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elixirfromthestars · 4 months ago

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Crossroads

Pairing: Ex!Bucky Barnes x Neurosurgeon!Reader

Summary: On a rainy night on your way home, fate decides to cross your path with someone who used to hold the dearest place in your heart.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warning(s): ANGST / heartbreak / failed relationship / very tiny mention of a surgical procedure, not in great detail / I know I mentioned angst already, but this is all angst with maybe like a tiny sprinkle of fluff / medical career mentions (I did my research, but just in case I got anything wrong) / mentions of Bucky's trauma and hardships from his past

Prompt/Theme: chai latte (caught in the cold rain) + melancholy (write a tragic tale)

a/n: This is my submission for @the-slumberparty ‘s Winds of Autumn Challenge. Did I choose melancholy because of my name? Perhaps 🫢 In all honesty, it has been too long since I wrote a pure angst piece, so I knew I had to write something to get the heartbreak going. As a piece of advice, not everything is as it seems, so wait till the end for the whole story to come together. I would say happy reading, but instead, I'll wait here with tissues and a hug for those who need it after reading this. ( ´･･)ﾉ(._.`) Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ // main masterlist ♡

Lightning crackles across the sky as you scurry across the puddle-ridden streets of New York desperately searching for a cab. The wind had rendered your umbrella useless, so the rain fell in harsh sheets against your body—soaking you from head to toe.

You had been performing an emergency surgery on one of your patients in a different hospital from the one you resided in. Your patient had suffered from an aneurysm brought on by a complication from a previous surgery. She couldn’t be transported across the city as immediate medical attention was needed, so you were transported to said hospital via the hospital helicopter.

Which you obviously couldn’t use to fly back home.

The surgery took longer than anticipated—eight hours to be exact. When you were close to being done there was unexpected bleeding coming from the surgical sight and you had to go back in and reexamine everything to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, there were no more complications after that and you could focus on stabilizing your patient so she could go and recover in the intensive care unit.

The downpour had started towards the end of your surgery. You were far from home and the already unfamiliar streets had blurred together amongst the harsh streaks of water obscuring your vision. It was still the early hours of the night and you were exhausted—longing to collapse against your bedsheets and wrap yourself in their warmth. Tiredness had seeped its way into your bones faster than the rain had seeped into your coat.

As you cross another street you spot a bus shelter nearby and make a run for it. Knowing it might be a while before you can catch a cab and at least those glass walls would be enough to protect you from the icy wind that threatened to freeze you. Once inside you try your best to warm up your hands, observing the way your breath materializes in the air. You consider ordering a rideshare, but you know the numbness in your fingertips has to go away before you can take your phone out and order it.

Fate, however, had other plans for you.

“Y/n?”

Your body stiffens when a voice calls your name, flinching slightly at the way the thunder that follows rattles the glass shelter. The shiver that makes its way down your spine is no longer from the chilly air.

This can’t be happening—not after two years. Not when you had finally moved on from him.

He calls your name again, his presence cementing itself into reality. You don’t want to face him, but there’s that small part of you—the part that will forever be his—that begs you to look. That needs to know if it's him.

Your head turns slowly, holding your breath as you keep your emotions in check as best as you can. Hoping the universe was playing a cruel joke on you and presenting you with someone who sounded exactly like him.

But what stranger would ever utter your name with such heart-aching familiarity?

Deep down you knew there was no mistaking it. It was him. It was Bucky. You would know the sound of his voice even in the loudest of crowds—like a language only your heart spoke. Even now when it was on the cusp of becoming a forgotten one.

Your eyes meet his as a flash of lightning illuminates you both. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the way his eyes seem stormier than the sky. Filled with as many conflicting emotions as you know are reflected in yours.

“Bucky. Hi…”

When you find your voice it sounds foreign to you—quiet and tight. The years of rebuilding every part of yourself are on the edge of crumbling down in a simple greeting. Bucky gives you a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes as he looks between you and the bus shelter. He frowns for a moment as if having a silent debate with himself.

“Is it okay if I um…?” He nods towards the inside of the bus shelter as he trails off. This is when you finally notice the way the rain whips against his skin, soaking him where he stands, and it dawns on you what he’s asking.

He wants to know if it’s okay for him to seek shelter from the rain with you. The man who used to insist on holding your hand wherever you went because he loved the feeling of your hand in his, the man who would hug you from behind and hide in the crook of your neck as he showered it with kisses when he missed you on the days you came home late, the man who cuddled you close every night and whispered how much he loved you between kisses that seemed to want to reach your very soul—that man was now asking for your permission to be in the same space as you.

Oh, how cruel fate could be…

“Yes, of course. It's fine,” your response is polite—too polite, and your movements are virtually robotic as you take a few steps to your right to keep a stranger’s distance between you. He mumbles a small thanks before he steps inside, his hands firmly in his jacket pockets. Keeping to his personal space as much as possible.

Silence stretches between you—heavy with unspoken sentiments—interrupted only by the booming of thunder and the drumming of rain as it hits whatever is in its way. You try to distract yourself by counting the seconds between the stoplight changing from green to yellow to red and then green again, but it's no use when he’s but a few steps away from you. The man who you used to know like the back of your hand is now a stranger and it's causing you more distress than you’d like to admit. The inside of your cheek feels the brunt of that torment as you bite it incessantly. You have to do something about this silence before it consumes you.

“How have you—”

“How’s it been—”

You both speak up at the same time, holding each other’s gaze for a fraction of a second before falling into an awkward laugh. He clears his throat before encouraging you to speak first. You look away, the civility of his tone crawling under your skin and unstitching mended wounds—some of which still had not fully healed yet.

“Okay, well how have you been, Bucky?”

“Good. I’ve been good. You?”

“Oh. I’ve been good too.”

The exchange went by quickly between half-truths and hesitations. Then it crept up again—the silence. Gnawing at you both and mocking you for not being able to have a simple conversation. When words between you used to flow as freely as the rain that traps you here—really the lack of vocabulary now is laughable. Your past selves would have never been able to wrap their heads around how hard talking to one another would be.

Your past selves would also never understand why you broke up.

Your current self still doesn’t entirely understand.

Bucky shifts on his feet, lips in a tight line as he speaks up, “I read about your recent award. Congratulations, you deserved it,” the sincerity in his voice causes your head to snap in his direction. When you see his genuine smile, one that makes the corner of his eyes slightly crinkle, it tugs at your heartstrings in a way that threatens to pull you back to him.

You won that award for your research achievements in neuroscience a few months ago. Which could only mean that at least until a few months ago, Bucky had been keeping up with you. A piece of information that left you speechless and with a million thoughts running through your mind.

Had he always kept up with you?

Or did he only just recently revisit a part of his past?

Were you on his mind all this time like he had been in yours?

There was so much you wanted to ask—to say—but instead, your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water until you were able to mutter a soft, “Thank you.” The sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rain. Bucky caught it, however, his body less rigid hearing the familiar cadence. He smiles a little wider, the kind of smile that chips away at the walls you built up these last two years and insists you spill a string of secrets you have locked away in the deepest depths of your heart.

All secrets that revolve around him.

How you also kept up with him, never scrolling past a social media or news post highlighting anything that had to do with the Avengers in hopes of getting a glimpse of him. Visiting the coffee shop where you two met on occasions telling yourself it's because no other coffee tastes better, but really it's because of the memories of you two that lie in every corner of that building. The loss of him follows you even when you order takeout because you would rather deal with the lie of ordering for two rather than with the truth of ordering for one.

However, the biggest secret of them all pertains to those days when the ache, the longing, and the loneliness become a cacophony too loud to ignore, that you find yourself rummaging through your closet. Searching for the shoe box that’s tucked away amongst miscellaneous items. One that holds the pieces of your heart that shattered the day Bucky broke up with you.

A faded movie ticket from the Lord of the Rings marathon you took him to, gum wrappers folded into hearts that Bucky had a habit of doing every time you needed a new bookmark, photobooth pictures that always ended with you two kissing, a letter he wrote you on your one year anniversary where he told you he loved you for the first time, and other items you cherished with every part of you.

Holding onto these things might seem to others like a mistake when your goal is to move on, but these were things you couldn’t find the strength to get rid of. And if that made you weak, clinging onto bits of what was the greatest love of your life, then so be it.

You were weak—and quite frankly you didn’t give a damn.

The one thing holding you back from pouring your heart out to Bucky was how things had ended. The vagueness, the fight, the resentment and confusion. All of it took hold of you and screamed at you to be more cautious—to keep your guard up.

Thunder snaps you out of your thoughts, grounding you in the present once more. You need answers, but you know you have to be careful about how you retrieve them.

You cross your arms, pressing your coat tighter against your body in an attempt to comfort yourself—turning to face him only to have your heart skip a beat when you realize he is already looking at you. His gaze softens with a vulnerability that makes the words get stuck in your throat.

You let out a shaky exhale, “I uh—I saw Sam became the new Captain America. I also saw you on the news fighting alongside him. Are you two friends now?” The question comes out innocent enough, making Bucky’s demeanor brighten as he takes it as a sign that you’re open to talking to him. Your hidden intention behind that question is a need for confirmation of something that eats away at you anytime you think about his reason for breaking up with you.

Bucky runs a hand through his damp hair, “Yeah, sort of—it's a long story. We went on a mission together and I realized he wasn’t that annoying, so we became mission partners and I guess you could consider us friends now,” he explains to you with a fond expression, one that leaves a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Through the occasional flashes of lightning you’re able to get a better look at him and the sinking feeling is on the verge of drowning you.

Bucky no longer had harsh dark circles under his eyes, his scruff was nicely shaven, and his posture was lighter as if the world was no longer falling heavily on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than when you last saw him, he had lost a bit of weight, and he had found a friend in Sam. Something you had encouraged him to do while you two were still together, but he refused on account of saying he only needed you. All of this verified to you the one thing you feared the most.

Bucky had been right all along. He had been right in breaking up with you.

Two years ago, Bucky had sat you down on his living room couch and told you he wasn’t ready for a relationship. That was it—that was his reason for ending things with you after almost two years of being together. He claimed he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment, not after everything he had gone through. And seeing him now, seeing how much better he looked was enough proof for you. No amount of your love, your support, or your companionship would have been enough to keep him in your life.

Bucky had been right all along, and you hated how utterly bitter that made you.

How could you accept that what tore you to pieces mended Bucky back together?

The air between you shifts, it’s thick and acrid, and your heart races in your chest with fury as loud as the thunder that rumbles in the clouds. Leaving you wondering if Bucky can differentiate which one is more turbulent. He can sense the change in you and it causes the heaviness in his shoulders to return and his body to go rigid—his own heart threatening to leap out of his chest.

Your phone rings and you use it as an excuse to turn away from Bucky. You pull it out of your bag and check the caller ID—it's Nate. Your neighbor from down the hall of your apartment complex who moved in a couple of months ago, and was now a casual hookup of yours. You weren’t one for hookups, but after years of no connection you longed to feel something—anything with anyone.

You were only human after all.

You answer the call, needing to put your attention elsewhere before you say anything to Bucky you might regret later. You keep your responses short, knowing Nate could only be calling you at this hour for one reason and one reason only. Bucky didn’t need to know that reason, so you decide to keep the conversation as brief as possible.

Bucky shifts his weight on his feet as he pretends to watch the rain. Focusing on a water droplet sliding down the glass wall as it races the other droplets to the ground. He’s tempted to use his super soldier hearing to listen in on your conversation, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to. There are only bits and pieces that slip through—like the fact that you’re talking to a man—and it has one soul-crushing thought come to his mind.

You have someone. Bucky comes to the conclusion that you have moved on.

As soon as you end the call the words slip out of Bucky’s mouth before he can stop them.

“Was that your boyfriend?” The word boyfriend tastes bitter on his tongue and he can’t help the prickly edge to his voice. You catch the way his jaw tenses and he averts your gaze—ripping the wounds of heartbreak right open. He has no right to feel any sort of way about you moving on. He knows it, you know it, and yet there he is troubled at the thought of you with someone else.

Screw not saying something you’ll regret later.

“Yeah. That was him,” you lie with the utmost confidence that even you believe it. A tiny voice in the back of your head scolds you for lying, but it's hard to hear it when the resentment fights its way up to the surface and wins.

Bucky had fallen from a train, been brainwashed, tortured, beaten left and right in battles, gone to war, blipped out of existence, stabbed and shot more times than he can count and yet no physical blow could ever amount to the sheer devastating pain he was feeling right now knowing you had found someone else. Knowing there was someone else who got to see your sleepy smiles in the mornings, who got to cuddle you close to his chest on movie nights, who got to steal kisses from you while cooking dinner together, and who got to hear your laughter whenever he wanted—a sound that never failed to make Bucky all warm and fuzzy inside.

There was someone else who now had the privilege and the honor to be loved by you, and to love you.

Bucky would never be able to recover from that.

“I’m…happy for you. I’m happy you were able to move on,” Bucky lies through his teeth as he says those words that feel like acid on his tongue.

“It’s not like I had a choice in the matter,” you retort coldly, causing Bucky to flinch as if you had struck him.

“Y/n I—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how you weren’t ready for a relationship. How ending it was for the best. Breaking every single promise you made to me like it meant nothing to you. You don’t tell someone you love them, that you want to move in together—you don’t talk about the future and then turn around and break up with them because you’re not ready for something long-term. Not unless…not unless it was all a lie from the start,” your voice cracks by the end and it takes everything within you to swallow the lump in your throat before it suffocates you.

The thunder roars so loudly it shakes the glass walls around you and for a second you think they might break—but ultimately they don’t. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, taking a sharp intake of a breath before blowing out the air in what sounds like a choked sob. Every fiber of his being longs to break the distance, wrap you in his arms, and never let you go. Cradling you close to his chest like he used to whenever you were upset.

He had lost that privilege—he’s well aware of that, and yet his wishes remain the same.

Bucky knows there’s more he can say. Things that might not restore what was broken, but that will definitely give you answers or closure. Although, at the risk of hurting you even more he keeps them to himself and instead whispers a strained, “I’m sorry.” Letting the weight of his apology hang in the air.

Your tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away not wanting to cry in front of him. Maybe you shouldn’t be bitter and resentful—after all the man you loved with your whole heart ended up better off without you. If you truly loved him you should be happy for him. Despite that, there is no ounce of happiness that you can conjure up for him right now. At this moment, you are swimming in an ocean of negative emotions that are close to pulling you under into a very dark place.

You can be the bigger person tomorrow—tonight you won’t be.

Bucky can hear it before it comes into view, a cab is finally making its way down the road. He steps out into the road to wave it down, the rain ricocheting off of his shoulders. Without speaking another word, he heads over to the cab and opens the door to the backseat, gesturing for you to go in. For a second, you hesitate to take the cab. You know once you do this is it—it's over.

A beat passes until you make a decision. With a heavy heart, you force one foot in front of the other, stepping into the rain and then into the backseat. Accepting this small gesture from Bucky as a heartfelt goodbye. If you stuck around any longer that bit of animosity brewing in the pit of your stomach would’ve boiled over.

You don’t look at Bucky as he closes the door, but you steal one last glance at him as you tell the driver your address. The sight squeezes your chest so tightly it might stop beating—Bucky is crying. He’s hiding it well with the rain and with the way he stands, but you know him better than that. At one point he was your other half and you can tell by the way his jaw trembles, his eyes narrow, and his expression molds to one of pain that he’s crying.

You hide your face from him as the dam breaks and everything you had been holding back comes flooding out.

Bucky steps back into the shelter of the glass walls and watches the cab drive off with you in it—taking his heart and his hope with you.

Bucky tries to force the tears to stop, but he knows it's no use. Just like you, he had held back a sea of truths he wanted to confess. Truths he wasn’t sure you even wanted to hear or he even deserved to tell.

Bucky is not doing good. He has to throw himself into work and missions every waking moment because if he doesn’t his thoughts will run straight to you. Every night he has to hold his pillow close to his chest because he got so used to sleeping with you cuddled against him, that he feels like a part of him is missing and it steals his sleep. He tosses and turns for hours and stares at the ceiling as if there he’ll find the answers on how to make the heartache go away. In the silence, he longs to hear your voice, so the radio and the tv stay on so he doesn’t have to sit with the uncomfortable. The food he eats lacks flavor and the world around him seems devoid of color.

His existence feels soulless without you.

Sam is trying to get him to talk about it, but you’re the one thing Sam is not allowed to bring up. Not when Bucky is ashamed of the full story—of the truth.

The full story—the full truth—was the one thing most of all that he wanted to get off of his chest and confess to you. Bucky didn’t break up with you because he wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship. That was the biggest lie he had ever told and one that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He was ready. He was so damn ready he even bought the ring to ask you to marry him—to make forever official. That was until he noticed how his problems began to bleed into your life. So much so, that your career as a surgeon began to suffer from it. The one thing you were most passionate about—your dream—the one thing you worked blood, sweat, and tears for was in jeopardy because Bucky was still suffering from the baggage of his past as the Winter Solider.

Bucky felt like a burden. You would never call him that and he knew if you ever heard him call himself that, you would do and say everything you could to assure him he was wrong. You loved him so deeply and so selflessly that your career became an afterthought. When his nightmares plagued him, when his PTSD was triggered, when the world felt like it was closing in on him—there you were. By his side no matter the time of day to hold him close and reassure him he wasn’t alone, that he was safe, and that he was loved. Bucky had become so dependent on you he didn’t realize how it had affected you until he stumbled across the warning letters your job sent, the voicemails, and the overheard calls. The articles that came out questioning your morality for dating the Winter Solider—a cold-blooded killer.

Your reputation as a surgeon was on the line because of him.

That’s when Bucky knew he had to call it off. He had to be the one to end it and fix his own problems before his darkness ruined you. You had sacrificed so much and worked endlessly to prove yourself in your field, that there was no way he would let you risk all of that for him. He knew he couldn’t be honest with you over the real reasons—you would never accept them. So he made sure to find a reason that would lead you to hate him.

Bucky knew he had to be the villain of the story. He was used to it, he’d be okay with it. As long as you were safe from the shadows that followed him, he would gladly be the bad guy. For some people that was all he’d ever be, at least in this case he could control the narrative and in the end it would benefit you.

Bucky couldn’t give you forever, no, but in letting you go he made sure you kept your dream—and that was enough for him. That meant everything to him.

He had to suffer the greatest loss of his life so that the love of his life could be free. A hard truth that he would forever carry the weight of and that you would never know was done as an ultimate act of love—the selfless act of knowing when to say goodbye.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky angst #bucky fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes x you #james barnes x y/n #james barnes imagine

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inthehouseoffinwe · 6 months ago

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Hear me out. Maedhros would make an incredible high king not only for his own skill, but because he has six brothers keeping a close eye on everything.

Maedhros: The Leader. Inspiring. Strong. The strategist unbeaten. The one who survived what no other elf has. An incredibly strong personality that can bring even the most stubborn into his command. Undefeated in battle, feared by Morgoth himself. The diplomat who can bring together groups of people who hate each other to a common goal. A King in every sense of the word with a presence that sends the enemy scattering and elves thinking several times before daring to cross him.

Maglor: PR and Media. Songs that can turn stupid costly mistakes into tragic tales of heroism and strength spread far a wide until no one can remember a version of events other than what he says. A great right hand able to take over when needed. Commanding, responsible, charming, can get anyone to tell him anything and great at establishing diplomatic connections. The people person. Loud and powerful or the quiet shadow at Mae’s back, always watching. Reading the court before the elves even know what they think and exposing them with deceptively soft words.

Celegorm: The Hunter. Keeps the lands safe. Keeps them fed. Keeps an eye on the hunters and the army in general. You can’t escape him. You can’t hide from him. And with all the languages and tongues of birds and beats he speaks, he hears all.

Caranthir: The Tradesman. The money man. Keeps everything running, keeps an eye on the economy, great at establishing trade routes that leave the Noldor in the best position. Good with materials and knows exactly what they need when. For what time of year. When to trade it. Smart and shrewd, you can’t double cross him, and he’ll always get you the best prices.

Curufin: The forge master. The armourer. The architect. Nothing beats his work, and Mae’s armour especially is literally impenetrable. He’s the one who keeps the city at its peak, no stone at anything but perfect condition and weapons unlike any other. Hidden passages and secret stores. But he’s also a silver tongue like his eldest two brothers and he’s *very* good at convincing people, but also tearing them down and making sure they’ll never be a threat again. He can and will destroy your life before your eyes and you’ll never recover.

Ambarussa: The Spies. You don’t see them coming. You think Amrod’s gone only for Amras to take his place. Light footed and underestimated, they route out any schemes. They’re also the best connected to the green elves, so easily overlooked but smarter than most give them credit for. They’re the resident healers, and can make a poultice out of anything.

Celebrimbor: The Inventor. The one whose creativity knows no bounds. The creator of incredible Power infused devices like the rings to keep his people and family safe. A leader in his own right trained by his father and uncles who Maedhros is proud to call his heir.

Feel free to add your own thoughts!

#maedhros #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #amrod #amras #ambarussa #i have a lot of thoughts about this ok #and I’m definitely missing some stuff but oh well #feanorians #on high kings of the Noldor #silmarillion #tolkien

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jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear · 2 months ago

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The Scarecrow || Recommended Reading || Master List

For your reading pleasure, here follows a master list of all SCARECROW-CENTRIC comics (cameos and one/two page appearances will not be mentioned) listed roughly in order of release. Note: some comics are included even if Scarecrow is not the main antagonist, but only if he plays a centric role in the overarching story

Feel free to message me if you think I missed something! This list is comics only, and does not include children's books or other media.

GOLDEN AGE

World’s Finest #3 - Riddle of the Human Scarecrow

Detective Comics #73 - The Scarecrow Returns

The Brave and the Bold #197 - The Autobiography of Bruce Wayne!

SILVER AGE

Batman #189 - Fright of the Scarecrow

Batman #200 - The Man Who Radiated Fear!"

Detective Comics #389 - Batman's Evil Eye

BRONZE AGE

Detective Comics #503 - The 6 Days of the Scarecrow

Batman #373/Detective #540 - The Frequency of Fear/Something Scary

The Super Friends #32

Detective Comics #571 - Fear for $ale

Joker #8 - The Scarecrow's Fearsome Face-Off!

Batman 400 - Resurrection Night

THE 90s

Batman #455-#457 Identity Crisis: Part 1 + 2/Master of Fear

Batman: Haunted Knight- Legends of the Dark Knight Halloween Special #1 - Fears

Batman #495-#496

Batman: Long Halloween (Series)

Shadow of the Bat #1

Shadow of the Bat #16-18 “God of Fear”

Batman Dark Victory (Series)

Batman: Haunted Knight - Fears

Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight Halloween Special #1

Batman Annual #19 - Masters of Fear

Batman Adventures #4 - #5 - Riot Act

Batman Adventures #19 - Troubled Dreams

Batman Adventures Annual #1 - Study Hall

Batman Gotham Adventures #32 - The Remote Controller

Batman/Scarecrow 3D

Catwoman #58 - #60, #93

Fear of Faith (Legends of the Dark Knight #116, Batman: Shadow of the Bat #84, Batman #564, Detective Comics #731)

New Year's Evil: Scarecrow - Mistress of Fear

Batman Crimson Mist

Nightwing #9 - #11

2000 - 2009

Batman Daredevil - King of New York

Detective Comics #820 Face the ɘɔɒᖷ

DC Super Friends #8

Batman #608–619 (HUSH)

Batman Gotham Knights #16 + #49 / Batman: Black and White

Legends of the Dark Knight #137-141 - Terror

Gotham Knights #23 - Fear of Success

Superman/Batman: Torment (#37-42)

Batman #626-630 - As the Crow Flies

Superman/Batman #38 - 40

Batman Eternal #47

Batman and Robin Eternal #6, #14- #15

DC Halloween Special #1 - The Ballad of Ichabod Crane

Gotham After Midnight (Series)

Joker’s Asylum: Scarecrow

Year One: Batman/Scarecrow

2010 - 2020

Blackest Night #6 -Blackest Night

Untold Tales of the Blackest Night - Blackest Nightmare

DC Halloween Special '10 - Trick for the Scarecrow

Forever Evil: Arkham War (Series)

Batman the Dark Knight #10 - #15 - Cycle of Violence

Batgirl Vol 3 #2-3 - Batgirl Rising: Point of New Origin

Detective Comics v2 #23.3 Scarecrow

Swamp Thing #19-20

Harley Quinn #28 - #30

Batwoman #7 - #9 - Fear and Loathing

Green Lanterns #17 - Darkest Knight

Nightwing #50, #53 - #56

Batman ‘66 Meets the Man from U.N.C.L.E (series)

Batman '66 #28 - Scarecrow Comes to Town

Kings of Fear (series)

Batman/TMNT Adventures #4 - To laugh so not to cry

Shazam #12 - When Strikes the Scarecrow

Wonder Woman: Agent of Peace #4

Legends of the Dark Knight #16

Batman: Gotham Nights #17 - Harvest of Fear; He Who Eats Last...

Batman: The Adventures Continue #10

Fear State (Series) (FS Alpha + Omega, 106, #111–117, Detective Comics 1056, Harley Quinn #6)

Future State Harley Quinn #1- #2

2021 AND BEYOND

Truth and Justice #10

ArkhaManiacs #1

Man-Bat (Series)

Wayne Family Adventures #55 - #56

Gotham City Villains Anniversary Giant #1

Detective Comics #1049 -1050 - House of Gotham

The Joker Presents: A Puzzlebox #8 - #9

Knight Terrors: Nightwing (Series)

DC's I know what you did Last Crisis

Batman/Catwoman: The Gotham War: Red Hood #2

Batman: The Audio Adventures Special #1 + #6

Batman '89 Echoes (series)

The Batman & Scooby-Doo Mysteries #7

Suicide Squad: Kill Arkham Asylum #3

Little Batman: Month One (series)

Batman: The Brave and the Bold #19

#Jonathan Crane #Scarecrow #The Scarecrow #Comic Recs #Master List #Scarecrow Comic Master List #Recommended Reading #this may be missing one or two #let me know #again #scarecrow has to be a main part of the story for it to be on this list not a cameo or one page appearance #DC #DC Comics

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hazard-symbols-that-fuck-hard · 2 years ago

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Okay time for the PBS Kids essay

Read it under the cut!

:readmore:

In 1968, before there was PBS Kids proper, there was Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. While it came several decades before the children’s block, it laid the foundation for the themes and values present in every facet of the network’s history.

Mr. Roger famously hated children’s programming at the time. To him, it all was droll and useless. But he didn’t dissuade the medium entirely— he saw potential. Potential that led to a few smaller television jobs, and eventually the creation of Mr. Roger’s neighborhood.

Rogers didn’t invent educational TV for children, but he did perfect it. He poured real heart and soul into probably the most sincere, heartfelt program in history.

Honestly, he could have his own essay. The more things you learn about the real man of Mr. Rogers, the more you’ll like him.

Anyway, the biggest thing that makes PBS different is the fact that it earns money through grants, fundraisers, and private donors— not through sponsorships and merchandise sales. This way, PBS Kids can push programming that it feels is important, rather than programming that merely sells well.

This also means PBS is less afraid of pushing social boundaries. Money doesn’t go away when their shows become subjects of debate— and Mr. Rogers took full advantage of this.

For context, this was 1969. The Jim Crow era had just barely, barely ended. Pool segregation was still very much legal.

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Mr. Rogers sharing a pool and a towel with the Black Mr. Clemmons was a pretty big deal at the time— especially on a show made for children.

Rogers was far from the untouchable sacred cow of today. When he was alive, he had a large number of detractors. Let’s just say that scene didn’t fly nicely by everyone.

Just one year after the debut of Mr. Roger’s came Sesame Street.

While Mr. Roger’s was made for all children, Sesame Street had the explicit goal of supplementing the education of underserved communities— especially inner-city Black (and later Latino) children.

While it was made to be accessible to children of all races and income levels, they definitely went the extra mile to make it something special for inner-city Black and Brown kids. (Why do you think it it’s “Sesame Street” and not “Sesame Cul-de-Sac”?)

At the time, a wholesome, sweet show set in a brownstone street was practically unheard of.

Jon Stone, the casting director, deliberately sought to make the cast as rich with color as he possibly could, bringing on a huge amount of Black talent such as Loretta Long, Matt Robinson, and Kevin Clash, as well as featuring Black celebrities as guest stars. Later, the show would expand its horizons, bringing on actors from Latino, Asian, Native American, and many more backgrounds.

White actors were and still are a minority on show.

In addition to letters and numbers, the purpose of Sesame Street is clear: make kids of color know that they’re smart, beautiful, and loved.

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It doesn’t get more explicit than this.

I want to point out this comment because it’s funny

You’re telling me this bitch isn’t Hispanic???

Anyway, these two were followed up by Reading Rainbow in 1983. And guess what?

That’s right. Non-white focus.

These three shows, (along with other, lesser-known programs like Lamb-Chops Play Along, Newton’s Apple, and Shining Times Station (who featured Ringo Starr himself?? seriously how did that happen and why does no one talk about it) and some other nostalgic favorites like Bill Nye the Science guy, The Magic Schoolbus, Arthur, and Thomas the Tank Engine) aired on the new PTV block, which evolved into PBS Kids in 1999, bringing along Between the Lions, Dragon Tales, and many more.

Arthur is another stand-out that I’d like to talk about— it doesn’t have the same racial focus of Sesame Street, but it does focus on different income levels. The characters have various housing situations, from apartments to mansions to no home at all.

It also takes cues from Sesame Street and Mr. Roger’s in regards to talking about tough topics, though as Arthur has a slightly older target audience, it discusses things through stories rather than talking directly to the audience.

Cancer, religion, workplace discrimination, along with current (at the time) events such as 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina are all discussed on the show.

Another big focus on Arthur is disability. For once, they don’t stick a character in a wheelchair and then pretend he’s not in a wheelchair. A striking number of major characters either develop or get diagnosed with physical disabilities and/or neurodivergences, such as asthma, severe food allergies, and dyslexia, and they deal with them in very realistic ways.

A handful of minor characters have more obvious disabilities, and THANK GOD they go beyond the trite messaging of “disabled people can do everything abled people can do! everyone clap now!”

One episode in particular has the awesome message of “holy shit stop trying to help me all the time— it’s patronizing as fuck. I can get around just fine without you stepping on eggshells and trying to be the hero all the fucking time”

There are sooo many other shows I could talk about, but I can’t write about them all. I’m definitely gonna point out some more standout ones, though.

Sagwa, the Chinese Siamese Cat

Created by Chinese-American woman Amy Tang

Dragonfly TV

Features a multitude of female and non-white scientists to foster an interest in science with kids in those groups

Maya & Miguel

One of the network’s first Hispanic-led shows

SciGirls

I shouldn’t have to explain what the goal of this one was.

Molly of Denali

When was the last time you saw a show that treated Native Americans as people? Much less a children’s show? 90% of the cast is Athabascan, and the show revolves around Athabascan culture, not shying away from topics like boarding schools and modern-day racism. Most of the writers are also Athabascan, and the show even has an official Gwich’in dub!

It’s this commitment to real, authentic social justice that makes PBS Kids so much different from its competitors. Could you imagine the Paw Patrol dog looking at the camera and earnestly discussing what happened to George Floyd? I don’t think so— but Arthur talked specifically about it, Sesame Street did an hour long special about race in general, and the network itself made a 30 minute special.

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Disney Jr. could never. (Other than trying to teach colorblindness, of course.)

I’m gonna have to cut this into two parts, since I just hit the image limit

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artficlly · 1 day ago

Note

hi !! i love ur work <3

ok i had an idea for a one shot but it’s totally fine if u don’t want to do it!

so reader and bucky break up (bucky dumps her) bc he thinks she can do better or whatevs and instead of feeling sad, reader is kind of getting off to how bad bucky is doing without her 😜😜 this is obviously inspired by my kink is karma from chappell lmao. anyways ends in fluff or smut and a lot of how much bucky missed her 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️😛😛

thank uuu !!

BITTER [one-shot]

modern marvel au vet!bartender!bucky x reader Bucky doesn't do relationships, but maybe you'll be the one to change him

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, sexual themes, angst, hurt/comfort, major character death, ptsd, bucky barnes needs a hug, bucky barnes has issues, bar fights, alcohol, smoking, swearing, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.2k

A/N: heya nonnie. this isn't exactlyyy what you asked for but i hope you like it anyway. i'm technically on hiatus rn but i felt bad leaving your ask unanswered for so long. i've been working on this between classes, i'm not super happy with it but i thought i'd post it anyway, it got a bit longer than i was expecting. i have like 5 million things due at the end of the month so i might be gone for a bit so here is a treat in the meantime! much love! ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

permanent taglist: @civilbucky @globetrotter28 (i swear there was someone else who wanted to be added, pls let me know if that was you i lost your comment)

main masterlist

The first thing Wanda had told you about Bucky Barnes was to beware.

Proceed with caution.

You were the type to fall in love easily, it was one of the first things you had confessed to Wanda, wine-drunk only a week after moving into her dodgy shoebox of an apartment, where the previous tenant's mail still showed up—and so did their debt collector. You were new in the city, bright-eyed and overly romantic about all you encountered, including the suspicious stains on the carpet courtesy of Wanda’s old roommate, who she only referred to as ‘that nightmarish cunt’. Wanda was cool, chic yet edgy, her voice dripping a Slavic accent and always armed with a dangerous look in her eye. She worked downtown as a sous chef at one of those mid-tier restaurants that you considered fancy, but anyone even marginally higher than your pay grade wouldn’t look twice.

Her boyfriend, Sam, worked at a bar across the road. Howling Commandos. He co-owned it with his buddy, the infamous Bucky Barnes. They had met while serving in the army, both retiring early from service. Sam was discharged after an injury that rendered him ‘useless’, and Bucky was discharged shortly after on grounds of mental health.

And maybe that was the allure—the myth of Bucky Barnes.

He was handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed, the usual fairy-tale rom-com affair. He was brooding, damaged goods, and had a real chip on his shoulder since his discharge. He poured a good drink, kept the bar running smoothly, and was big enough to intimidate drunk frat boys who occasionally wandered in looking for a fight. But apparently, he didn’t do relationships. He would fuck anything that moved if it caught his fleeting attention for long enough, but that was it.

Wanda had confessed it all to you on that dreaded wine-drunk night, hummus and carrot sticks forgotten as the TV blared Wanda’s Spotify playlist on loop. She’d had a friend, one who had moved away now, but that friend had slept with Bucky. Said it was the best lay of her life.

So, Wanda had said, voice dipped as she gave you a drunken, sloppy grin over her Pinot Gris, the two bottles she had pinched from work now empty. If you want the night of your life, go for it, but don’t expect anything more.

That was the rule with Bucky Barnes:

Don’t get attached.

So, maybe foolishly, when Wanda had roused you from a hangover-induced nap the following day by asking if you wanted to join her at the Howling Commandos and continue your bender from the night before, you had taken the leap.

–

Howling Commandos didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.

It had the look of a place that had seen one too many late nights and even more bad decisions. Exposed brick walls, low-hanging lights that shrouded the room in a dim orange glow, and a row of pool tables tucked in the back behind a collection of stained wood tables and chairs. It was edgy, kind of dark and mysterious, much like the infamous bartender who now stood before you in the flesh.

You and Wanda had descended upon the bar at half-past nine, arms linked, laughter spilling between you. You’d gelled quickly—your soft, unguarded friendliness balancing out her wicked smirks and razor-edged sarcasm.

She swung into a barstool with the ease of someone who belonged here, peeling off her winter coat and tossing it onto the counter, shaking the snow from her auburn hair. Across from her, Bucky barely spared her a glance, his mouth set in a line that could have been annoyance or indifference.

“Wanda.” His voice was low, unimpressed.

That was all he said. No hello, no warmth. Just her name, like it was something to be tolerated.

Wanda only grinned, leaning her elbows onto the bar like she had all the time in the world.

“Sam’s out back,” Bucky added, eyes flicking toward the door before sliding right past her, landing on you instead. “Still picking up strays, I see.”

You grinned before you could help yourself, slipping into the seat next to Wanda. As you shrugged off your coat, neatly sliding it into your lap, Wanda let out a mock-horrified gasp on your behalf.

“So rude, this is my new roommate.” Wanda’s eyes slid over to you, head tilting as she gestured towards the scowling Bucky. “And this dickhead is Bucky. He’s co-owner with Sam.”

“I remember.” You replied with ease, your gaze and smile unwavering even as Bucky gave a noncommittal grunt, turning away to continue polishing the glass in his palm.

Wanda, unbothered by his callousness, leant in. “I’m going to be honest, I need a drink ASAP. I’ve got an awful headache, and you know what I always say! Best way to beat a hangover? Drink even more.”

“Does Sam know you’re an alcoholic?” Bucky cut back, not even bothering to turn around.

“Awwh, Buck, is that genuine care?”

“Not for you.” Bucky snipped.

Wanda made a mock pout face, fingers drumming across the bar. “But seriously, put me out of my misery here—”

“Your usual?” He cut over her.

Wanda didn’t skip a beat.

“Pretty please,” she purred, her tone sweet and syrupy, dripping with exaggerated charm. As she settled more comfortably into the stool, her gaze flicked to you with a knowing gleam. “What do you want? On the house.”

Before you could respond, Sam’s voice rang out, thick with amused exasperation. “Baby, you can’t go offering drinks on the house to everyone—” He appeared from the back, a box of bottled spirits cradled in his arms,

“She’s my roommate—” Wanda began, but Sam cut her off, raising an eyebrow as he set the box down with a thud.

“Oh yeah? I haven’t forgotten the last one that you also insisted could have free drinks, and she turned out to be—”

“Don’t! Don’t bring up that cunt—”

You tuned out the conversation as Wanda slipped from her seat, weaving around the bar with the kind of effortless grace that came with knowing she belonged. She leaned into Sam’s space without hesitation, her laughter slipping through the low hum of the bar, threading between the murmur of voices and the scratchy tune spilling from the jukebox in the corner.

It wasn’t until Bucky slid a glass of dark liquor across the bar—precisely where Wanda had been sitting—that you finally tore your gaze away from them.

His eyes found yours, expectant, unmoving.

“It’s okay, I can pay,” you assured him, reaching for your wallet, but his unimpressed stare didn’t waver. His silence stretched, almost as if he were waiting for you to back down first.

You didn’t. “Gin and tonic.”

No acknowledgement, not even a nod. He simply turned, reaching for the bottle of gin without a word.

Wanda reappeared beside you, collapsing back into her seat with a dramatic sigh, a sound that quickly dissolved into a giggle as Sam pressed a quick kiss to her cheek on his way past. The small moment of affection made you smile, your gaze trailing after him as he made his way toward the pool tables. He moved with familiarity, exchanging greetings with the patrons, his presence met with easy grins and back pats.

“He’s cute,” you hummed, watching him settle into the space like he owned it.

“I know, right?” Wanda smirked, pulling her drink closer.

You propped an elbow on the bar, your curiosity piqued. “How’d you meet?”

She took a slow sip, savouring the taste before setting the glass down. It looked like rum and coke. Smelt like it too. “He used to come to my work all the time when they were fixing up this place. We just got to talking one day and—”

Bucky set your drink in front of you with the same quiet precision as before, cutting off Wanda’s sentence mid-thought. You turned your attention back to him, offering a bright smile that didn’t falter, even as he met it with a frown.

“I’ve never liked those,” Wanda barely spared him a glance, instead eyeing your drink with mild disdain. “Not sweet enough for me.”

“Well, I like my drinks how I like my men,” you replied, the words coming with a smirk that you directed toward Bucky, holding his gaze longer than you probably should have. “Bitter.”

—

Shivering in the back alley by the dumpsters probably wasn’t your brightest idea, but at this point, you were committed.

You and Wanda had knocked back one too many drinks—again. It was becoming a habit, one that Sam was starting to take personally, considering he was the one who had to cut Wanda off after she got a little too liberal with her chatting and nearly convinced a stranger to let her wear his coat home. You, on the other hand, had managed to slip out gracefully, settling your tab before Wanda was carted out back to be babysat and force-fed water.

Neither of them had been thrilled at the idea of you walking home alone. Buzzed, barely dressed for the weather, and just reckless enough to make poor decisions, you’d assured them you were fine. Which, technically, was true. What you had failed to mention was that you hadn’t actually made it more than a few feet out the door before deciding to truly test the limits of your dignity.

The cigarette hanging from your lips wobbled slightly as you tried—unsuccessfully—to light it with numb fingers. You swore under your breath, stuffing the useless lighter back into your pocket just as the back door of Howling Commandos swung open.

And as fate—or some cruel, all-seeing god—would have it, it wasn’t Sam or Wanda who stepped outside.

Bucky emerged, a black trash bag slung over one shoulder, his usual scowl fixed in place. His stride slowed slightly when he caught sight of you, his expression unreadable.

“Thought you went home,” he muttered. “Sam and Wanda already left. If you need a ride, I can call you a cab.”

You tilted your head, watching as he moved, efficient, mechanical. The back door groaned shut behind him, its echo swallowed by the muffled city noise beyond the alley. Dumpster lid up, bag tossed in, blue eyes flicking back to you, waiting.

“I don’t need a ride.”

His gaze swept over you, unimpressed. “Sure about that? You look outta your damn mind right now.”

You exhaled, breath clouding the frigid air as you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets. The wind bit through the alleyway, slithering beneath the fur-trimmed collar and creeping up your spine.

“Well, when I had this brilliant idea, I was still drunk,” you admitted, shifting your weight on unsteady legs. “Now that alcohol’s worn off and it’s cold as shit, I can’t even fuckin’ light a smoke ‘cause my hands are shaking so bad.”

You lifted your fingers to prove your point, stiff and trembling from the cold, flashing him a lazy grin. He did not look impressed.

“This a cry for help? I don’t know what it is with Wanda and picking up crazy fuckin’ roommates—”

“I wanted to get your number.” You shrugged, unbothered by the scepticism in his tone. “Didn’t want to do it in the bar, figured you’re a private kinda guy, don’t like putting your business out for the world. I can respect that.”

He blinked, once. Then, slowly, “So you thought the next best option was to wait in a back alley in the snow—?”

“Hey,” you cut him off with a laugh, shifting your weight against the wall. “I said I was drunk when I came up with it… never said it was a good plan.”

Something flickered across his expression. Dry amusement, maybe. Then, to your surprise, he huffed out a short laugh, his breath visible in the cold air curling between you.

You smirked. “C’mon, I’ve been out here for like… an hour. Least you can do is give me your number.”

He took his time looking you over, slow and assessing. Despite the heavy winter coat hanging off your shoulders, you were still grossly underdressed for the weather. The short, tight-fitting dress clung to you like a second skin, courtesy of Wanda’s slut-shaming is sooo 2016 speech. A poor choice in hindsight, considering the temperature was bordering on unbearable.

“I’ll do you one better.”

You arched a brow. “Yeah?”

His voice dipped lower, something rougher curling at the edges. “How about I lock up, and you sit your pretty little ass in my car? I’ll drive you back to mine.” A beat. “Sound good?”

Now, this was the Bucky Barnes Wanda had described—the dangerous one, the elusive ladykiller. The shift had been minuscule, yet you already found your panties were wet.

You smiled. “Well, now you’re talking my language.”

—

"We should stop seeing each other."

Bucky sat hunched on the edge of his bed, forearms braced against his knees, fingers laced tightly together as if he were holding himself back. He didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his mouth a firm line, but that wasn’t what unsettled you—it was the tension in his shoulders, the restless bounce of his leg, the way he exhaled through his nose like he was already regretting this conversation.

That first night had been the spark, but the fire never quite burned out. It carried on in flickering embers, nights tangled in his sheets, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, bodies moving in time with the city’s restless heartbeat. If you had to put a name to it, fuck buddies was the closest fit, though even that felt too familiar, too warm. There were no tender morning-afters, no texts outside of arranging the next meeting. You met him in the alley after closing and let him drive you back to his place. Though sometimes, you never made it that far. Sometimes, it was the backseat of his car, windows fogged, streetlights streaking across his skin as you clawed at his shoulders. Other times, it was rushed and desperate, your palms braced against crates in the storeroom, breath hitching between half-suppressed moans before either of you had the sense to lock the damn door.

But as winter thawed into spring, something shifted.

The first crack in the foundation came when Bucky, against all odds, accepted your half-hearted invite to grab a bite to eat. You’d won a cheap voucher for a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place around the corner from the bar, fully expecting him to wave you off. But he hadn’t. And somehow, the two of you had ended up crammed into a booth, sharing a pile of nachos, snickering into your drinks as you watched a group of college kids make absolute fools of themselves. You wouldn’t have called it a date—Bucky sure as hell didn’t—but something about it felt different. Easier. The way he’d nudged his plate toward you when he noticed you eyeing his last taco. The way he leaned just a little too close, voice dropping low in your ear, murmuring some dry remark that made you snort into your margarita.

You weren’t sure when the line blurred. Maybe it was when your not-date nights became just as routine as your hookups. Or maybe it was at Wanda’s birthday dinner when Bucky—without thinking, without hesitation—draped his arm across the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin of your shoulder. You hadn’t even noticed at first, too caught up in conversation, but Wanda and Sam sure as hell had. They shared a look, one of those wordless exchanges, tight-lipped and knowing. Like they were bracing for the inevitable. Like they could already see the fallout creeping on the horizon.

And they were right.

Because after a year of effortless, reckless bliss, Bucky finally reached his limit.

You should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known that letting Wanda rope you into planning his surprise birthday party was a mistake. That something so personal, so full of effort, would make him withdraw. It was all too much. Too close. Too intimate for someone who spent his life keeping people at arm’s length.

And just like that, the fire snuffed out.

Your grip tightened around the box in your hands, the crinkling of the wrapping paper comically loud in the quiet room. The laughter and chatter from the party outside felt like a world away, muffled through the walls of his bedroom. You had pulled him aside to give him his present in private, and now it sat between you like a hand grenade, pin already pulled, waiting for the explosion.

“Are you going to open your present? Hand-picked by yours truly, I made sure not to let Sam meddle with those prank gifts of his—” You ignored his words, shoving the brightly wrapped box towards him. He barely glanced at it before waving it off, his scowl deepening.

“Did you even hear what I said?” Bucky interrupted you, expression nowhere near impressed

“Jesus, Bucky. Are you serious?” The sigh that left you was excessive, the once bubbly and sweet aura you wrapped yourself up in so tightly melting away in an instant.

You should have known.

He had been off all week. Distant, restless. He’d stopped waiting for you in the back alley after his shifts ended, ignored your texts, and let your calls go to voicemail. Hell, he hadn’t even invited you over to fuck in two weeks, and that was the foundation of whatever this was between you. You’d told yourself it was the late winter blues—snow had been falling thick for weeks now even with spring looming closer by the day. Maybe, you had told yourself, it was some kind of early mid-life crisis with his birthday looming.

But deep down, you’d known better. You’d felt it in the way he couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, how his touch had cooled from burning to indifferent. It was like a switch had flipped, turning lust into something close to disgust.

“I’m serious,” Bucky said, exhaling like the conversation had already exhausted him. He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder as if looking at you would make this harder. Or maybe easier. “We should stop… whatever this is.”

The present now sat on the bed, abandoned between you. You placed it down with deliberate care, fingers smoothing over the edges as you mulled over his words. Beyond the walls, the party raged on, voices rising in drunken harmony as Sweet Caroline blared over the speakers. A chorus of shouts—touchin’ me, touchin’ you—mocked the silence stretching between you.

You knew there was no point in arguing, not when Bucky had already made up his mind, disillusioned or not. But the question still burned its way up your throat before you could stop it, raw and sharp as you met his gaze.

“Why?”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

However he had expected you to react, this clearly wasn’t it. Maybe he thought you’d cry. Maybe he thought you’d yell. But you had never been the type for tears or begging. You just wanted the truth. The cold, ruthless reason why this wasn’t working anymore.

“Yes. Why? What’s changed?”

Bucky hesitated, something flickering across his face. Hesitation, regret, guilt, maybe all three. Then, his jaw tensed, and he forced the words out like they tasted bitter on his tongue.

“You’re… You’re just too much. You’re too much for me.”

Your head tilted slightly, observing him. He still wouldn’t meet your eye.

“Too much, huh?” You echoed, voice steady despite the way your stomach twisted. “And how exactly am I too much?”

He sighed, exasperated. “You’re just… overbearing. You always want to text or call, or stop by the bar. You’re always asking after me with Sam and Wanda. It’s all just a little too much, doll. This was supposed to be a casual thing.” His fingers flexed at his sides, his frustration palpable. “You’re just—”

“So, you’re punishing me because I care?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying, Bucky?” Your voice sharpened, and your patience unravelling. “That I’m clingy? That I’m suffocating you? Is it such a crime that I want to spend time with you—”

“You’re just—fuckin’ everywhere.” His voice rose, and you arched a brow, arms folding over your chest. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I swear to God. Every thought I have, everything I do—you’re there. I dream about you. And sometimes, I swear I smell that goddamn perfume of yours even when you’re not around—”

“Bucky.” You took a step forward, searching his face for something, anything. “Have you ever considered that maybe this is happening because you like me? Not because I’m some overbearing burden in your life—”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his entire body stiff.

“I don’t do relationships.”

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking your head. “So, what then? You’re just gonna cut me off? I got too close, didn’t I? Too close to you—to the real you, the one you hide under all that brooding, tough-guy bullshit—so now you’re pushing me away?”

Bucky’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

You exhaled sharply, your patience splintering under the weight of his silence. “You know, Wanda warned me this would happen. Sam too. Hell, just about everyone out there did.” You gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the muffled chaos of the party beyond his bedroom. Laughter and music seeped through the walls. “Your friends, your colleagues. They all warned me. Guess I’m the idiot for thinking it’d be different, huh?”

His gaze flickered. A barely-there flinch. You pressed on.

“They told me you throw people away when they get too attached.” Your voice softened, but not with kindness, with something hollow, something resigned. “Or worse, when you do.”

His breath hitched, so quick and so subtle that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you would’ve missed it. But you saw it: the crack, the hesitation, the battle waging behind those sharp blue eyes.

For a second, it almost looked like he might break. Like he might finally say what he was really thinking.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment was gone. His expression hardened, every ounce of warmth draining from his face.

“I don’t need you.”

And just like that, the last ember of hope inside you burned out.

You swallowed against the ache in your throat, but your voice came steady, unwavering. “Is that the truth?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “Or are you just telling yourself that to feel better?”

His eyes darkened, and this time, there was no hesitation.

“Get out.”

—

You weren’t sure why you came back to the Howling Commandos.

You were beginning to suspect that Wanda and Sam were scheming something. She was constantly begging you to visit the bar every night off she had with the promise of free liquor. It had taken a few weeks after Bucky’s birthday meltdown for you to finally budge. Maybe it was the way Wanda had pulled you along, her arm hooked through yours like she could drag you away from the weight of it all. Maybe it was the way she made you laugh, tipping her head back, auburn hair catching in the bar’s dim light, her wicked look as she shrugged off her coat and flung it onto the counter. Maybe it was because you knew he would be here.

And, maybe, just maybe, you wanted that.

Bucky stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw tight as he poured a whiskey neat without looking up. He must’ve heard you come in like he always did, but his eyes never once lifted from his work.

You perched upon one of the barstools beside Wanda, the wood sticky beneath your elbows, the orange glow from the bar’s lights catching in the condensation on your glass. A gin and tonic. No words exchanged, no request needed, just Bucky’s hand sliding it across the table without so much as a glance in your direction.

It was almost funny, the way he refused to look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge you beyond the ghost of a touch as his fingers brushed the glass. And yet, he still remembered your drink. Still took the time to slice a bit of lemon for the rim, just the way you liked it. Never mind that he’d once grumbled about how much he hated customers who ordered anything that meant extra cleanup at the end of the night.

“You gonna sulk all night or actually have fun?” Wanda teased, knocking her knee against yours.

You took a slow sip, letting the cool burn of gin settle on your tongue before answering. “I am having fun.”

“Sure you are,” she drawled, not buying it for a second.

But the night wasn’t all bad. You were feeling good, maybe a little too good, laughing at Sam’s exaggerated retelling of a story you’d already heard a dozen times, Wanda snorting into her rum, the buzz settling in like a second skin.

But the uneasy peace did not last long, as chaos had a way of following Bucky Barnes like his own shadow.

Two guys, a little too confident, a little too eager. You felt them before you even turned, whiskey on their breath, a practiced smirk tugging at the lips. The kind of men who smelled like cheap aftershave and overconfidence, sliding into your space with easy grins and empty compliments. One leaned in too close. “Didn’t think someone like you would be drinking alone.”

You arched a brow. “Who says I’m alone?”

He took the bait, smirking. “That right? Where’s your boyfriend, then?”

“Don’t have one.” You replied, tone disinterested.

He grasped your arm, and you yanked it away, nearly elbowing Wanda beside you in the process. “Oh yeah? I could change that for you sweetheart—”

You didn’t have time to answer before you saw the bar flap shoot up in your peripherals.

“Hey, man,” Sam warned, barely getting the words out before Bucky was there, a cloud at the edge of your vision, muscles wound tight beneath his shirt. He wasn’t looking at you, not really, but you could feel the storm rolling off him in waves, the tension singing through his frame.

The guy didn’t even have time to react before Bucky shoved him back—hard enough to knock him off balance, sending his drink sloshing onto the floor.

“The fuck?” Whiskey-breath scowled, stumbling forward like he thought he had a chance.

Bucky stepped in, jaw clenched, fist already curled like a promise. His voice was smooth, even. “Out. Now.”

The guy scoffed, straightening. “Oh yeah? What are you, the bouncer?”

“Nah.” Bucky tilted his head. “I fuckin’ own the place.”

Sam was rounding the bar, slipping beneath the bar flap. “One rule, Bucky! We have one rule!”

“No assholes in the bar?” Bucky deadpanned, flexing his fingers.

“No. No punching customers—hey!”

Too late.

The first punch landed with a sickening crack, sharp enough to slice through the low hum of conversation. A brief, stunned silence settled over the bar, glasses paused mid-air, a cue ball rolling to a stop on the felt. Then, a gasp. A sharp inhale. Someone let out a bark of laughter.

The guy staggered back, clutching his jaw, blinking like he couldn’t quite process what had just happened. But instead of learning his lesson, he surged forward, swinging blindly in a desperate attempt to save face.

The impact came from the right. A solid hit, knuckles cutting against Bucky’s brow. His head snapped slightly to the side, strands of dark hair falling loose from where they’d been tucked behind his ears. The second punch followed fast—less precise, more frantic—but it clipped him along the cheekbone, just enough to split the skin.

A thin trail of red welled up, tracking down the sharp line of his face.

Bucky stilled.

A slow, dangerous exhale. Then, before the guy could so much as blink, Bucky struck. A brutal, efficient one-two, fist slamming into ribs, then an upward cut that sent the man sprawling. His friend hesitated, torn between pride and self-preservation, before grabbing a fistful of his collar and dragging him toward the door.

Bucky flexed his fingers, shaking out his hand like he was testing for damage, like he barely felt it. The cut above his brow was bleeding, a slow trickle of crimson trailing towards his temple, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

You took a sip of your drink, eyes flicking lazily towards him, your pulse not even kicking up. Beside you, Wanda didn’t so much as blink; she just swirled the last of her rum and coke, watching the scene unfold like it was a rerun of a show she’d seen too many times before.

Finally, with a knowing smirk, she leaned in, voice low and honey-smooth. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

You swirled your gin and tonic, ice clinking against the glass, lips curling around the rim as you took another sip.

“Maybe.”

—

The back room was cold, the kind of cold that settled deep in the bones, seeping through the exposed brick walls. A single bulb hung overhead, casting a dim, yellow glow over the stacked crates of liquor and the metal shelves lined with bottles. You’d been in here many times, though usually under much more pleasurable circumstances. Bucky sat on an overturned crate, elbows on his knees, blood drying along the ridge of his knuckles. His head was tipped slightly forward, shoulders hunched as he rolled one of his split knuckles between his fingers, like he was testing if it still hurt.

You shut the door behind you.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

You ignored him, stepping past the crates and grabbing the first aid kit off the nearest shelf. “Sit up straight.”

He didn’t move.

So, with a sigh, you pressed a firm hand to his shoulder and shoved him upright. He let it happen, though he shot you an unamused look as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Jesus, you’re pushy.”

You crouched in front of him, flipping open the first aid kit, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling the air. He watched as you poured alcohol onto a clean cloth, soaking it through before pressing it against the cut above his brow.

Bucky flinched, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab your wrist, to stop you. But he didn’t.

“Hold still,” you murmured, dabbing at the wound.

His lip curled slightly, but he stayed put, letting you clean the blood away. His fists clenched on his thighs, shoulders wound tight like he was waiting for something worse.

“You know,” you said, voice light despite the weight in the air, “I heard from Wanda you’ve been losing it lately.”

Bucky huffed. “Yeah?”

“She said you’ve been missing shifts, and when you do turn up, you’re, uh…” You smirked, twisting the cloth to clean the edge of his jaw. “Well, these are her words, not mine—a miserable old cunt. Keep picking fights with customers.” You paused, waiting to see his response. His lips remained sown shut, his gaze cold, and he did not quite meet your eye. With an arch of your brow, you continued.

“Apparently, someone broke into your car, and you’re getting kicked out of your apartment because your landlord wants to sell it to some construction assholes.” You tilted your head, studying him. “I mean, some of that isn’t your fault, but it sounds like karma to me.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed. “Why do you care, doll?”

“I don’t,” you said easily, wringing out the cloth before pressing it against his brow again. “It’s like… watching a car wreck. Kind of captivating in a way.”

He let out a short, humourless laugh. “You’re fucked up.”

“Yeah, maybe I am.” You shrugged, barely glancing at him as you grabbed another clean cloth. “But I think, deep down, maybe I just pity you.”

Bucky’s expression darkened. “Why are you so normal about all of this? Aren’t you the one that’s supposed to be, I don’t know, freaking out? I was the one who dropped you, not the other way around.”

You paused, the cloth still pressed to his skin. You considered his words, then slowly and calmly, you replied. “It’s your own heart that you’re breaking, baby.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know that.”

“I think I do.”

His lips parted like he was about to argue, but instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t know shit about me.”

You sat back on your heels, observing him. The bruises were darkening across his cheekbones, his knuckles still raw, and his body shuddering from the aftermath. But beneath it all—under the cold defiance and the sharp edges—you saw it. The weight of something unspoken, something he wouldn’t admit to himself.

You hummed, tilting your head. “I know a lot.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered to you, wary.

“I know that you take your coffee black, your whiskey neat,” you said, voice soft. “That you always make your bed because it’s a habit from when you served. You prefer to drive stick. You’re a cat person.”

You held his gaze, watching the way his fingers curled. “I know that you wear two sets of dog tags. That there are ghosts following you that you don’t talk about. I know that you realised you were getting attached to me. That it scared you so badly you dropped me the moment it clicked.”

“I know that you still ask after me,” you finished, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know that deep down, you care about me.”

Silence settled between you.

Bucky stared at his hands, dried blood caking along the ridges of his knuckles. He was still for a long time, so long you thought maybe he wasn’t going to respond at all.

“This… this thing between us.” His voice was rough. “It was a fling. Nothing more. A moment in time, not to be repeated.”

You inhaled slowly, disappointment evident, then stood.

With an easy motion, you tossed the bloodied rag onto a nearby crate.

“Keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, stepping back.

Bucky looked up at you, something flickering behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

You just smiled.

“Because I know,” you said simply, turning toward the door, “that in the end, you’ll come crawling back to me.”

“I won’t.”

You glanced over your shoulder, the corners of your lips curling.

“Okay.”

—

The cemetery was quiet, save for the whisper of wind through bare branches and the distant hum of traffic beyond the iron gates. The last bite of winter still clung to the air, spring struggling to take hold, leaving the sky an endless stretch of pale grey.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself as you stepped out of Sam’s car, boots crunching against the gravel path. Wanda climbed out from the passenger side, rubbing her arms against the cold, while Sam exhaled sharply, tilting his head towards the small gathering of headstones up ahead.

“He’s already here,” he murmured.

Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his back to you, his head slightly bowed toward the grave. Even from a distance, there was a tension in the way he held himself—like he was bracing for impact or maybe just trying to keep from unravelling.

You tightened your grip on the flowers in your hand and followed Sam and Wanda towards him.

Bucky didn’t turn when you approached, but you saw his shoulders shift, the slight tensing of his jaw when he realised there was one more person than expected. He still didn’t say anything, though, just kept his eyes on the headstone.

Steve Rogers.

The name was carved deep into the stone, clean and straightforward. No rank, no medals, no accolades. Just a name. A man who had meant something to them.

You hadn’t even known Steve existed until Sam mentioned him offhand a few days ago, his voice softer than usual, the usual humour dimmed. He hadn’t given many details—just that Steve was an old friend, someone he and Bucky had served with, and that the anniversary of his death was coming up. It hadn’t been an invitation, just a passing remark, but something about it stuck with you. Maybe it was the way Sam glanced at Bucky afterwards, concern hidden beneath his easygoing demeanour or the way Wanda’s expression darkened slightly like she’d been expecting it. You didn’t know anything about the man they were mourning, but you knew Bucky, and you knew the kind of grief that sat heavily on a person’s shoulders. Maybe you wanted to pay your respects. Perhaps you just wanted an excuse to get eyes on him, to see how bad the damage was. Either way, when Wanda and Sam left for the cemetery, you were in the car with them.

You stepped forward and crouched down, laying the flowers gently against the grave. The wind tugged at the petals as you stood, moving back beside Wanda, who sent you a glance but didn’t say a word.

Sam was the first to speak. “Damn, Steve. I hope you know we visit you even in the freezing fuckin’ cold.”

A small chuckle rumbled from Bucky’s chest, barely there. “Yeah.”

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, I think about that time in training when Bucky dared you to climb the roof of the barracks, and when you actually did it, Bucky nearly had a heart attack ‘cause you realised he’d have to go up there to get you down.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “Idiot did a victory pose at the top. Almost fell straight off.”

Sam laughed. “Man, I wish we had taken a photo of you, dumbass.”

They fell into an easy rhythm, trading stories, some funny, some quiet and unspoken, shared only through small glances and nods. Wanda stood beside you, hands clasped in front of her, while you listened, letting them have their moment. She hadn’t known Steve either, just fragments of memories and stories Sam had told her over the years.

Eventually, the cold started to settle in deep, and Sam clapped his hands together. “Alright, I don’t know, but I think Steve would be personally offended if we froze our asses off standing here like idiots instead of heading home.”

Wanda nodded, already turning back toward the cars. You followed, but before you could take more than a few steps, Bucky spoke.

“I’ll take her home.”

The words were short, and clipped, but they made Wanda and Sam pause.

Sam lifted a brow, glancing between the two of you, then exchanged a look with Wanda, one of those unspoken conversations between lovers that didn’t need words.

But neither of them argued.

Sam just gave a small, knowing shrug and started toward his car. Wanda followed without a word, though you could’ve sworn the auburn gave you a subtle smirk.

You exhaled softly, then turned towards Bucky’s car.

The drive was quiet.

Outside, the world blurred past, fields and roads stretching under the grey sky. You kept your hands close to the vents, soaking in what little warmth the car offered, your fingers still stiff from the cold. Bucky’s grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles pale. He was wound up, his shoulders rigid, and his jaw locked. The muscles in his forearms twitched as he shifted gears, and every so often, he exhaled sharply like he was biting back something sharp.

Minutes passed, the ghost of unspoken words swirling between you.

Then, suddenly—

“Fuck this.” Bucky muttered the words under his breath, his grip on the wheel tightening before he jerked the car off the highway. The tyres crunched over gravel as he turned onto a narrow backroad leading toward a small, empty picnic area near a river. The place was deserted, picnic tables dusted with half-melted frost. Too cold for anyone to be out.

You sat there, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. The sky outside had darkened, clouds pressing down low on the horizon as the river lazily wound its way through the mist. Bucky’s hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his eyes fixed on the view outside.

“How did you know about Steve?” The question left his lips quietly, almost like an afterthought, but it was sharp all the same.

“Sam.” You hesitated for a moment, gathering your thoughts. “I kind of put the pieces together. It’s his dog tags you wear, right?” Your voice came out soft but steady.

Bucky gave a single, sharp nod. “Yeah.”

You sighed, glancing out the window for a brief second. The weight in his voice, the way he carried it like an old wound, told you this was something fragile, something that had never quite healed.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I just…” You trailed off, the words dying on your tongue, uncertain, too small for the grief that lingered between you. Your gaze flickered to his, but he wasn’t looking at you.

His voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “Steve... Steve, he wasn’t just my friend. He was my partner.”

Something inside you stilled. The breath you’d been meaning to take got caught in your chest. “You were… together? Dating?”

“Yeah.” His voice wavered, unsteady in a way that made your stomach twist. “We were, uh, in love, I guess.”

The words hit you like a cold gust, Something in your mind clicked into place, pieces of him you hadn’t understood suddenly making sense. You stared at him, taking in the way his brows furrowed, the way the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes seemed more pronounced now, like he’d aged in the last few minutes.

“Did Sam know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “A few people did. His family, mine. A few friends.”

“I’m sorry.” You swallowed, trying to push past the lump forming in your throat. The words felt inadequate, almost meaningless. “I know my words don’t mean much or change anything, but I truly am sorry that you lost someone that important to you.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, the leather creaking beneath his hold. His eyes stayed locked on the river, but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was somewhere else.

Then, barely above a whisper, “He stood on a landmine.”

Bucky’s voice was rough, worn thin. “He was dead before… before he would have even realised he’d stepped on it. They never really recovered all of his body. He just kinda… turned into mist.”

You felt your stomach drop. A slow, creeping horror curled around your ribs, sinking its claws in deep. “You saw it?”

“Yeah.”

“Bucky, that’s horrific, I—” You felt your words die in your throat. What was there to say? There was no comfort for something like that. No words that could make it hurt less.

Then, slowly, his head turned, an empty, haunted gaze meeting yours. “That coffin out there, it’s empty. We do this every year, but it’s like talking to the wind.”

The words were like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the rawness of it. Slowly, you reached across the console, your fingers brushing against his arm. “He didn’t suffer.”

“No.” Bucky's voice broke for the first time. “No, I suppose I should be thankful for that.” A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with a rough, almost impatient hand. But he didn’t pull away from your touch. Didn’t move to hide the way his hands shook, fingers still locked in a vice grip around the wheel.

You didn’t comment on it.

You kept your hand on his arm, a steady presence against the tension coiled beneath his skin. There was nothing to say—at least, nothing that would make any of it easier. He had already said enough, and you weren’t going to insult him by pretending there were magic words to fix it. So you simply stayed, grounding him in the quiet, hoping that maybe, just maybe, letting even a sliver of it out might lighten the weight he carried.

The silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable, the kind that settled in the space between two people who understood each other without needing to fill the gaps with empty words. A sharp gust of wind rattled against the window, slipping through unseen cracks and sending a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bucky turned his head, his gaze locking onto yours, raw, searching, like he was looking for something he wasn’t even sure existed. His throat bobbed, lips parting as he exhaled a slow, uneven breath. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked, taken aback. “For what?”

“How I’ve treated you these past few weeks.”

“Baby, you don’t need to apologise—”

“No, I do.” He interrupted tone tinged with frustration. “I… I realised that I cared for you. A lot. And it scared the shit out of me. After Steve, well, I swore I wouldn’t love again. I couldn’t… I couldn’t imagine going through that again. Or worse, if I died and left someone behind like that—”

You shook your head, cutting him off gently. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not though—” he began, but you interrupted him again, your voice calm, sure.

“I forgive you.”

Bucky went still, his expression unreadable for a moment as he processed your words. His jaw clenched, his eyes flicking between you and the river, as if weighing something in his mind.

A long, charged silence settled in. Then, just as you thought the moment would pass, he spoke, his voice quieter this time. “You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” You smiled softly. “Listen. I didn’t know Steve, and I never will but… if he cared for you. If he loved you, he’d want you to be happy. He wouldn’t want you to shut yourself away from love, from feeling.”

“Honestly…” Bucky paused, sucking on his teeth. “Honestly, you’re probably right, doll.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, staring ahead like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“I still don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Loving someone. Letting someone love me.”

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “Good thing I’m patient.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, that much is obvious.” Bucky glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then, almost too softly to hear, “I want to try.”

You reached over, lacing your fingers through his. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

His grip tightened, just for a second like he was anchoring himself to you. And then, as if realising how ridiculous he sounded, he let out a low laugh, disbelief lacing his tone. “You’re too good for me, doll.”

“Hmm, maybe.” You giggled, leaning towards him, resting your forehead against his shoulder for a brief moment, letting the warmth between you settle. “I think I’ll stick around, though.”

“Yeah?” His voice held a tinge of uncertainty like he was testing the waters. His arm shifted, moving from the wheel to pull you closer to his side. “I haven’t scared you off?”

You tilted your head to look up at him, grinning. “I think you’d have to try a little harder to do that.”

He held you closer, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “So…” He paused, his breath hitching as if the words were caught in his throat. “Would you stick around… as my girlfriend?”

You jolted up, eyes widening in surprise. “Did the Bucky Barnes just ask me—”

“Shush, you.” He chuckled, cutting you off, his finger moving to gently press against your lips.

You smiled, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek, and he tugged you in closer, his grip firm but not demanding. His lips found yours, slow at first, testing—like he was still convincing himself this was okay, that he could have this. But as you melted into him, your fingers curling against the fabric of his jacket, something shifted. His hand slid up your back, anchoring you against him, his lips warm, sure, moving against yours with a quiet intensity.

You sighed into him, your breath mingling with his, the space between you disappearing until there was nothing but the press of his body, the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin. His fingers skimmed the nape of your neck, tilting your head slightly, and he kissed you again, slower this time, savouring it like he wanted to memorise the way you felt against him.

The world outside blurred, the hum of the car engine distant, unimportant. There was only this, only him, his warmth, the quiet, desperate way he held you like he was afraid to let go.

When you pulled away, Bucky let out a sharp sigh as if something inside him had finally relaxed. “Thank god, it would be kind of awkward if you didn’t—”

You silenced him with another kiss, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

A spark reignited.

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel #modern au

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kwanisms · 2 months ago

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It’s the season of love, or lust. Here’s a collection of 14 separate tales to keep you company this Valentine’s season. demon/incubus!Idol × fem!Reader

» back || playlist || taglist « ❑ WORDCOUNT — ❑ WARNINGS — adult language, female reader, shorter reader, reincarnated reader, chubby!Reader, smaller reader, jealousy and possessiveness, mentions of: marriage, travel, homesickness, food & alcohol consumption, history of drug use, depression & thoughts of suicide, feelings of isolation, past love, heartbreak, major character death, reincarnation, severe depression, loneliness, minor character death, food & alcohol consumption, occultism, witchcraft, demonic summoning & rituals, PTSD, graveyards, ghost hunting, communicating with spirits, hospital environments, long working hours, bodily trauma, blood, gore; see each part for full warnings! ❑ CONTENT — angst, fluff, smut; supernatural, fantasy, demons & angels, biblical, established relationships, office setting, boss!Reader, coworkers to lovers, ER doctor!Reader, demon!Idols; non idol au, demon au, farm au, hospital au; see each part for full content lists! ❑ NOTES — happy valentine's, my loves! Here is something no one asked for but I'm delivering anyway! I've got 14 stories here, 11 of which are sequels to existing aus I've created and three new ones! They're all of my existing demon aus! From Seventeen to Stray Kids to Day6, all of my demon characters are being revisited here! Taglist is open and will close at the end of January so sign up now! Thanks for the support thus far babes and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

➥ incubus!Kihyun × fem!Reader summary: After the events of her story, Y/N has had her curse broken and succubus powers removed, allowing her to live a normal life. She has managed to keep a low profile, getting a job in a diner, her entire world is turned upside down when one of the men she was tasked with seducing in her previous life shows up at the diner late one night with a bone to pick with her. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 1

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➥ incubus!Hongjoong × fem!Reader × Seonghwa summary: After being banished to hell, Hongjoong manages to find a weak point and escapes back to the mortal realm. He only has a short time before the hounds of Hell are sent after him to bring him back and he makes the most of his time by tracking down his former servant only to find Seonghwa’s vampire curse has been broken and that he’s now happily married to the woman who destroyed everything Hongjoong built up. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 2

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➥ incubus!Jisung × fem!Reader summary: Now that all his friends are seeming to settle down with their respective partners, Han decides to venture out on his own and explore a new city. While there, he meets someone who flips his world upside down and turns it inside out. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 3

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➥ demon!Jeonghan × fem!Reader summary: Jeonghan lost his chance at love by being stubborn and cruel. Since then, he’d been drifting through the world, finding no meaning at continuing his meaningless charade. He refused to return to Hell but being on Earth was even more torture. He thought about just ending everything when the world came to a halt upon spotting a familiar face on the streets of Paris. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 4

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➥ incubus!Johnny × fem!Reader summary: Y/N has been living her best life, having climbed the social ladder at work and now heads her department, thanks to the promotion she landed. She can’t forget the reason for her success and one night while at the office working late, the demon she made a deal with comes back to check in. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 5

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➥ demon!Mingi × fem!Reader summary: Summers spent in the country used to have a sense of nostalgia but now, as you helped clear out your aunt’s old farm house, it was just hot and all you did was sweat. When you come across an old, tattered black book, things go from hot to hotter when you are transported to an alternate dimension where you meet a mysterious man who inhabits your aunt’s house on what he calls the ‘Other Side.’ read now »» coming Feb 6

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➥ incubus!Sungjin × fem!Reader summary: Since the incident at the museum, involving the old grimoire, Y/N has kept a low profile and quit her job at the museum, instead getting a job at a bookstore in a quiet part of town. It’s been three years and she still has the book, keeping it locked in a glass case in her house. The demon has not appeared since but she can’t shake the uneasy feeling she has as the fifth year anniversary of the Summoning approaches. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 7

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➥ incubus!Yeonjun × fem!Reader summary: After a visit to the old graveyard with her friends, Y/N has had this uneasy feeling of being followed or watched. Maybe she’s being paranoid, or maybe it's the result of playing around with a Ouija board but one thing is certain; she keeps seeing someone or something watching her from the window in her bedroom. read now »» coming Feb 8

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➥ incubus!Jongho × fem!Reader summary: As a result of passing his seduction test, Jongho has become a full-fledged incubus. He’s now among the ranks of those who have made names for themselves. He finds that being an incubus comes with a great amount of freedom and responsibility. Responsibility he shirks because he can’t seem to stay away from the one who helped him pass his test: Y/N. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 9

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➥ demon!Seungmin × fem!Reader summary: Your idea of fun was playing video games with your friends or playing beer pong at a frat party. It did not include summoning a demon in the basement of the creepy, old abandoned house at the end of Willow Avenue. read now »» coming Feb 10

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➥ demon!Chan × fem!Reader summary: Ever since she summoned him, Chan hasn’t been able to get Y/N out of his mind. He returns to her after some time and insists that she accept the proposal he made to her the last time he was there. He wants to be bound exclusively to her. Y/N is hesitant but Chan tells her to think it over while he makes his trip to visit her worth both their time. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 11

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➥ incubus!Chanyeol × fem!Reader summary: Since their encounter and Chanyeol’s nature as an incubus exposed, he and Y/N have had a secret relationship which tends to bring out the worst jealousy in both of them. They often sneak around the hospital, meeting in secret places. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 12

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➥ incubus!Hyunjin × fem!Reader × witch!Felix summary: After his visit, Hyunjin has moved into the house next door to Y/N and Felix, making himself at home as their neighbor and tormenting Felix by plaguing Y/N’s dreams. Hyunjin seems determined to make Felix’s life a living hell and drive a wedge between the witch and his girlfriend. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 13

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➥ incubus!Joshua × fem!Reader summary: Ever since that fateful night where Joshua revealed himself as a demon, Joshua and Y/N have built a life for themselves, living together in her house and working at the antique shop together. When Joshua decides to take her out for a romantic Valentine’s dinner, his jealous side emerges when he thinks the waiter is flirting with Y/N so he takes her home to remind her who she belongs to. read part one | read part two »» coming Feb 14

©️ kwanisms 2018 - 2025 | all written and artistic works on this blog are protected under copyright. reposts, continuations, and translations of my works are not permitted. All graphics made by me.

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cece693 · 19 days ago

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Felt not Seen

pairing: loki laufeyson x gender neutral reader tags: blind reader, you don't know loki, he likes it this way, loki feels safe and loved, technically is it lying when avoiding personal questions, fluff, reader forgives easily, doesn't follow any timeline

You can always tell when someone steps into the bookstore. The bells above the door chime, and the floorboards creak—each step as distinct as a page turning in a favorite novel. It’s your little sanctuary—dusty shelves lined with tales you might never see, but whose words you know and love by heart. And that’s how you first met him.

He walked in quietly, the shuffle of his shoes muffled and strangely elegant. Still, you heard the soft crack of the old wood, felt the subtle shift in the air currents, and caught the faint trace of sandalwood and morning frost. There was an undercurrent of tension in his measured footsteps, as though he was unsure if he was meant to be here at all.

“Hello,” you had greeted him, smiling in his direction even though you couldn’t see the details of his face. You might have been unable to see color or form, but you’d always had a knack for sensing expressions—like the surprise or curiosity that reverberates through the air. You felt it then, a light wave of something you interpreted as cautious intrigue.

He’d introduced himself as Luke. Your heart had fluttered—something about the soft lilt of his voice made you shiver, as though each syllable he spoke carried a hidden meaning. That day, he left without purchasing a single book, yet something told you he would come back.

He did.

Over the following weeks, Luke—though you began to suspect that wasn’t his real name—arrived like clockwork. Every Friday afternoon, he would step in, greet you politely, and linger among the shelves. Sometimes he would sit with you behind the counter, flipping through the pages of an old volume while you ran your fingers along your Braille copy of a classic. You’d talk of myths, of gods and kingdoms, of worlds beyond Earth and your own small shop.

You discovered that Luke had a wit as sharp as the letter opener you kept on your counter. He teased you kindly, drawing an easy laugh from your lips. He debated and challenged you, but never in a way that made you feel small. He was a whirlwind in your peaceful existence, and you loved it.

Yet beneath the warmth, you sensed an unspoken tension, a hidden secret. He evaded questions about his life with practiced ease. At first, you told yourself it was fine. Not everyone wants to share everything right away. But as the weeks turned into months, you felt the strain in his voice when he spoke about his past in vague statements. You could almost feel him turning his gaze from you to somewhere far away whenever he talked about “troubled years.”

You never pressed him. You already felt privileged that he chose to spend so much time with you, that he read your favorite passages aloud, that he asked how you navigated the city and listened, truly listened, to your answers. Someone who wanted to understand the way you experienced the world was precious indeed.

And, at some point, the gentle friendship transformed—softly, sweetly—into something more. A hand on your shoulder lingered a beat too long. His voice softened when he said your name. When you admitted you were feeling overwhelmed by the day’s chores, Luke was suddenly there, offering assistance. For a moment, you imagined him as a knight from a dusty fairytale, appearing to whisk you away from your burdens.

The first time he kissed you, it was a tentative brush of lips, loaded with so much affection you couldn’t help but shiver. One kiss became two, turned into three, and then you both lost count. You had never been so grateful to be in the darkness because there, in the hush of your bookshop, it felt like you were the only two souls in the universe. He would speak of love in half-finished sentences. “I never imagined…” or “I don’t deserve this…” Over and over, you told him you believed in him, but you didn’t know why he so firmly believed he was unworthy.

Then one evening, long after the store had closed, the door chime rang unexpectedly. You waited, confused, because Luke had just stepped out to run an errand and promised he’d be back soon. “Is that you, Luke?” you called out.

A deep voice, more resonant and powerful than Luke’s, answered, “Not quite.”

You recognized the man instantly, though not by voice—by presence. He felt like a storm; everything was bigger, more vivid. “I am Thor,” he introduced himself, warmth beneath the thunder in his tone.

“Thor,” you echoed softly, as if trying the name on your tongue.

He explained, in the gentlest way he could, that Luke had a past—one that involved Asgard, a shattered family, and near-cataclysmic deeds on Earth. Thor never once said the name “Loki,” but you realized, in that instant, that “Luke” was just a mask. And it all made sense: Loki, the fallen prince, the trickster, the one who once tried to conquer your world out of vengeance.

Thor, gentle despite his towering presence, placed a comforting hand over yours. “My sibling is no monster. They are flawed, yes, but they deserve to be seen for who they really are. You—” he paused, as if carefully choosing his words, “—you deserve the truth.”

When Loki returned, you were sitting on the shop’s old sofa, hands trembling in your lap. You heard the jingle of the door, slow footsteps, then silence as he sensed something was amiss. “Thor was here,” you said quietly, turning your face toward him even though your eyes could not meet. You tried to maintain some composure, but your voice wavered. “He told me everything.”

It was the first time you heard Loki’s breath catch so audibly. “I—” he started, searching for the right words, the usual silver-tongued trickery failing him. “I just…I couldn’t bear to lose you.” For a long, painful moment, neither of you spoke. You listened to his ragged breathing, felt the swirl of anguish radiating from him in waves. He expected you to condemn him. He expected disgust, hate, or fear.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because I’ve done many terrible things,” Loki said, and for once, he sounded heartbreakingly earnest. “People view me as a monster—and perhaps I am. The illusions, the betrayal, the attempt to take your world…” His voice broke. “I was so tired of being alone, of being judged. You were the first person who never judged me at all.”

Your heart twisted at his words, sorrow mingling with affection. It wasn’t pity; it was the realization that so much of Loki’s life had been rooted in isolation. You reached out a trembling hand and felt his fingers entwine with yours. “If you want me to leave,” he said brokenly, “I’ll go. I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head. “No. Stay.” Your voice was gentle, insistent. “I wish you’d told me sooner, but I…I’m not going to pretend this isn’t shocking or complicated. Still, everything we shared, everything I felt…it wasn’t an illusion, was it?”

He tightened his hold on your hand, a hint of desperation there. “It was the only real thing I’ve ever had. You are the only real thing.”

Your next breath brought relief, tears burning at your eyes. Carefully, you lifted your free hand, finding the curve of his cheek. Loki leaned into your touch, as if starved for affection. You traced the lines of his face, memorizing his features by feel—the trembling of his jaw, the softness of his skin, the slight dampness on his lashes.

“I believe you, Loki,” you whispered, your voice fierce in its quiet certainty. “But please let there be no more secrets between us.”

"I promise."

Some days later, Thor returned—this time as a welcomed guest. He found you both behind the bookstore counter, Loki reading poetry aloud to you while you relaxed against his shoulder, your ear pressed to the comforting timbre of his voice. “You two look well,” Thor greeted, a gentle rumble of approval in his tone.

Loki shot him a glare that was more playful than menacing. Even if tension remained between the brothers, a fragile truce had begun. Thor nodded in your direction. “I just wanted to say that I am proud of my sibling. And of you.” He paused, his voice softening. “For seeing what others could not.”

You felt warmth bloom in your chest. So often in your life, you had been told you were at a disadvantage because of your blindness. But you had come to realize you could see people in ways most others couldn’t—beyond their surface. Beyond their illusions. Loki’s fingers curled around yours in a gesture of gratitude and silent devotion. This time, no illusions stood between you. He was himself—flawed, yearning, deeply caring. And you were there, heart open, ready to keep stepping into the unknown with him.

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munsonsmixtapes · 11 days ago

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It'll Take Time

dad!eddie x mom!reader

You and Eddie get your daughter to bed as you adjust to your new life in a new city that the three of you are having trouble with.

It’s 7:30 in the Munson home which means that it’s time for Emma to go to bed. Eddie’s already given her a bath and when you come into the bathroom to check on them, she’s already got on her pajamas and he’s got her sitting on the sink as he brushes her hair.

This is a routine that they’ve gotten down. Eddie picks her up from school when he gets off work and then he makes sure the checklist you’ve made for both of them gets done because it’s so easy for the two of them to get distracted, especially when they’re with each other. There have been nights where you’ve come home and the two of them will be passed out on the couch, both snoring as the TV blares that cartoon show Emma likes.

Every time you see them next to each other, you’re reminded of just how alike they look. She’s got his curls, his eyes, his smile, and when they share matching ones as they turn in your direction, your heart melts as they hold so much love for you.

“Mommy!” Emma exclaims and Eddie is quick to help her off the counter before she races towards you, her arms immediately wrapping around your shoulder as you scoop her up into your arms. She can’t help but let out a string of giggles as you pepper her face in kisses.

“Daddy got you all ready for bed, hm?” You ask as she rests her head on your shoulder. You lock eyes with your husband as he heads for you, pressing his lips to yours in a brief kiss.

It’s been a long day at work and this is all you’ve been looking forward to, the little thing that got you through your shift at the hospital. You haven’t even bothered changing out of your scrubs. You always get there just in time for bedtime and for some reason, that’s when Emma seems to have the most energy. You’re pretty sure it’s the soda he always lets her have with dinner.

Eddie feels his heart warm as he watches his girls all snuggled up together. Emma may look like him, but she’s got your personality. She’s nothing but a sweetheart and he sees you in her all the time. When she smiles or waves at strangers in the grocery store, she’s like a spitting image, somehow looking just like the photos of you when you were around her age. You can claim that she looks like him all he wants, and maybe she does, but she’s one hundred percent you in his eyes and that’s actually what he prefers.

“Mhm,” she nods. “Are you gonna tell me the story again?” She asks as you carry her to her room, Eddie following closely behind. You sit her on her bed and Eddie settles on one side of her while you get in on the other. The three of you snuggle up under the covers just like she likes while Eddie grabs the book you both read to her last night.

“Not that story,” she says with a roll of her eyes. That she definitely learned from Eddie. “The one where you and daddy met.”

“Oh, that one,” You respond and shoot Eddie a look. You swear you’ve told her that story more times than you can count but it warms your heart knowing that she loves hearing it so much.

So you recount the tales, not leaving out any details, because even though she’s six, she remembers everything she hears. Even the swear words that have fallen from Eddie’s lips on more than one occasion that you have to remind her often that she’s not allowed to repeat. She falls asleep before you’ve even finished and you stare down at her where she’s got her head on your chest. Her mouth is open just a tad and you can hear her soft snores falling from her lips. It’s such an adorable image that you wish you could take a photo to carry around with you everywhere.

You gently lie her head on her pillow as both you and Eddie slowly slip out of the bed, hoping not to disturb her then both sneak in a good night kiss to her forehead before tiptoeing towards the door. Once it’s closed, you both high five, priding yourself on yet another successful night of both getting her to bed on time.

“Another success,” he says.

“Well, it will be if she actually sleeps through the night.” It’s been hard since the two of you moved out of Hawkins. You know she misses her friends at her old school, but you’re sure that she misses Wayne the most. The two of them talk on the phone the second she gets through the door after school and they make conversation until he has to go to work which is conveniently right before Eddie serves dinner.

Emma has no idea that Wayne is picking her up from school tomorrow and spending the night at his house while you and Eddie go on a much needed date. She needs time with her great uncle and you and your husband haven’t been out just the two of you in a while so really, everybody wins.

“She will,” he says, resting his hand on your cheeks, pressing another kiss to your lips. You know that you’re worrying for nothing and that she’ll eventually adjust, but you just worry. As her mother, you just want her to be happy and you sometimes feel bad for pulling her away from your old house to one that she doesn’t like very much.

Eddie has been very good about comforting you through this whole thing. The move has been hard for you too with your new job. He’ll meet you for lunch when you’re on your break since it’s been hard for you to make friends with the other nurses. He’s proved time and time again that he’ll be there for you no matter what and you’ll always be grateful for him.

“Yeah, because you always let her sleep in the bed with us and then the two of you stay up all night giggling.” You glare at him before pushing past him to head to your shared room. Eddie is right behind, loving to invade your personal space and you always let him.

Because he knows exactly what you need without even having to ask, he’s running a bath and you head into the bathroom to get undressed, letting him help you into it before hurrying to the kitchen for a bottle of wine, pouring you both glasses and handing yours to you before removing his clothes and joining you in the tub. You clink your glasses together and enjoy each other’s company as you talk about your days, how your new jobs are working out and as you realize that you’re both struggling with your changes, you’ve decided to accept that it’ll take some time to get used to, but at least you have each other.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #dad!eddie #dad!eddie x mom!reader #mom!reader

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amethystarachnid · 28 days ago

Note

Hi! 👋

I just found your blog and I'm already a fan!!

For "Love is in the Air", if it is convenient for you, may I request a "best friends to lovers" trope with FATWS Bucky?

Thanks in advance!!

BEST FRIENDS

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff, a little angst

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.3k

ᯓ★ Summary: You don't know for how long you have been in love with Bucky, your best friend, so you try to move on, but then he suggests you a double date...how will things end?.

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The air is crisp tonight, carrying the scent of rain-soaked pavement and the distant hum of the city. You walk beside Bucky, the two of you taking the long way back to your apartment like always. The routine is familiar—comforting, even—but tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the way the streetlights cast a golden glow on his face, or the way his hands stay stuffed in his jacket pockets instead of gesturing as he talks. Maybe it’s just you, your own thoughts taking up too much space in your head again.

You’ve been in love with Bucky Barnes for longer than you care to admit. It crept up on you slowly, like the tide pulling in waves, until one day you realized you were drowning in it. It’s in the way your heart stumbles every time he looks at you, in the way you find yourself memorizing the exact shade of blue in his eyes when he laughs. It’s in the way you notice how he takes up space—not just physically, but in your life, in your thoughts, in everything. He’s your best friend, and you love him, and it’s terrifying.

"You're quiet tonight," Bucky says, tilting his head toward you as he walks. The metal of his arm catches the light, glinting silver and gold where the Wakandans repaired it. "Something on your mind?"

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. "Just tired," you lie.

Bucky doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. He never does. He just nods and keeps walking, boots scuffing against the pavement.

A comfortable silence stretches between you, but your thoughts won’t settle. You should say something. You should tell him. Every moment with him is another second wasted, another opportunity slipping through your fingers like sand. But the fear keeps you quiet. The fear of ruining everything, of losing him, of shattering whatever this is between you.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be possible for someone who’s been through as much as he has. The scars, the pain, the weight of everything he carries—it should make him hard, unyielding. But Bucky is soft in the ways that matter. He remembers your favorite takeout order. He lets you steal the blankets when you fall asleep on his couch. He texts you to make sure you got home safe, even if he was the one walking you to your door.

And you—you're just the coward who can't say three little words.

The two of you reach your building, and you hesitate at the steps, turning to face him. Bucky stops a step below you, bringing him just a little closer to eye level. The streetlight above flickers, buzzing faintly.

"You wanna come up for a bit?" you ask. Your voice is steady, casual, like this is just another night. Like this isn't the hundredth time you've had to swallow down the truth.

Bucky hesitates, glancing up at your window. You can see the debate in his eyes—stay or go. And then he exhales, a small, almost-smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay."

Your heart does a stupid little flip, and you hate how easily he affects you.

Inside, your apartment is warm, a contrast to the chill outside. Bucky shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of your couch like he’s done a million times before. You watch the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt, the way the fabric clings to him just enough to be distracting. You turn away quickly, pretending to busy yourself in the kitchen.

"Beer?" you ask, opening the fridge.

"Sure," Bucky says, dropping onto your couch with a sigh. "Long day."

You grab two bottles, twisting the caps off before joining him. The couch dips slightly under his weight, and his knee brushes against yours. You try not to think about it too much as you hand him a beer.

"You wanna talk about it?" you ask, knowing full well he probably won’t.

Bucky shakes his head, taking a sip. "Not much to say. Just—people suck."

"Yeah, they do," you agree, nudging his shoulder lightly. "But not all of them."

He hums, studying the label on his beer like it holds the answers to the universe. "No. Not all of them." His gaze flickers to you then, just for a second, and something in your chest tightens.

This is the part where you say it. Where you tell him.

But you don’t.

Instead, you take a long sip of your drink, letting the fizz burn your throat.

Bucky leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. His metal fingers tap absently against the bottle in his lap.

"You ever think about leaving?" he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, thoughtful.

"Leaving?" you echo, confused.

"Yeah. Just…packing up, going somewhere new. Somewhere quiet."

The thought of Bucky leaving sends a sharp pang through your chest, but you keep your expression neutral. "You thinking about running away, Barnes?"

He huffs out a quiet laugh. "Not running. Just…wondering. What it’d be like."

"You wouldn’t last a week without me," you tease, nudging his leg with your foot.

Bucky opens one eye, giving you a slow, lazy smile. "Yeah? You that sure about it?"

"Positive."

His smile fades slightly, and his gaze softens. He looks at you like he's trying to memorize something, like there's something on his mind he isn't saying. Maybe you're imagining it. Maybe you just want it to be there.

You force yourself to look away first, because if you don’t, you might do something stupid—like close the distance between you.

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s heavier. The weight of unsaid things presses down on you, suffocating.

Bucky shifts beside you, setting his beer on the coffee table. "I should probably head out," he says, though he makes no move to stand.

You want to ask him to stay. You want to say the words that have been burning in your throat for months. But the fear wins again.

"Yeah," you say instead, forcing a smile. "Thanks for hanging out."

Bucky hesitates, then nods. He stands, grabbing his jacket off the couch. He’s at the door when he pauses, glancing back at you. "You sure you’re okay?"

No.

"Yeah," you lie. "Just tired."

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs. "Alright. Get some sleep, okay?"

You nod, and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You sink back onto the couch, exhaling shakily.

You should have said something.

But you didn’t.

The days blur together after that night. You and Bucky fall back into your routine—long walks, late-night talks, shared dinners—but something shifts under the surface. You feel it in the pauses between conversations, in the moments when your eyes meet just a little too long before one of you looks away. But neither of you says anything. The words stay trapped in your throat, heavy and unresolved.

You tell yourself it’s fine. This is fine. You have him in your life, and that should be enough. It has to be.

It’s a Friday night when Bucky suggests the bar. You’ve both had long weeks, and blowing off steam with a couple of drinks doesn’t sound like the worst idea.

“C’mon,” he says, giving you that lopsided grin that makes your heart stutter. “We’ll go to that spot you like. First round’s on me.”

You can’t say no when he looks at you like that.

The bar is already buzzing when you arrive. Warm lights cast a soft glow over the crowded space, music playing just loud enough to feel it in your chest. You find a small table tucked in the corner, close enough to the bar but far enough from the chaos.

Bucky orders drinks, and you settle into your seat, watching him at the counter. He’s relaxed tonight, shoulders loose, his hair pulled back into a low tie. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded—that makes it even harder to keep your feelings in check.

When he comes back with your drinks, you toast silently, the clink of glasses drowned out by the noise around you.

A few drinks in, you’re both laughing, the kind of easy laughter that only comes after years of friendship. It feels good, letting go of the tension that’s been simmering between you.

“I’ll grab another round,” Bucky says, pushing back from the table.

You nod, watching as he weaves through the crowd toward the bar. It’s only when he disappears from sight that you realize how exposed you feel without him nearby. You take a sip of your drink, trying not to overthink it.

“Hey there.”

You look up to see a man standing at your table, his smile easy and confident. He’s tall, dark-haired, with sharp features and warm brown eyes. He’s attractive, undeniably so.

“Hi,” you say, surprised.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the empty seat across from you.

You hesitate, glancing toward the bar where Bucky’s still waiting for the drinks. But something about the man’s demeanor—charming but not overbearing—makes you nod.

“Sure.”

He slides into the seat, his smile widening. “I’m Daniel.”

You tell him your name, and the conversation flows easily. He’s funny, attentive, and there’s a certain energy about him that makes you feel…noticed. It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at you like that, and it feels nice. Different.

“So, you here with friends?” he asks, leaning in slightly.

“Yeah, just one,” you say, gesturing toward the bar. “He’s getting drinks.”

Daniel nods, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. “Boyfriend?”

You freeze for a second, the question hitting harder than you expect.

“No,” you say quickly, your heart sinking even as the word leaves your mouth. “Just friends.”

Daniel’s smile returns, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Well, in that case… can I have your number?”

You hesitate. Part of you feels like this is wrong, like you’re crossing some invisible line. But another part—the one that’s tired of waiting, tired of holding back—nudges you forward.

“Sure,” you say, forcing a smile.

You exchange numbers just as Bucky returns to the table, two fresh drinks in hand. His eyes flick to Daniel, then to you, taking in the scene with a blank expression.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice even, but you catch the slight edge in it.

“Hey, man,” Daniel says, standing up. “Just chatting with your friend here.”

Bucky’s jaw tenses, but he gives a short nod. “Yeah. Cool.”

Daniel turns to you, his smile softening. “I’ll text you.”

You nod, feeling Bucky’s eyes on you the entire time.

When Daniel disappears into the crowd, Bucky sits down, sliding your drink across the table. The air feels heavier now, the easy comfort from earlier slipping through your fingers.

“You make a new friend?” Bucky asks casually, though there’s something tight in his voice.

“Yeah,” you say, avoiding his gaze. “His name’s Daniel.”

Bucky hums, taking a sip of his drink. “Seems…nice.”

You glance at him, trying to read his expression, but he’s a closed book. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation stutters after that. You both try to pick it back up, but the mood has shifted. You wonder if he noticed the way Daniel flirted with you, the way you smiled back. You wonder if he cares.

But he doesn’t say anything, and you don’t ask.

Later, as he walks you home, the silence is thick between you. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead.

At your door, you hesitate. “Thanks for tonight,” you say quietly.

Bucky finally looks at you, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. “Yeah. Anytime.”

You wait, hoping—wishing—that he’ll say something else. Anything.

But he just gives you a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, and turns to leave.

You watch him go, the weight in your chest heavier than ever.

Inside, your phone buzzes with a message from Daniel. You stare at it for a long time, the words blurring together.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Or maybe you do, and that’s what scares you the most.

Meanwhile, Bucky walks the dark streets alone, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, that you’re free to give your number to whoever you want. But the tight knot in his chest says otherwise.

He’s not sure when it happened—when the lines blurred, when friendship stopped being enough—but tonight made it painfully clear.

And the worst part? He can’t even be mad. Because he never said anything either.

So, like always, he swallows it down and keeps walking, the city lights blurring around him.

A week passes before you see Bucky again.

It’s not on purpose. Life just gets in the way—work, errands, the quiet moments where you’re not sure if you’re still nursing a bruised ego from the bar or if you’re just overthinking it all. You and Bucky still text here and there—simple things, safe things—but it feels…off. Like there’s something lingering beneath the surface, an undercurrent you both pretend not to notice.

You’ve been texting Daniel. The guy from the bar. He’s charming—funny in a kind of self-deprecating way, and easy to talk to. Plus, he’s gorgeous. Tall, dark-haired, with an easy smile that makes you feel seen. He’s not Bucky, but maybe that’s the point.

You’ve met up with him twice since that night. Once for coffee and once for a walk through the park. Nothing serious. Nothing too intense. But he’s nice, and you’re trying—really trying—to give him a chance.

Bucky knows about Daniel. At least, he knows enough. You told him in passing, watching for any kind of reaction, but he just gave you a simple nod and a “That’s cool,” before changing the subject. The same way you reacted when he told you about Emily.

Emily.

He brought her up yesterday in a text. Apparently, Sam set them up. She’s smart, works in publishing, loves dogs, and according to Bucky, she has a laugh that “makes you wanna smile, even if you don’t get the joke.”

And then he dropped it—the idea.

A double date.

You hesitated. Long enough for him to notice.

“Could be fun,” he texted.

“Or a disaster,” you replied.

“Either way, we get free food out of it.”

So now here you are. Sitting at a small, dimly lit restaurant, across from Bucky, who looks unfairly good in a black button-down that fits him a little too well. Emily sits next to him, a bright, blonde energy wrapped in a sundress. Daniel is next to you, his arm casually resting on the back of your chair as he talks about some podcast he’s into.

You try to focus on Daniel’s words, but your eyes keep flickering to Bucky.

And Bucky? He’s watching everything.

At first, it’s subtle. A quick glance when Daniel orders a drink for you without asking. A tight smile when Daniel brings up a band he swears you love, but—you don’t. Not even a little.

“Wait, you’re into The Silver Sons too, right?” Daniel says, flashing that easy grin.

You hesitate. “Uh… not really. I think I mentioned I like The Silver Lines?”

He waves it off like it’s the same thing. “Right, right, that’s what I meant.”

You can practically feel Bucky’s stare from across the table, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Emily, blissfully unaware of the growing tension, laughs at something Bucky just said. Her hand rests on his forearm, fingers lightly tapping as she talks animatedly about her latest project at work.

You sip your wine, trying to drown the awkwardness.

But Bucky? He keeps finding flaws.

When Daniel orders your food and picks the wrong side dish, you notice the way Bucky stiffens.

“She actually prefers the garlic mashed potatoes,” Bucky says offhandedly, cutting into his steak.

Daniel blinks. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

You force a tight smile. “It’s fine. Really.”

Emily laughs again, leaning into Bucky, but his eyes stay on you and Daniel.

It’s unbearable. The entire night is a slow unraveling—like a loose thread neither of you can stop pulling. Every time Daniel misremembers something about you, Bucky points it out. Casually, but with a bite just beneath the surface. And every time Emily laughs too hard at something Bucky says, you feel a small, petty part of you tighten.

“Hey, excuse me,” you say suddenly, pushing back from the table.

Bucky glances up, brow furrowing.

“Can I talk to you? Outside?”

Daniel looks confused but shrugs, turning his attention to Emily.

Bucky hesitates, then nods, following you out.

The night air is cooler than you expected, a breeze brushing against your skin as you step onto the sidewalk. The city hums around you—distant traffic, muffled laughter, the faint smell of street food wafting through the air.

You turn to face Bucky, folding your arms. “What the hell was that?”

He blinks, feigning innocence. “What was what?”

“Oh, come on, Bucky. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “I was just making conversation.”

“By nitpicking everything Daniel said?”

“He didn’t even know your favorite side dish,” Bucky snaps. “Or the band you like. How hard is it to remember that?”

You stare at him, your chest tight. “Why do you even care?”

There’s a beat of silence—heavy, loaded.

Bucky swallows hard, eyes flicking away before settling back on you. “I don’t,” he lies.

You exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up. “You’ve been judging him all night. Finding reasons to hate him.”

“And you’ve been ignoring how wrong he is for you!”

The words hang there, sharp and raw.

You blink, taken aback. “What, so now you get to decide that?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps before stopping in front of you again. “I’m just saying… you deserve someone who knows you. Who actually sees you.”

Your heart pounds, but anger wins out. “And Emily? Is that what she is to you? Someone who sees you?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might say something—really say something—but instead, he exhales, frustrated.

“We’re not doing this now,” he mutters.

You glare at him. “Fine. We’ll finish this later.”

He nods, the tension between you crackling, before you both turn back toward the restaurant.

But the moment you step inside, everything stops.

Emily and Daniel are at the table—kissing.

Full-on, hands-wandering, completely oblivious to the fact that you and Bucky have returned.

It takes a second for your brain to process it.

You glance at Bucky, whose face is unreadable—stone-cold, like a switch flipped.

“Seriously?” you say, loud enough to break the moment.

Emily and Daniel pull apart, both of them wide-eyed and scrambling for excuses.

“Oh my god,” Emily breathes, wiping her mouth. “I—this isn’t—”

“Yeah, I think we’re done here,” Bucky says, voice sharp but eerily calm.

Daniel stands, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I didn’t mean for—”

You hold up a hand, cutting him off. “It’s fine. Really. Just… go.”

They both fumble with their things, muttering apologies before hurrying out, leaving you and Bucky standing there, surrounded by half-eaten plates and awkward silence.

After a beat, Bucky lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Well. That was… something.”

You shake your head, feeling a mix of anger and—somehow—relief. “Disastrous doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Bucky glances at you, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all night. “Guess we dodged a bullet.”

You snort. “More like a grenade.”

For a moment, the tension eases, and it feels like the two of you again—normal, easy. But then you remember the fight. The things left unsaid.

Bucky must be thinking the same thing because he clears his throat, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “We should… talk. About earlier.”

You nod. “Yeah. We should.”

But not here. Not now.

“Let’s get out of here first,” you say, gesturing to the wreckage of the double date behind you.

Bucky gives a small, tight smile. “Lead the way.”

And as the two of you step out into the cool night again, you can’t help but wonder if this—this messy, complicated, tangled-up version of you and Bucky—is leading somewhere you’ve been too scared to go all along.

The walk back to your apartment is quiet—too quiet.

The kind of silence that hums, heavy and filled with everything neither of you are brave enough to say yet. You steal glances at Bucky as you walk side by side, the city buzzing around you. His hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his jaw clenched tight, that little line between his brows deeper than usual. You know that look—he’s thinking, overthinking probably, the way he always does when something’s sitting heavy on his chest.

You clutch your keys tighter in your hand, nerves bubbling up. The disastrous double date is still replaying in your mind—Emily and Daniel kissing like it was nothing, Bucky nitpicking every little thing Daniel did, the fight outside the restaurant. And now, this. The unbearable, suffocating quiet.

You reach your building and stop at the steps. For a moment, you think he’s going to make an excuse to leave, to run before either of you say something you can’t take back. But instead, Bucky just looks at you, almost unsure, before speaking.

“Can I come up?”

His voice is rougher than usual, lower. There’s something fragile in his eyes, something you’re not sure if you want to run from or run toward.

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

The two of you climb the steps, and the weight between you feels heavier than it did at the restaurant. Every heartbeat is like a countdown. You unlock your door, pushing it open, and Bucky follows you inside.

The familiar warmth of your apartment feels suffocating now. Like the walls are closing in on the mess you’re about to make.

Bucky stands awkwardly near the door as you shrug off your jacket and toss your keys onto the counter. You feel him watching you, waiting for you to say something first.

But you’re not sure you can. Your throat feels too tight.

“So…” you finally start, turning to him.

He lets out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. “That was a disaster.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

Another pause. The tension feels like it’s going to snap at any second.

“Why were you like that tonight?” The words come out sharper than you intended.

Bucky looks up at you, eyes narrowing slightly. “Like what?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Picking apart everything Daniel did. Acting like he was the worst person in the world.”

He bristles at that, taking a step forward. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” you cut him off, frustration boiling over. “You spent the entire night pointing out every little thing he did wrong.”

“Because he doesn’t know you,” Bucky snaps, voice raising. “He didn’t know your favorite food, your music, the way you hate when someone orders for you without asking first. He didn’t know you.”

You freeze, heart racing. “And that’s your problem why?”

Bucky looks like he’s about to say something, but he clamps his mouth shut, jaw tightening.

“No,” you press, stepping toward him, anger and adrenaline mixing in your veins. “Say it, Bucky. You clearly have something to say.”

His hands ball into fists at his sides, that storm brewing behind his eyes. “Because I couldn’t stand watching it, alright? Watching him act like he knew you. Watching you pretend you liked it. It made me—” He stops, swallowing hard.

“Made you what?” you whisper, voice trembling.

His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, but he doesn’t speak.

Your heart pounds in your ears. You’re done dancing around it. You’re done holding it all in.

“It made you jealous,” you say, your voice cracking with emotion. “Because you’re in love with me, Bucky. You’ve been in love with me, and you’ve been too scared to say it. Well, guess what? So have I. I’ve been in love with you for months, and I thought if I said anything, I’d ruin this—ruin us—but I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

It’s out there now. Heavy and raw and terrifying. The truth sitting between you like a living, breathing thing.

Bucky’s eyes widen, his entire body stiffening at your words. His lips part, but no words come out.

And that’s when the crushing realization hits you—you’ve ruined it.

You can practically see the wheels turning in his head, the way he’s retreating inward, closing off. The fear and regret rise in your throat, and you feel your heart break in real time.

“I—shit, Bucky, I didn’t mean to—” You shake your head, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes.

But then, quietly, he speaks.

“I love you too.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. You stop breathing, blinking at him, sure you misheard.

He takes a shaky breath, running both hands through his hair before letting them fall to his sides. “I love you, and I’ve been too much of a damn coward to say it.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I didn’t say anything because—” he lets out a harsh laugh, his voice trembling—“because I’m me. I’m still…this. Still trying to figure myself out. Still filled with all this shit I can’t shake. And you? You deserve someone who has their head on straight. Someone who doesn’t carry as much baggage as I do.”

Tears burn your eyes now, but you step closer to him, your chest aching. “Bucky…”

“But I couldn’t stand watching you with him,” he confesses, his voice cracking. “Because it was supposed to be me. It was always supposed to be me.”

The tears slip free now, hot trails down your cheeks, but you’re smiling—because it’s him. It’s always been him.

You take another step, closing the space between you. “We’re both idiots.”

Bucky lets out a soft laugh, the kind that eases the tension in the room. “Yeah. Huge idiots.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a second, everything feels like it’s finally aligned—like all the messy, complicated, broken parts of you both finally found the right place.

And then you’re moving. Or maybe he is.

But suddenly, his hands are on your face, your fingers tangling into his jacket, and his lips crash into yours.

It’s messy at first—full of months of pent-up tension and emotion, the kind of kiss that feels like letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His lips are warm and soft, but there’s urgency there, a desperation to make up for all the lost time.

You melt into him, your entire body softening as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. His metal hand is gentle against your back, the coolness of it sending shivers up your spine.

You can feel his smile against your lips, and it makes you smile too, the kiss growing softer, slower, like the both of you realize there’s no more need to rush. You have time now. You have each other.

When you finally pull back, breathless and grinning, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes are shining, filled with so much emotion it makes your heart ache.

“So,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek, “guess this makes us official?”

You laugh, tears and happiness mixing in your chest. “We haven’t even been on a real date yet.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer. “Guess we kinda skipped that part.”

“I don’t mind,” you say softly, tracing your fingers along his jaw. “I’ve waited long enough for this.”

He smiles—really smiles—and for the first time in a long time, it reaches his eyes.

“Well,” he says, his voice low, “how about we start with breakfast tomorrow? A real date.”

You grin. “It’s a plan.”

And then he kisses you again—slow and sweet—and this time, there’s no rush. No fear. Just you and him, finally exactly where you were always meant to be.

The sun is barely peeking through the curtains when you feel it—the familiar weight of Bucky’s arm slung across your waist, his face buried against your neck. His warm breath fans across your skin as he mumbles something incoherent, still half-asleep, but his hold on you tightens, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“Bucky,” you whisper, not really wanting to move but feeling the slight cramp in your legs from being in the same position for too long.

He groans, his metal arm wrapping around you too now, practically cocooning you against him. “No. Stay.”

You can’t help but smile, your heart warming at the sheer neediness in his voice. This has become a pattern—every morning, Bucky wakes up wrapped around you like his life depends on it, refusing to let you go even when the sun’s fully up and the smell of coffee is drifting through the apartment.

“You’re so clingy,” you tease, running your fingers through his messy hair.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes soft but laced with a hint of worry. “You mind?”

It’s such a simple question, but it holds so much weight. You know what he’s really asking. He’s asking if it’s too much—if he’s too much.

You shake your head immediately, your fingers trailing down to cup his cheek. “I love it, Bucky. I love you.”

His shoulders relax at that, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t think I can stop.”

“Don’t. I like having my own personal heater.”

He laughs, the sound low and gravelly, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

You lie there for a while longer, tangled up in each other, until your stomach growls loud enough to make Bucky chuckle.

“Sounds like someone needs breakfast,” he teases, finally releasing you from his grasp.

You stretch your arms above your head, grinning. “I think someone promised me pancakes today.”

Bucky sits up, raking a hand through his hair. “I did. And I’m a man of my word.”

Getting out of bed is a slow process, mostly because Bucky keeps finding excuses to pull you back in for one more kiss. But eventually, you’re both dressed and out the door, hand in hand as you walk down the street to your favorite breakfast spot.

It’s a little diner on the corner—nothing fancy, but it’s cozy and has the best pancakes you’ve ever had. Bucky insists on sitting on the same side of the booth as you, his thigh pressed against yours, his arm draped over your shoulders. It’s a simple thing, but it makes your heart flutter every time.

The waitress comes over with two cups of coffee, already knowing your orders by heart. Bucky smiles at her before turning back to you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your arm.

“This is nice,” he says softly, as if the realization is just sinking in.

You look around the diner—the clinking of dishes, the soft hum of conversation, the sunlight streaming through the windows—and then back at him. “Yeah, it really is.”

You eat in comfortable silence, stealing bites from each other’s plates. Bucky pretends to be scandalized when you take a forkful of his pancakes, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Hey! Those are mine,” he says, though he makes no move to stop you.

You grin, mouth full. “Should’ve ordered more if you didn’t want to share.”

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “You’re lucky I like you.”

After breakfast, you wander through the nearby park, the crisp morning air making your breath visible. Bucky keeps your hand in his the entire time, occasionally stopping just to pull you into a kiss, like he can’t help himself.

These mornings become a routine—simple, quiet, but filled with so much warmth. You try different breakfast spots around the city, some fancy, some hole-in-the-wall, but it’s never really about the food. It’s about the time together, the way Bucky looks at you like you’re the most important thing in his world, the way he instinctively reaches for you, like he needs to feel you close.

You start to notice more and more how touch-starved he really is. It’s in the small things—the way his hand always finds yours, even when you’re just watching TV. The way he’ll come up behind you in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. The way he sleeps almost on top of you, as if the closeness helps keep the nightmares at bay.

One morning, a few weeks into your breakfast tradition, you’re sitting at a tiny café with outdoor seating. It’s chilly, but Bucky insisted on sitting outside, claiming the fresh air was good for him. You’re bundled up in your jacket, sipping on a hot latte, when you notice Bucky watching you intently.

“What?” you ask, smiling at him over the rim of your cup.

He shakes his head, his eyes filled with something soft and unspoken. “Nothing. Just… this is more than I ever thought I’d have.”

You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. “You deserve this, Bucky. You deserve to be happy.”

He swallows hard, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I didn’t think I could be. Not really. But you… you make me feel like I can.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice. You squeeze his hand. “You’re not broken, Bucky. You never were.”

He looks down for a moment before meeting your eyes again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“And you’re the clingiest boyfriend ever,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He laughs, the sound full and genuine. “Guilty.”

You spend the rest of the morning wandering around the city, stopping into little shops, Bucky’s arm always around you. He buys you a pastry from a bakery just because you mentioned once that you liked their croissants. It’s small gestures like that that make you fall for him even harder.

Eventually, the topic of telling Sam comes up.

“We should probably tell him,” you say one evening, curled up on the couch together.

Bucky groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “He’s never gonna let me live it down.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “He already knows, Bucky. He’s been waiting for this since forever.”

“He’s gonna be so smug.”

“He deserves it. He’s been our biggest supporter.”

Bucky sighs dramatically but agrees.

When you finally meet up with Sam, it’s at a small bar you all like. Sam’s already there, two beers in front of him, when you and Bucky walk in hand in hand.

Sam looks up, taking in the sight of you two together, and immediately bursts out laughing.

“I knew it!” he says, pointing a finger at Bucky. “I told you this would happen!”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah, yeah. You were right.”

Sam stands up, pulling you both into a hug. “I’m happy for you guys. Took you long enough.”

You all sit down, the conversation flowing easily. Sam teases Bucky relentlessly, but it’s all good-natured, and Bucky takes it in stride.

At one point, Sam leans over to you. “You know he’s a total softie now, right?”

You laugh. “Oh, I know. He’s the clingiest person I’ve ever met.”

Bucky glares playfully at both of you but doesn’t deny it.

It’s moments like this—simple, filled with love and laughter—that make you realize just how much your life has changed.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The room is cloaked in soft darkness, the hum of the city faint beyond the windows. You're wrapped in Bucky’s arms, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back, the cool metal of his vibranium arm resting around your waist. It’s moments like this — peaceful, quiet — where you feel him relax the most, where the weight of his past seems to lift just enough for him to breathe freely.

You shift slightly under the covers, careful not to disturb him, feeling the deep rumble of his breathing as he sleeps. He’s been doing better lately — fewer nightmares, more restful nights — and you hoped, maybe, they were starting to fade. But part of you always knew they lingered beneath the surface, waiting for a crack to break through.

You’re drifting between sleep and wakefulness when you feel it — the subtle shift in his breathing. At first, it’s nothing, just a hitch in his chest, but then his grip on you tightens, the vibranium arm coiling closer, colder.

“Bucky?” you whisper softly, still half-asleep, but something about the tension in his body makes your heart race.

There’s no response — only the feeling of his metal fingers tightening around you, moving upwards from your waist to your chest. You shift, trying to gently wake him, but then the coolness of the vibranium presses against your throat.

“Bucky!” you call out, sharper now, panic seeping into your voice.

His metal arm locks around your neck, not crushing but firm enough that your breath catches, your pulse hammering in your ears. You claw at his wrist, not out of fear, but desperate to wake him. His breathing is erratic now, harsh gasps tearing through his chest as if he’s in the depths of a nightmare, trapped.

“Bucky, it’s me! Wake up!” you shout again, your fingers gripping his arm.

For a second, there’s nothing — just the terrifying strength of his hold — but then, like a switch flipping, his eyes snap open. Wild, glassy, unfocused. His entire body jerks, and his metal arm releases you instantly, his face contorting in horror as he scrambles away from you, nearly falling off the bed.

“Y/N! Oh my God—” His voice cracks, his chest heaving as he stares at you, eyes wide with pure panic.

You cough, your hand instinctively reaching for your throat where his arm had been, though there’s barely a mark — just the faintest hint of pressure lingering on your skin.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—” Bucky stammers, his hands shaking, one metal and one flesh, as he backs further away. He’s on the edge of the bed now, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Bucky, it’s okay,” you say quickly, your voice still hoarse but gentle.

But he’s already spiraling, his head shaking furiously. “I— I could’ve killed you. I almost— I had my arm—” His breathing is ragged, bordering on hyperventilating.

You move toward him carefully, trying not to spook him further, but he flinches when you get too close. The look on his face rips through you — pure terror mixed with disgust, not at you, but at himself.

“Bucky, listen to me. I’m fine.”

His eyes are fixed on your throat, as if expecting to see bruises forming. “I— I felt it. I was— I could’ve crushed—”

“You didn’t,” you insist, your hands reaching out, though he stays frozen, his body taut with tension. “I’m here. I’m breathing. You stopped before anything happened.”

But the guilt is already sinking deep into him, like poison. “I can’t— I can’t stay here. What if it happens again? What if I don’t stop next time?”

“You did stop,” you say, firmer now, moving closer despite his protests. “Bucky, you woke up. You let go.”

He swallows hard, but his eyes are glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears. “I can’t trust myself. I can’t—”

You close the gap between you, kneeling in front of him even as his hands fist into the sheets, his whole body trembling. You reach for his metal hand, hesitating just a beat before placing yours over it.

His fingers twitch under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You think I’m scared of you?” you ask softly.

“You should be,” he growls, though his voice breaks mid-sentence, pain lacing every word.

“I’m not,” you whisper. “I know you. I know your heart, Bucky. That wasn’t you — it was a nightmare. And the second you woke up, you stopped.”

“I could’ve hurt you.”

“But you didn’t,” you press, guiding his metal hand to rest over your heart. “Feel that? I’m okay. I’m here.”

His fingers tremble against your chest, and when he finally looks up at you, tears spill over, slipping silently down his cheeks.

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Your own throat tightens at his words, your heart breaking in your chest. “You deserve everything good in this world, Bucky. Even if you don’t see it yet.”

He lets out a choked sob, his body sagging forward until his forehead presses against your shoulder. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, feeling the weight of him as he finally lets himself collapse into you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers against your skin.

“I know,” you murmur, running your fingers through his hair. “But you don’t have to be. Not for this.”

It takes a long while for his breathing to steady, for the tremors to leave his hands, but eventually, you feel the tension begin to ease from his body.

You guide him back onto the bed gently, though he hesitates, his eyes flicking to his metal arm like it’s the enemy.

“I don’t know if I can—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You can,” you say firmly. “Lay with me. Please.”

He swallows hard, but when you lie back against the pillows and open your arms, he finally gives in, moving slowly, cautiously, until his head rests against your chest.

At first, his body remains rigid, his breathing shallow, but as your fingers comb through his hair and your heartbeat thuds steadily beneath his ear, he starts to melt into you. His metal arm, which had been curled tightly against his side, now hesitantly moves, wrapping around your waist, though his touch is featherlight, as if still scared to hold on too tightly.

You press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “See? You’re okay. We’re okay.”

His voice is muffled against your chest when he finally speaks again. “I was back there. In the chair. I could feel it. I could hear them.”

You tighten your arms around him, feeling the weight of his confession settle deep inside you. “But you’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me.”

His fingers dig lightly into your side, seeking more contact, more grounding. “I was so scared. Of what I might do.”

“I know,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “But you fought it, Bucky. You won.”

There’s a long silence, filled only with the soft sound of your breathing. And then, finally, you feel him fully relax, his head heavy against your chest, his body no longer trembling.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers again, but this time, there’s less conviction in his voice.

“You deserve love, Bucky. You deserve peace,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, feeling his body sag deeper into yours.

It takes time, but eventually, his breathing evens out, and you realize he’s fallen asleep — this time, peacefully, safely, his head cradled against your heart.

You hold him there, vowing silently that you’ll be here for all of it — the nightmares, the darkness, and the moments of light that you know will only grow stronger.

Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s this: Bucky Barnes is worth fighting for. Even when he can’t see it himself.

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