor. Love magic is a powerful, dangerous thing. But you are not that scared young boy anymore. You are building a new home with new people. And that requires you to love, filho. Love. Love yourself and others and let them love you too.”

Whiskey feels the wet lines running down his cheeks before he realizes he’s crying.

“Thank you mom. I love you.”

“Eu te amo também. Agora, faz uma decisão. E chama-me mais frequente, eu sinto falta da sua voz.”   

When Connor comes out of the back room a couple minutes later, he does so with his Gift wide open. And the hearts of the people in the space are so bright, he can’t even see the lights.