#wonderland4seasonalWC

[anika-ann]

Stockings (S.R.)

Type:  Modern-college-professor AU - part of Attached series or a standalone

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 3000

Summary: You just wanted to decorate the apartment for a bit, you swear.

It wasn’t your fault that it was impossible to stay with your mind out of the gutter for longer than five minutes whenever Steve was around.

A/N: No knowledge of Attached needed I think 😉 Feel free to read as a standalone, you’ll find it in my masterlist as both.

A/N 2: For @wonderlandmind4​ ‘s challenge. Congrats on your follower count and for coming up with this awesome challenge!

Prompt: “Those - weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind-“ (bold in text)

Warnings: suggestive themes, implied smut with tiny bit of action so 18+, nsfw, language (always), and one (1) trope that has definitely been used before

Series masterlist

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When the idea of decorating first flashed through your mind, it was, honest to God, completely innocent.

Due to loads of schoolwork, Halloween somehow passed by and you barely noticed, the most festive thing you had done being the indulgent orders of pumpkin spiced lattés and hogging some of the candy for your exam time stress-eating. Candy which just happened to be shaped like spiders, snakes, witches and other lovely stuff.

But that was it and with ditching the spooky holiday and the Thanksgiving which no one in your apartment was allowed to talk about, you itched to celebrate at least one of the holidays in peace and with everything that belonged with it.

Gifts, obviously.

Baking, perhaps.

Decorations, absolutely.

Last year, you and Penny had gone a bit overboard, fully affected by the holiday madness, and bought half the store (well, as much as your financial situation allowed anyway). Your dorm room looked as if Santa puked there, as Penny elaborately put it, but you both adored it.

Now, with Steve, you knew you had to be considerably more restrained.

Not that he would notice if your apartment turned into a damn Santa village, because he was too preoccupied with grading midterm papers. Non-stop, it seemed. The pile never ever appeared to be reducing.

However, you and Steve had set a rule that even if you were both crazy busy, you’d make time for at least one or two evenings together – simply to take few moments to fully appreciate each other’s company.

That night, Steve’s mind wandered despite trying to stay focused on you, you could tell. You felt for him, you truly did… but you missed him. Your time together, truly together, became so rare lately and--- you didn’t want to end up like the couple that kisses goodnight and good-morning just because they share quarters and a bed, and ignores one another for the rest of the day.

Rather than letting the gloomy thoughts consume you though, you tried a different approach; humour.

After all, that was how your relationship had started, along with loads of awkwardness.

“Penny says hi, by the way,” you said casually, practically feeling Steve’s absence despite his body engulfing you as you cuddled on the couch, movie on your laptop playing in the background which neither of you were watching.

Steve hummed, his fingers never ceasing the comforting strokes on your arm.

You adored him, you did – which really was the reason why you couldn’t but mess with him, tease him for his mental trip to the far-away lands.

“She and Bucky hooked up again.”

“Mm.”

“She still claims he was the best she ever had.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Steve muttered, almost as if he was actually listening to you.

“I’m meeting them tomorrow both, because they offered me a threesome.”

“That’s nice.”

The corners of your lips twitched. God, Steve was lucky to have you to take his mind off his job sometimes, otherwise he would work himself into the ground with how much of his brain space was filled with university matters. He was so detached from life sometimes…

“Bucky asked if he could film it, do you think I should say yes?”

“Whatever you think—wait WHAT?!” he cried out, sitting up straight, hence pushing you up too since you had been nestled on his chest.

Giggles erupted from your throat as you watched his perplexed and scandalized face, realization slowly dawning on him as he probably went over the last few sentences that left your mouth – and his expression gradually melted into an apologetic one, blending into exhaustion as he ran his hand down his face.

You cupped his cheeks then, leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead – you would swear it was a fraction hotter than normal, his poor brain overheating – and stifled the aww threatening to spill when Steve closed his eyes contentedly, a hum vibrating in his chest.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing your lips chastely before wrapping his arms around you to hold you close again, face nuzzling your hair. “I’m listening now.”

You curled into his warmth, much more welcoming than the comforter wrapped around you.

“It’s okay, Stevie. I know you’re tired. We’ll just call it a night.”

“But you wanted to talk about something?” he protested softly, earning a hum in affirmation.

“Just wanted to ask if you’d be okay with me decorating the apartment? Just a bit, to bring a piece of the Christmas spirit in here?”

You could feel his smile against your scalp as his thumb caressed your shoulders blades, his large form shifting for a bit.

“We both live here, sweetheart,” he reminded you and you made a tiny sound of protest. Yes, he was correct, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t consult him on stuff before messing with the interior, even if it was with the best intentions. Duh. “But I appreciate you asking. Decorations, huh?”

You withdrew, meeting his tired eyes with a barely-there twinkle. You smiled at up at him innocently, showing him a tiny space between your thumb and index finger.

“Just a little bit. Just the basics…”

“Uh-huh. The basics. So that’s what? Christmas lights, stockings, mistletoe, a tree?” he mused, his thumb moving to your chin, to your lower lip, brushing it tenderly as you nodded minutely with a smile. His irises lit up a fraction with that image he must have painted in his mind and you felt familiar warmth around your heart at the sight. “I guess we’ll have to talk about getting a tree then. But it sounds nice, babygirl. The mistletoe in particular.”

He proceeded to capture that lips with his, lazy but indulgent kiss that sent pleasant sparkles down your spine and yet made you sleepy as it was soothing, feeling like home.

“Yeah. Sounds nice,” you echoed dreamily, meeting his lips again in a short kiss before nudging him to stand up so you could begin to move to bed.

Only later it occurred to you just how nice you could do with the stuff Steve had mentioned if you tried – and you fell asleep in his arms, a menacing grin that would make Grinch green with envy on your lips.

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Carrying the box after hanging one mistletoe branchlet in the kitchen along with very few fairy lights in the window, you were ready to move onto the bedroom, where Steve was, again, working.

Not for long, you hoped – after all, you put notable effort into your appearance.

With a small smirk on your lips, you knocked on the separating wall, peeking from behind it, trying your best not reveal too much.

Steve didn’t even bother looking up, a semi-loud hum the only sign of him acknowledging your presence.

“I’m gonna decorate this room… you mind me messing around for a bit?” you asked, attempting to sound compassionate about his workload, which you were, and perfectly innocent, which you were not.

That got him eye you briefly, an unconvincing smile passing his lips.

“Sure, go ahead,” he encouraged you softly. He turned his gaze back to the papers on his desk and started writing notes before you could even respond – hence missing your victorious smile.

“Thanks!”

You gleefully walked in, steps soundless against the floor thanks to the thin fabric covering your soles, and placed the box on your own desk.

The rustle of papers and the sudden lack of scribbling sound had you biting your cheek so you wouldn’t burst out laughing.

Steve cleared his throat loudly; when you looked at him over your shoulder however, he went back to reading his damn papers.

You swallowed your disappointment, trying not to think much of it – Steve could be very patient when he wanted to be – or very impulsive. And sometimes, he was both at the same time.

So you pressed your lips together and removed the other branchlet of mistletoe from the top of the box, following with Christmas lights, putting whatever you needed on the desk.

“Sweetheart…” Steve’s voice sounded from his seat, partly amused, partly… hoarse, affected, and you had to bite your lips so the giggles wouldn’t spill out. “What are you wearing?”

You turned to him, making a show of checking your outfit, letting your palms sprawl over your barely covered thighs and slowly moving them up, the hem of Steve’s loose ivory sweater hiking up an inch and revealing the lace of your thigh-high crimson stockings; perhaps even offering a peek of the straps holding them in place due to the garter belt.

“Your old sweater… and stockings,” you offered with a one-shoulder shrug, cool as cucumber in December – or as yourself teasing your loveable boyfriend at the end of November – on the outside, giddy on the inside as his gaze trailed all over your figure, wavering at the lace and the patch of skin on display, before focusing on your face.

“Those-- those weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind-- when I, uhm, talked about decorating this place,” he explained.

He sounded almost patient, as if it wasn’t clear as day. His irises, however, were not clear – a cloud of desire covered them, turning them a shade darker, hungrier.

It sent a pleasant shiver up your spine, heat pooling in your belly, satisfaction at inching closer to your goal causing your chest nearly puff with pride.

“Oh, my bad!” you exclaimed, chuckling self-depreciatingly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you eyed Steve from under your eyelashes, picture perfect of innocence… not. “Silly me! I’m sorry, I know how much you hate me in stockings…”

“Babygirl…”

His voice resembled a growl, a low warning not to toy with him – which was exactly what you did want to do, teasing him shamelessly when having added emphasis on him not liking your attire.

Stockings and/or his clothes on you got your boyfriend going in fact, sometimes for hours even, thank you very much.

“Yes, Steve?”

“This isn’t going to work, you know. I really have to finish these,” he stated and you most definitely didn’t imagine the impatience and his dislike towards his task sneaking into his voice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. These are just…” you bit gently on your lower lip, sliding your palms up and down your thighs, Steve’s gaze following the motion instinctively, pupils dilating with the craving to replace your hands with his own, “…comfy, just like your sweater. You never minded when I borrowed it before—you know I love stealing it. It just… it smells like you and it’s warm. It’s like you’re all over me. It’s perfect.”

His glare zeroed on your mouth, slightly accented by a natural, yet visible shade of your lipstick. Steve didn’t say a word, simply staring – and shifting slightly in his seat, much to your glee, which hopefully didn’t show too much – and grumbling an unidentifiable noise.

You felt for him, you truly did – god knew that sometimes, you were overwhelmed with schoolwork too – but that didn’t stop you from smiling at him sweetly now, adding an apologetic tone to your next words.

“Sorry. I talk too much. Don’t let me disturb you. You have work to do and so do I. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

Then you spun on your heels and went back to continue your previous activity, laying out decorations on your desk.

Steve only grunted behind you, but you could hear him as he started going through the papers again, probably trying – and hopefully failing – to ignore your presence.

It wasn’t that you wanted to be mean, there was no single drop of malice in your plan; Steve needed to get his head off his work for a bit, even if he wasn’t aware of it. The way he was overworking himself was beginning to threaten to his sanity.

You simply wanted to help and this was just the way that had crossed your mind first; it was entirely on Steve and his stupidly perfect everything that you couldn’t seem to get your head out of the gutter sometimes when in his presence.

You wished nothing more than for him to turn off his brain… and to relax and enjoy himself.

Clearly, he was enjoying the view indeed.

You caught his sharp inhale when you accidentally dropped a tacky plastic Santa and proceeded to bend over to pick it up… offering Steve a perfect view of your rear and revealing the smart garter belt you wore; with nothing as much as a thong, leaving your most intimate areas bare.

You heard him shuffling in the chair and had to smirk, mentally counting down the time until his resolve broke.

He was holding up quite bravely – nearly long enough to make you doubt your ability to seduce him. Except the shuffle of papers that followed sounded as if he was trying to make a point and you knew that the breaking point was on horizon.

So when the time came to set in motion what you assumed would be the final strike – pushing the chair from your desk to the middle of the room to get ready to put your stockings on display right in his natural line of vision – you delicately took the branchlet of mistletoe with you, climbing up and carefully tying it to the lamp.

Steve’s pen hit the desk with a click and you quickly shot him a glance, meeting his stern and yet rather amused eyes. He sighed at your ridiculously unsubtle antics, but one corner of his lips rose anyway.

“Alright, that’s it. Get down here, you little minx,” he huffed.

Oh, sweet victory.

Mirroring his expression, you retorted cheekily: “Come get me.”

There was no missing the dangerous glint in is eye as he rose to his feet and stalked to your chair, a smirk playing on his lips, every movement purposeful and precise as if he was a predator chasing his prey to the corner.

Your breathing picked up as he neared, your heart pounding, chest heaving quickly – fuck, wasn’t it an erotic sight, Steve’s figure cladded in plain t-shirt and sweats, looking up at you as if he was about to eat you alive.

Maybe it was the expression on his face, somewhere between aroused, amused, cocky and predatory at the same time. Maybe it was the outline of his semi-hard dick on his sweatpants. But shit, you knew you were in trouble, you loved it, and you might have been this close to drooling. You were glad for forgoing underwear, because it would be absolutely useless and soaked through in an instant.

And Steve hadn’t even started yet.

Stopping right in front of you, craning his neck only a bit to face you (the tall bastard), his wide palms sprawled over your calves, their heat warming you from inside out.  

An appreciative hum rumbled in his chest as his touch trailed up at torturously slow pace, drinking in the sight of your ragged breaths, indulging in every inch he laid his hands on. You couldn’t withhold the shudder running through your whole body and his grin widened.

“You’re such a fucking tease….” he whispered, licking his lips as his gaze fell lower again, following the movements of his hands, clasping the back of your thighs now, inching toward their inner part, fingers brushing the hem of your stockings.

“Is it-“ You had to clear your throat against the lump that grew there, your body buzzing with anticipation, the smart remark growing heavy on your tongue. “Is it teasing when you can just take what you want?”

He chuckled, a delicious dark sound, bringing more slickness between your legs, much to his apparent satisfaction as he set eyes on his prize.

“Downright naughty…”

His mouth landed softly on the inside of your right calf, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to nudge them few inches apart to make space for him.

“Does that… uhm, does that mean I won’t be getting any presents from Santa this year?”

You had genuinely no clue how you managed to form a sentence through the fog of arousal around your brain, only growing thicker when Steve’s teeth grazed the skin above your knee, his fingertips brushing an extremely sensitive spot so close to your core.

“You could come down now, be a very good girl and I might put in a good word for you,” he muttered, biting down some more, drawing a mewl from your lips, another one escaping you when he snapped one of the strings holding your stockings in place.

The sharp gentle pain was enough to make words roll off your tongue.

“You think that would work?”

“Oh sweetheart…” Steve chuckled again, a huff of breath warming your thighs, before his eyes, wide-blown and hungry, met yours. “If it doesn’t… you can be damn sure I’m gonna give you fucking everything I have.”

You yelped when his grip on the back of your thighs tightened and he tugged you forward, your hands instantly going to his shoulders to maintain balance as you found yourself with no surface under your feet all of sudden.

He grinned up at you – the show-off, but by God, wasn’t the demonstration of strength setting your body on fire, rendering you speechless – and slowly lowered you to the ground, half-lidded eyes zeroed on your lips. He made damn sure that you felt his erection against your body at all time as he always loosened his grip and tightened it a second later, until your feet touched the ground – and yet you felt your legs shaking, unsteady with the need to feel more of him.

It dawned to you how crazy he managed to drive you, your roles reversed, your plan backfiring. But was it? Backfiring? Because you couldn’t wait to see how it would unfold--

His hands slipped under the sweater you stole from him, one grasping your hip to hold you tight against his body, fingers of the other diving into the pool of slick between your legs, causing you to jerk forward into his hand.

He leaned down to nip at the skin of your neck right under your ear, forefinger circling your clit for a good measure, drawing a needy moan from you.

“And I bet you’re gonna take it…” he hummed into your ear, satisfied smile audible in his hoarse voice, “and thank me for it like the good girl you are.”

You barely forced the words out, heavy with desire but any less true.

“Yes, Professor Rogers. I think I will.”

“Damn right.”

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S.R. masterlist

Attached masterlist

The One Word (next in timeline)

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I really wanted to come up with an original title… and failed. Also, it was supposed to be a drabble, but you know that I tend to babble… and rhyme, apparently.

Thank you for reading and for any kind of feedback :-*

[need-a-fugue]

The Weight of Winter

Written for @wonderlandmind4​‘s Fall Winter Writing challenge. The prompt? “Jack Frost can fuck right off.”

Characters/Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: You find comfort in the snow, in the eerie silence of winter. But Bucky’s just not into that shit.

“For the last time,” he mutters, words meting through tightly clenched teeth as he tosses the bag into the corner and tightens his metal hand around your hip. “We are not on the run.”

A final woosh of cold air blows past you, tiny tinkles of sleet and snow pelting the back of your neck as he ushers you the rest of the way into the room and kicks the door shut behind you. “Just let me have my fun, old man,” you pout, head heavy on his shoulder, legs nearly buckling beneath you.

“I don’t understand you SHIELD agents,” he grumbles, shaking his head back and forth as he takes care to lower you gently to the edge of the bed. “Mission’s over. It’s done. We’re in a safe house – ”

“Motel,” you correct, the word firing over the top of a pained hiss as his fingers begin peeling away the sticky fabric around your wound.

Bucky rolls his eyes – “Safe being the operative word.” – and shakes his head again. “And you’re… fantasizing about being on the run?”

“First of all,” you begin, voice low and far weaker than you expect, the sound alone causing your breath to hitch with a sudden – albeit fleeting – swell of dread. No need to worry, you remind yourself yet again. Because you never need to worry when you’re with him. “There is no SHIELD anymore,” you go on, struggling to fortify the statement. “So I’m not a SHIELD agent.”

His face tightens, brows shrinking together into an anxious scowl as he watches you feign composure. “Whatever,” he spits out, his concern quickly morphing into frustration.

“And secondly,” you continue, small, crooked smile blooming across your sallow face, “safe is all well and good… but danger can be so damn much fun. And sexy.”

He trains his eyes on your blood-soaked middle, refusing to look up and meet your teasing gaze. A deep swell of anger overrides that side of him that normally sparks and flames at your odd sensibilities, your quirky sense of humor, your unflappable desire to keep from showing any pain or fear. Ordinarily, he finds it all strangely enchanting, perhaps even admirable. But not now. Not here. Not like this. “You’re still in danger of bleeding to death,” he mutters harshly under his breath. “If that does it for you…”

You flinch away from him and flop backwards, falling onto the stiff mattress with a dramatic sigh, arms and legs askew. Bucky blows an impatient breath out of his nose and crawls up the bed to finish removing your nearly shorn tac suit. “It’s barely a graze,” you breathe out, muscles inadvertently clenching as his fingers work beneath the thick, leatherlike fabric. “I’m fine.”

“Knives don’t graze, sweetheart,” he replies with a raised brow. “They cut and they stab. And what you are is cut and stabbed.”

You let out another sigh – one filled with more than a hint of defeat – and you give into the exhaustion that the day – and blood loss – has wrought, allowing your body to sink down atop the scratchy comforter. Allowing Bucky to do what he needs to do. What’s the point in playing down your injuries when he’s the one tending to them, anyway?

You turn your head, gaze traveling to the far side of the small room, to the wide picture window there. Curtains frame either side of the slightly frosted glass, leaving the stunning view on full display. A sprawling clearing right outside the motel. A dense forest of snow-capped trees, branches heavy with the weight of winter, looming just beyond. All of it beginning to dim and darken in the blueish twilight. “I trust you,” you murmur softly, barely a whisper, final word catching as he tugs away the last of the sticky, blood-soaked suit.

He lets out a short scoff, little more than an irritated huff blown sharply through his nose. And he rises and spins to retrieve the large black bag from the corner. Zip. You hear him tug it violently open, sharp clinks and scratches echoing through the otherwise silent room as he digs through the bag’s contents. You know what’s in there. You know what he’s looking for. The fully stocked first aid kit, complete with styptic and a suture set. A full bottle of vodka, because you were always either going to celebrate with swigs or choke on a scream while disinfecting.

“Don’t get the clean clothes all bloody,” you chide weakly from the bed, eyes still trained on the tranquil beauty outside. Bucky’s bag is always packed with a fresh set of civies – one for you now too, ever since that tumble you took into a scummy pond a few missions back. He’s always got them buried beneath the other essentials, packed neatly away with care. Vaguely, you recall laughing at him – long, long ago. Mocking – You’re like a damn boy scout – back before you ever realized how much you would benefit from his preparedness.

Another scoff sounds as he continues to dig around, plucking out items and either palming them easily in his large hands or dropping them to the floor with a dull thud. But you don’t turn to see what exactly it is that he’s doing. You don’t need to. Frankly, you don’t care. This isn’t the first time he’s patched you up after a rough mission. Isn’t the first time either of you have been tasked with staunching the flow of blood from the other, stitching skin and haphazardly bandaging wounds that would make local clinics and hospitals just a bit too suspicious.

He knows what he’s doing, and you trust that. You trust him. So you keep your gaze trained on that window, on the melancholy dusk beginning to gray out the bright white field, draping a shadow across the snow-heavy trees in the distance.

It had started just after you exited the expressway, giant white flakes suddenly filling the sky, dropping lazily about you as he drove. As dark red blood seeped into your palms – into his wide open palm as well – as the two of you hurried deep into what had begun to look like a true-to-life winter wonderland. The further you crept into the thickly wooded hills, tree branches already glistening pearly white above, the more the car struggled for purchase – Bucky cursing all the way, steering with just his tightly gripping metal hand, refusing to let you go with his right – on the whitened roads. And the less everything seemed to hurt.

“It’s beautiful,” you mutter blankly – not for the first time – as you continue to stare longingly out the window. Your eyelids grow heavy, once reeling brain now slowing in time with the gently falling flakes beyond.

Bucky’s head pops up, sees yours turned away, your gaze locked onto the gradually graying expanse outside the tiny, musty motel room. “It’s a snow storm,” he says after a moment, annoyance creeping back into his tone. “Shit could’ve killed us out there.”

A quick – and painful – laugh vibrates through your body, your eyes pinching shut against the ache as you swivel your head towards him. The mattress dips beside you, and when you open your eyes again, he’s there, his warm hip pressed to yours, his bloodied hand once again resting on the wound in your side. His brow is scrunched with worry and dread, and you almost let out another laugh, one fond and wistful, as you reach up and trace a finger down the length of his all-too-serious face. Almost. “You think everything’s out to kill us.”

His tight expression uncoils just a bit at hearing your voice, feeling your touch, seeing your tired eyes lock onto his. “I see what the world shows me.”

You feel the scratch of his stubble tickle your palm as you flatten it atop his cheek, let it linger there for a fleeting moment before ending with a swift pat and letting your hand fall heavily back to your side. “Well, I see snow,” you hum out, blinking your eyes shut again as your head shifts back towards the window.

His fingers – both flesh and metal – begin to press and tug at your side, wiping away some more blood before – “This is gonna hurt.” – a splash of vodka spills over your exposed skin and down into the wound. It burns, causes you to jolt and stiffen and recoil, even as his hands pin you down. “Sorry,” you hear him mutter, barely a whisper, as breath returns to your lungs in fits and starts. As Bucky’s vibranium thumb takes a break from tending the gashes in your side to instead absently stroke a tender trail along your rib.

“I know you have some lidocaine in there,” you say with a twisted smile, voice strained as the blaring pain slowly recedes into a dull ache. “Could’ve shot me up with some of that first.”

He shrugs – “Need to see where I’m injecting it.” – and pulls away the gentle caress to begin his work.

All the while – as he numbs the large wound in your side, and another smaller one above it, and then begins to stich you up, his fingers swift and well-practiced – you stare out that window across the room and urge yourself to get lost out there, out in the cold, numbing winter landscape. “Is it Siberia that made you hate the snow?” you ask after several long, silent moments.

“Yes,” he answers pointedly.

Your tone shifts, becomes a bit gloomy, voice echoing a soft sentiment buried deep in your soul as you say simply, barely a whisper, “We could be there right now. We could be anywhere.”

Bucky continues to focus on his work, his words coming out clipped. “We’re in Pennsylvania. Not Siberia.”

“But it could be anywhere,” you murmur softly, tiny smile spreading across your lips. “We could be on the run. Together. Going… somewhere. Going anywhere.”

He’s silent for a long moment, nothing but the steady in-out of his breaths mingling in with your own more strained, more shallow ones. “Stark should have the extraction team here in a couple of hours,” he says finally, his voice tight and tense.

You let out a deep sigh, your wracked body somehow – despite the dull throbbing and disconcerting numbness – managing to relax into the bed. “Can’t just let me have my fun, can you?”

“This isn’t fun,” he spits out, words commanding despite the slow, deep, oddly soothing tenor to his voice. “I don’t even want to think about us being out here without any help on the way.” A long, languid breath spills out of him and you feel the warm press of his flesh hand atop your ribs, the gentle brush of his thumb returning and setting off a tiny, itchy tendril of delight – of love – in your core. He leans down over you, presses his forehead to yours, his breath hot on your cheek as he mutters, “I just want to get you home, doll,” before dropping a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth and springing back upright to finish his work.

You watch him for a moment, as he cuts down some gauze and tenderly tapes it to your side. As he deftly maneuvers a long bandage around your torso, whispers through clenched teeth – sorry…damn… sorry, doll – when the shifting of your body causes you to grimace and quiver.

When he’s done, you return your gaze to the outside world, the nearly full moon reflecting off the snow to breathe light into a space that is otherwise total darkness. Shuffling and clanging and snapping all sound in your periphery as Bucky dumps the spent supplies back into the duffle and strips off his tac suit, the heavily buckled jacket falling to the floor with a weighty slap. The water runs in the adjacent bathroom, his hulking shadow falling out onto the floor just beneath the window, just in your line of sight, as you listen to him hurriedly wash his hands. Desperately scrubbing away the evidence of your injury… of his own agony.

“Do you think it’s snowing back at home too?” you ask once the water shuts off.

“God, I hope not,” echoes out from the open bathroom door in an exhausted tenor. He steps out into the dim light of the room and tosses a quick glance outside, no doubt checking for threats rather than taking in the wonderous scenery that you’ve been living in for the past who knows how long. He lets out a huff, tugs on a clean T-shirt, and leans over to flip off the bathroom light.

“Jack Frost might be paying a visit to the compound right now,” you say with a crooked grin, your voice thick and tired, slightly slurred. “You never know.” The weight of your lids is becoming too much to bear, no matter how you struggle to keep them afloat. You blink – once, twice – so much time in between that you miss seeing the strides that carry him across the room.

The bed dips beside you and you open your eyes one last time to see Bucky tactfully lay down beside you, curling close without disturbing your still throbbing body in the least. He leans in and drops a swift peck to the very tip of your nose, his pale blue eyes holding tight to your gaze until your lids flutter shut again and sleep finally begins to overtake you. Then he lays down his head, barely a breath away from yours on the pillow, and he mutters, just loud enough to cut into your snow-white dreams, “Jack Frost can fuck right off.”

[starrysebastians]

Tis the damn season

Summary : On the first post-blip Thanksgiving, you find yourself having to reunite with your parents and your heart is not in it — Sam persuades you to take Bucky with you, and this might be an opportunity for you two to get to know each other. I just heard a ten pound turkey hit the ground and also very strong words. Do you need help? 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count : 11k 

Warnings : general sadness, mentions of death and strained family relationships, but holiday fluff to make up for it.

A/n : this was written for @wonderlandmind4​'s fall winter challenge, thank you for hosting this! (Got carried away with the word count while simultaneously having no inspiration and writing utter shit I'm genuinely sorry about this?????) 

"God I hate this damn season and everything about it."

The sound of pebbles aggressively kicked by your foot is drowned out by the driver's door being slammed shut. It echoes around the empty street, morning fog still lingering in the air even in the early afternoon. A white cloud escapes your lips as you sigh, emptying all of your lungs' air before breathing in once again, and your eyes follow the shape — up, up, until it vanishes into the air and you are left staring at a familiar bay window. The curtain moves before you can even begin to turn your gaze away and a curse escapes your lips.

"Think they saw us?" His tone is dripping with irony.

Bucky is leaning against the car, arms crossed against his broad chest and his face as blank as your mind when you try to think about why you chose to do this. In the small moment of contemplation you were having, you didn't even notice him walk around the car and stand next to you.

"Nah, impossible," you say deadpan as a hand waves behind the glass. You stare at it silently before you talk again."We can still make a run for it." 

You don't move as Bucky pushes himself off the car and opens the trunk, bags all held in his metal hand. The trunk slams shut and he is already crossing the road leading to the front lawn. 

"I was being serious!" You call out, huffing when he turns around and glares at you. 

Throwing up your arms and letting them fall back at your sides with a heavy sigh, you begrudgingly lock the car and walk towards the house — it seems so much smaller to you now. 

"Of course they put Christmas decorations literally everywhere," you mutter under your breath, suddenly feeling a wave of holiday hatred hitting you at full speed.

Bucky eyes you for a second before knocking on the door, a horrified expression distorting your features when the word wait doesn't get to be voiced out loud. His eyes are more grey than usual, matching the sky, and they hold a twinkle of amusement at the sight of you, mouth open and eyes looking up at the sky as if some sort of alien could possibly appear and whisk you far away from here.

It's intriguing, seeing you this way — in your hometown, nervous about spending Thanksgiving with your parents. Nervous isn't the right word though, because he thinks he has never seen you nervous before ; there are actually a lot of emotions he hasn't seen you display yet. Not that he has a reason to, actually, because he only sees you when you are visiting Sam at their new headquarters, or when you are helping out on a mission. So really, he has only seen you laughing at Sam's jokes, or being angry at armed criminals. And what is left between those two extreme moods are mostly you being silent or passive-agressive — although the passive-aggressiveness is reserved for him, he has noticed.

"Y/N!" Your mother's voice makes you want to wince and you purse your lips, a poor attempt at smiling. Bucky had stepped behind you after having knocked on the door and you are at the forefront of every attack. 

Arms feel strange and foreign around you, a warmth you are not used to anymore. You can't really feel your hands as you awkwardly reciprocate the gesture, patting your parents' back as your gaze rests upon the staircase, so many memories rushing to your mind at once.

"Hi," you say simply, taking a step back and crossing your arms. You clear your throat, leaning closer to Bucky, your arm brushing his. This is what a regular person would do, right? "This is James." 

You don't really pay attention to the way your mother's arms engulf Bucky — poor guy. Their voices are just noise to you as you step around them and walk to the living room. We have been dying to meet you. Y/N has been keeping you hidden from us for so long. We are so glad to have you here, James. Slow and careful steps, eyes taking it all in — the green walls, the fireplace, the old rug and the stains you've made, the painting you've always found disturbing. It smells just the same. You run your hands across every surface, fingers lingering on cold wood.

"It's a good thing that you're here early. I'll show you to your room and you can settle in, rest a little." You turn around lazily, lids heavy with the weight of nostalgia and old visions. Your mother's hand is resting on Bucky's forearm, probably because his shoulder was out of reach, and he looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face. You wonder if he is uncomfortable being touched like this by your parents or if it is something else. "You must have had a long ride." 

Bucky opens his mouth and you cut him off before he can even begin to utter a single word, eyes boring into his with a warning. 

"We did. Exhausting. Lots of traffic." You have faked enough yawns in your life to fool even your own parents — then again, how long has it been since they last saw you? And it takes little effort to conclude that you and Bucky will rest in your room for a while before coming down and helping with dinner preparations. 

The stairs creak under your feet and you smile a little at the sound. Your room smells like old wood, rays of light playing with dust particles around you. An old fluffy carpet, pastel tones and white walls, very few decoration. Some pictures — pictures of artists you used to like, empty postcards, not personal ones. These ones have been taken off the wall years and years ago.

The mattress dips under your weight as you slump down on your bed, fingers moving on their own to stroke a soft blanket. Bucky closes the door behind him, eyes lingering on the almost empty walls. The thought of you and him in your old room and sharing your bed finally crosses your mind.

"M’gonna go for a walk," you suddenly say, getting up from the bed in a swift movement. You don’t walk towards the door, but towards the window instead. 

"O...kay," Bucky drawls out. He watches as you open the window, grunting as it requires some forceful pulling. "Is this a secret code for...I’m gonna jump out the window and die so I can avoid my parents?" 

You snicker, closing your eyes and breathing in as the icy air finally hits your face. Tendrils of hair fly around your features and tickle your skin. You turn around, fingers putting your hair back into place, strands tucked behind your ears.

"I wish," you almost don’t add anything, but Bucky looks so utterly lost and confused as you throw a leg outside that you have to. "I used to sneak out of here all the time. It’s safe, there’s a big ledge and then I land on the guest room's balcony." 

"When are you getting back?" He only asks, pushing his body off the wall and going to sit down on the spot you were occupying just a minute before.

"In time. Don’t worry," this time you’re fully out of the room, feet expertly walking on the ledge. "If they knock just say I’m asleep." You stop in your tracks, voice louder. "And don’t go through my stuff. I’ll know and I’ll kill you."

*

Bucky’s still sitting on the bed when you get back, your hair slightly damp and frizzy from the humidity and the small drizzle outside. Cheeks and nose reddened by the cold and eyes brighter now that you have breathed in some fresh air, that isn't the air from New-York, something purer with a familiar smell. 

"I’ve been gone two hours. Please tell me you’ve got up at least once," you mock, bending down to untie your shoelaces and avoid making mud stains all over the carpet. This floor has suffered enough over the years. 

"No. I’ve been sitting there waiting for you like the good dog that I am." His voice dripping with sarcasm, you roll your eyes. "Told them you were asleep and blocked the door in case they wanted to check on you." 

You raise your head slowly, squinting at him. 

"So...you talked to them?"

He stares back with a bored expression. 

"Yes. I’ve talked to them. I'm spending Thanksgiving with them and sleeping in their house, so I figured maybe I could behave like a civilized person and say hi, you know." You blink. "Plus, I'm your boyfriend." You blink again.

"You didn't have to talk to them so soon. We've got all night," you mumble, now going for your socks.

"I've endured far worse than having a full conversation with someone's parents, Y/N," he chuckles and your smile doesn't reach your eyes.

"Right." 

Bucky looks at you, really looks at you. Hands going through your hair and gripping it a little too tight as you try to weave your fingers through knots and tangled strands — wind still raging outside. Dark shadows under your lashes from having rubbed your eyes in exhaustion and forgetting you had mascara on. Jaw ticking every now and then as your eyes bore into an empty spot, and he doesn't know if you are staring at an actual object or at something that only exists in your mind.

"Have they asked anything about us?" You say, sitting down on the floor and next to your travel bag.

"The usual. How we met, how long we’ve been together…that sort of thing."

Your stomach twists and you look up, alarmed.

"Oh god. What did you tell them? I forgot to make something up. We should have discussed this in the car, I just forgot." You run your hands through your tangled hair, again. "Fuck."

"It’s okay," Bucky’s eyes follow your every move as you rummage through your bag to find another top, fingers pulling on a soft black fabric. "I told them we met through Sam. And obviously they knew who he was — who I was, so I assumed they knew about you too." There’s an interrogation in his voice and you simply nod in confirmation. "So we talked about our jobs, mostly."

"Exciting," you comment sardonically. "And how long have we been dating?"

"Told them we started dating before the snap." 

You freeze, hands still resting on your black top, a slightly sheer and shiny material you thought would be more festive.

"So…definitely more than five years," you start, and he nods in response. "And...that means I visited Wakanda, right?"

He thinks for a second. 

"Right. Yeah."

You hum again.

"Not very practical. I’ve never been to Wakanda."

"Now you have a problem with accuracy?"

You glare at him. 

"No. Just saying. We could have met in New-York. Would have been simpler. That's all."

"Right. Two months ago and it was love at first sight so you’re already bringing me home to your parents — whom you haven’t seen in years. Makes sense." You clench your jaw and he raises a brow, sparkling blue eyes taunting you.

Glaring at him one last time, you turn around and face the wall.

"First of all, we didn’t meet two months ago," you start undoing the buttons of the cardigan you are wearing. "I'd definitely remember if I had only been enduring your presence for two months." He scoffs behind you. 

You pull your cardigan over your head, tossing it somewhere in the room. Some deodorant and you grab the festive top. Bucky stares at your back for a second, soft skin covered in small beauty spots and old scars, defined muscles in action grabbing his full attention. Your neck, the way your hair brushes up your shoulders, the glimpse at your breasts and the curve of your waist — he focuses his gaze on the window instead. An afternoon sky blanketed by dark grey clouds, a promise of rain and a mirror of what he guesses is an internal turmoil.

"And?"

"And what?" You face him again, fitted dark fabric clinging to your body.

"You said first of all. I’m assuming there’s a second part." Brow quirked and smirk slowly lifting the left corner of his mouth, he watches your face fall. 

"There isn’t," he nods, full mocking smile on his lips now. "I actually like using first of all knowing there’s nothing else I have to add. It’s a figure of speech."

He scoffs, shaking his head. 

"It’s not."

"It is now," you stand up, brushing your hands against your thighs. You are now dressed in all black and it looks like you are going on a mission. You are, somehow. "Are you gonna change for tonight?"

"What, is it that ugly?" Bucky looks down at his outfit. 

Fitted blue sweater and black jeans with dark combat boots. You know he had cut his hair right after...everything, but it has grown out again and you’re surprised to find curls. You don’t notice him looking up, instead keeping your eyes fixed upon the blue of his sweater and the way it hugs his chest. He clears his throat and you meet his gaze — curious.

"No, it’s not," you force a smile. "It’s very nice, actually. Brings out your eyes." You sigh, turning around and grabbing your toilet bag and makeup. 

"I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me or not right now," Bucky frowns. Isn’t it part of the job description to know whether people are being genuine or not? Aren’t spies supposed to know that kind of thing? He never can tell with you. Everything you say has that kind of monotonous tone and it's either ironic or deadly serious. 

You let out a light chuckle as you enter the bathroom. "I’m not making fun of you, Barnes. Blue looks good on you." 

You stare at your reflection for a second. Pale skin and dark circles, the remnants of a fight barely visible because your hair is hiding the last remaining scar. The door to the bathroom was left open and you catch Bucky’s gaze in the mirror. 

He busies himself with his bag, going through his stuff and deeming perfume to be the only necessary adjustment to his current state. Fingers scratching an unshaven throat, he calls out your name, meeting your eyes again in the mirror. You only hum.

"Should I call you babe for the weekend?"

Your hand halts mid-air, makeup brush just a few centimeters away from your skin.

"What?"

"Well. We’re selling this thing. What about PDA, that sort of thing?"

You laugh again, and this time it sounds really genuine to him. High and full of disbelief. 

"Didn’t think you were familiar with the term PDA," you shake your head to yourself while he rolls his eyes. "But to answer your question — " you turn to look directly at him, complexion brighter and cheeks rosier. "— call me babe and you won't live to see another day. "

"Why have someone pretend to be your boyfriend if you're just gonna act like he's your friend?"

"Barnes. You think you have to exchange saliva with me in front of my parents for them to believe we’re together? Me bringing you here is already huge, trust me." 

He stares at your back. Dropping the subject. 

"Should I shave?" You don't need to look at him to answer confidently.

"No. I love a man with a stubble."  

You finish your makeup in silence as he lays on the bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the dinner that awaits him. He is curious about you and your family. Not a lot of people in this field still have their parents, or at least are being honest about what they do for a living. But mostly he is curious about you, someone he has been getting used to working or training with, but not holding casual conversations or doing simple things.

*

A week earlier 

Bucky raises a brow as Sam answers his phone. It’s eight in the morning and they just returned from their morning job, among fog and drizzle, the sun slowly rising over New York City and filtering through Central Park's trees and half-empty branches. It is not as cold as it should be for this time of the year, but he can still feel the early morning air biting at his face, even inside the apartment. Sometimes after a run he has breakfast with Sam, when they haven’t bickered so much on the way over that Bucky decided to run home instead. 

"I cannot deal with this amount of bad energy in the morning. Come over," Sam laughs and Bucky stares at his mug of coffee while his mind goes though every possibility. 

And when Sam opens the door and you step in, he goes back to staring at his mug, only watching your every move from the corner of his eye. You do look agitated for someone who probably woke up less than an hour ago. 

"I can’t." The new Captain America shakes his head and you grab him by the shoulders, hands looking so small. 

"Sam. I wasn’t asking. This is not an option." 

"We’re having a Thanksgiving dinner at the VA, I can’t ditch the guys," he says and you groan, head thrown back. 

You plop down on a bar stool, the one across Bucky, and you only nod at him as a hello. He rolls his eyes — typical. He is hunched over the kitchen counter, plate of pancakes drowned in maple syrup placed in front of him. You stare as he picks up his fork and knife and starts eating, following every mouthful with empty eyes.

He almost opens his mouth to snap at you before you slightly shake your head and turn to the window to your left. The beginning of fall doesn't feel like it is supposed to — yellows and oranges and reds could be a palette of grey and you wouldn't even notice the difference. It's not the same anymore.

"Why do you absolutely have to bring someone anyway?" You sigh as Sam asks.

"They think I have a long-time partner."

"Why would they think you have a long-time partner when I've never even seen you hold a conversation with a guy?" Bucky comments.

"First of all, you've been gone five years. I'd shut up if I were you." You scowl, lips almost curling up in anger when you whirl around to glare at him. "Second of all, you're not exactly a god in that area either." 

"Well I have been gone for five years, I've got an excuse," he shrugs with a smirk and you eye the table where they are sitting at, pastries and pancakes, fruits and hot beverages, full glasses. "Throw that glass of water at my face and I'll kill you." 

You hold his gaze for a second and purse your lips, eyes turning away as you sit down and rest your elbows on the wooden surface, permanent frown etched on your face. 

"They think they've missed five years of my life, I had a moment of…weakness. Didn't have the heart to tell them I was still single." You look out the window again. The wind howls loudly and a chill runs across your spine even though you're perfectly warm inside. "I think I'm gonna say he died." 

You don't pay attention to the small beat of silence that follows your sentence — a silence that is interrupted by Bucky's fork scratching against his plate. You scowl at him. 

"You're gonna say what now?" 

You shrug at Sam.

"Then I don't have to explain why we broke up. And since I will spend years recovering my mom won't think of bothering me with boyfriend talk for a while." Which seems like a rather logical and practical plan to you, underserving of such funny looks.

"You can't just make up someone and then say they died, Y/N."

"I don't see why not. A lot of people have died recently, I can easily get away with it." The way you speak and shrug, it's all innocent and casual, but your words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

Sam and Bucky exchange a look and stare at each other for a second as if a simple blink was enough for them to communicate their exact thoughts. You almost feel jealous.

"Just take someone else. I’m sure some of your friends have nothing to do on Thanksgiving."

Something heavy settles on your chest as you think of the people you would have loved to take home to your parents. Tony would have been impressive — albeit older and, well, married with a child. But your parents would have been starstruck. And Natasha would have seduced them right away. One foot into the threshold and they would have swooned at her feet, hanging onto her every word. Steve would have made the perfect boyfriend — the ideal american sweetheart, thoughtful and selfless, not the kind of person who would let you down. Not the kind of person who would leave everything behind. 

When your silence has stretched for a little too long, you clear your throat, tightening your hold around a steaming cup of tea that you assumed was meant for you. Sam is now sitting next to you and you hadn't even realized he had moved while contemplating how lonely your life was. Bucky is staring at you with an unreadable expression and you shrug, again.

"I don't really have anyone else to bring. But that's okay. I'll stick to my story," you give Sam a woeful smile. "They'll think I'm sad and avoid annoying me for the whole evening so really I couldn't ask for a better story." 

You stretch your arm in order to reach the plate of pancakes, but your fingers barely graze it. Bucky silently pushes it towards you and you simply purse your lips. It looks like a smile, right? Drowning your pancakes in syrup just like he did five minutes ago, you sit up straighter and exhale. Then your tone changes. "Anyway."

Sam crosses his arms and nods at Bucky. Blue eyes fixed upon the dark-skinned man’s face, he already knows. 

"Bucky doesn’t have anything planned for Thanksgiving," he starts and you keep chewing. "You should take him. I’m told he’s great boyfriend material." 

You slowly look up, skeptic look on your face. 

"I feel like you could sabotage me at dinner and I do not want that. The whole thing’s annoying enough as it is." 

He shrugs. Too bad. Sam’s eyes are getting bigger and bigger and Bucky sighs, setting his fork on the counter and leaning back. The leather squeaks under his weight and he clears his throat. The noise makes you raise your head and you look at him curiously. 

"I’ll behave." 

You stay silent for a little while as Bucky raises his eyebrows expectantly. Is he better than making up someone and then saying they died? You think about it, and the chance of your mother not leaving you alone and looking at you with pity instead suddenly crosses your mind. Not good. Not your plan.

"Okay," you resign. Your pancakes don’t taste as good as they did before you said yes. Bucky and you have probably exchanged ten full sentences ever since you met, and they weren’t necessarily sweet. It is not that you don’t get along or fight — you work well together, actually. But he’s not your friend either. And sometimes, most of the time, you can’t help but feel something akin to anger build up in your chest when you look at him and see Steve instead. 

*

The table is pretty. Red and green, matching the decorations hung upon the fireplace and all over the house. Candles and elegant wine glasses. Christmas tree already up in the back of the living room, which you can still see from your spot at the table. The flickering lights and glittering garlands are a welcomed distraction to the people actually sitting in front of you, and you can't even remember the last time you had dinner with your parents. So formal.

You notice your mother stealing a glance at you before she fully turns her body towards Bucky. Fuck. You try to shoot her a warning glance but her sweet smile is already into place and there is nothing you can do except watch. You knew appetizers and amuse-bouches and your comments about their incredible taste would not be enough to keep the conversation from turning more personal, but you didn't think it would be so soon.

"You know, this is the first Thanksgiving Y/N is spending with us." Bucky quirks a brow and you scoff in disbelief.

"This isn't true. I have distinct memories of yelling and burnt turkey. Where else would that be?" You deadpan, hand moving towards your glass before stopping mid-air, a single drop of red wine left starring back at you. 

You hold back a groan, eyes flickering between the glass and the bottle. Should you maybe wait before getting a refill and not get any comments from your parents? 

"I meant, this is the first Thanksgiving you're willingly spending with us. You were sixteen last time," your mother's voice holds the same irony, but hers is sad while yours sounds angry. Bucky steals a quick glance at you without ever moving his head, and smiles sweetly at your mother, as if trying to make up for your attitude. "Are you still in touch with your parents, James?"

"Oh god," you groan, hand on your forehead. "Mother." 

You decide that possibly getting a comment about your drinking habits is worth it if drinking means not feeling this crushing weight of shame, embarrassment, and everything else. Bucky looks down at your arm as it emerges right in front of him — you don't spare him a glance, fingers curling up around the bottle and the sound of wine filling up your glass grows higher and higher until you stop. Even this can't drown out the conversation. Your dad's voice echoes from the other room, footsteps drawing closer. 

"Sweetie, I think you're forgetting how old James is."

You don't watch as Bucky probably smiles softly at your dad, then at your mom, and says it's fine. Red wine is pretty when it is swirling in a moving glass — it reminds you of fall, leaves twirling in the wind, the red lipstick you're wearing, but mostly blood.

Your mother is babbling out apologies and reaching out for Bucky's hand across the table and he is being so gentle and patient it makes you want to shake him by the shoulders and yell at him for being so good to them. 

"We only heard from Y/N six months ago, actually." 

"Well, you were gone before, so," you mutter, regretting every single choice that has lead you to this moment. Bucky perks up, eyes going quickly between your closed face and your parents, eyebrows drawing in a compassionate frown. Man, is he good at this. 

"Were you both…taken by the snap?" 

You sigh, turning your head to look out the window while Bucky and your parents talk about their shared experience, finger tracing the rim of your glass over and over again. For some the light around them and their alternate universe was all blue, others say it was a sort of ethereal shade of green. Some have non memory whatsoever of the whole experience and you wonder what it would have been like for you. You think that a minute in a world on literal fire would have been better than five years in the real one. 

Natasha's world is probably made out of purple and red — you hear this is how Vormir looked. Pretty. 

The rain suddenly hitting the bay window snaps you out of your quiet moment of contemplation. It was left slightly open and the sound of the wind blowing through swaying trees lulls your for a second, eyes unfocused. 

Your name echoes around the dining room again and your gaze snaps to that of your mother. 

"What?" You say in a sigh. 

"Nothing!" Her tone is unusually high. "I was just explaining to your boyfriend how we reunited. You visiting us when everyone came back." She looks at Bucky again. "It was a big surprise."

You don’t meet his gaze, instead resting your elbows on the table and nuzzling your face in the palms of your hands. You probably should have kept being a ghost.

"A good one, I bet?" He keeps his tone light.

Your mom goes on about how they have missed you all this time and you resume playing with your glass. And maybe refill it a few times.

"Oh. We saw the ceremony you had for Steve Rogers with Captain...Captain America. It was very moving." Your dad tells Bucky with a compassionate frown and you purse your lips. You almost want to put your hand on Bucky’s shoulder — his hand, his thigh, anything to give him some sort of comfort, but you can’t bring yourself to move your own hand. Everything feels really heavy. 

In your opinion, it’s actually a good thing that Steve died so soon. He had first been a man out of time when he woke up in 2011, and managed to adapt. Even said he wouldn’t go back because the past was the past. Right. But coming back an old man, having lived another full life while your friends remain the same? This wasn’t right, for anyone. With Tony and Natasha gone, you would rather have Steve be gone as well. Can’t really move on if something is still holding you back — now they’re all definitely gone. 

Your chair scratches the wooden floor as you stand up on almost-wobbly legs. 

"M’gonna check on the turkey." Your voice doesn’t even sound like your own and your throat hurts. 

Voices are drown out as you close the kitchen door, back resting against it for a moment. The room is hot even though the window has been left open. You breathe in and out slowly, taking in the smell of pies and spices. You walk towards the window, slowly, taking it all in as you calm down. Nothing is in its usual place. Scattered utensils over every surface, traces of flour and sugar on the table and bottles which haven't been closed. Something makes you jump and it's a pan is overflowing.

There are only a few seconds left on the oven's timer. Pan situation under control, oven gloves on both hands, you think maybe cooking more for yourself would take your mind off things. You almost sigh in contentment as the warmth from the plate spreads through your hands, arms and even radiates through your chest. 

All sorts of pies litter the kitchen table, cinnamon, clove and ginger invading your senses. All of you is consumed by spices and sounds of domestic life and it looks so homey but you can't bring yourself to feel at home. This whole day has been like being in a dream, floating through life, childhood and Thanksgiving memories like an intruder. Seeing yourself move around but not being able to control or truly touch anything.

You see yourself with the turkey between your gloved-hand, red lipstick and pretty outfit hugging your body. You see yourself ten years ago, dressed in a red dress and hair cascading down your back, laughing hysterically as you set a turkey down on a large wooden table, candles lighting up your friends' eyes. Seven years ago, in that deep green jumpsuit — the color of Natasha's eyes, Tony had said all night. Six years ago, in that matching Christmas jumper and soft socks in which you kept slipping on the cabin's floor. Five years ago and the years following the snap when everything was dark and hopeless and you had lost so much but you still had Natasha and Tony and Steve.

Every single bittersweet Thanksgiving memory plays out right before your blurry eyes, like a film. A compilation of every celebration shared between loved ones, your chosen family. And it feels so lonely without your best friends and half of the team you used to be.

Your hands shake as you go to set the plate down on the kitchen table — it's greasy and slippery and your hands are starting to burn so you don't even feel the glove slowly slipping.

Fuck.

It takes a moment to be fully registered.

"Fuck!"

On the other side of the door, Bucky’s cough is enough to cover a string of colorful curses and the cracks and tears in your voice. Your hands are as wet as your cheeks and you drop to your knees, muttering shit shit and shit all over again under your breath.

The plate clatters against the floor as you set it beside the turkey. Too loud. The minute your mother enters this kitchen you are a dead woman. "Shit."

Footsteps draw closer and heavier and you curse again, hands greasy and knees hurting from hitting the tiles. Somehow your fingers won’t grasp the turkey’s correctly and it keeps slipping back to the floor. 

The door creaks open and you whirl around, eyes wide open and a strings of excuses ready. But Bucky stands here, hands in his back closing the door behind him and keeping anyone from seeing what is happening inside the kitchen. Mouth agape and tear tracks probably visible on your face, you finally close your mouth to gulp, turning your back to him and breathing in and out as quietly as possible. 

Which is probably not quiet enough for someone whose ears are more than human. 

You sniffle. Bucky stares at your back, hand still securing the doorknob. He doesn’t really know how to proceed with you, so he takes a few quiet steps forward. He clears his throat.

"I just heard a ten pound turkey hit the ground and also very strong words. Do you need help?"

This is so stupid. 

"Bucky. The turkey’s on the floor. Literally."

"Yeah. I can see that," he eyes you, gauging your expression. Your eyes are dead set on the animal and hands still hovering over it, not quite stable. "It’s okay. They won’t know. I made noise when you dropped it."

"You did?" Your voice is smaller than usual and he bats your hands away from the turkey, grabbing it with his metal hand. 

"Yeah. Coughed so hard your mom almost stood up to keep me from choking." You gape at him. He smiles at your stunned expression and the turkey is back in its plate, looking perfectly normal. Your hands are still greasy and you don't know what to do with them.

"Hey," Bucky's voice is softer than it usually is. Or maybe you never really noticed it was soft in the first place. "Look at me." 

You change positions and rest your back against a cupboard, closing your eyes for a second before re-opening them. Crouching down to your level, he studies your face as you wipe off remaining tears with your sleeve. Flushed cheeks and quivering lips, wet lashes and a crease between your eyebrows. You hold his gaze for what seems like an eternity. There is a kind of intensity, determination in his eyes as he searches into yours. You aren't sure what he is looking for — maybe he is trying to find the right words, but eventually he just sighs and fully sits down in front of you. He is probably annoyed. 

You bite down on your lip as your throat swells again, sudden shame washing over you. Having a meltdown is not something you do. Not when you are on your own, not in front of your friends and certainly not in front of a friend of a friend, even when his presence has become something usual and almost comforting to you as you hide it between rolled eyes and silence. Sometimes it's nice to visit Sam and have a trio again, even if it is not the trio you are used to. When you close your eyes and listen to the voices around you or when your vision is hazy, the mere idea of feeling surrounded is already comforting.

"M'sorry, this is stupid," you mutter, throwing your head back to have it rest against the cupboard. The bang echoes in your ears and Bucky slides a bit closer.

"It's okay," he shrugs. "Take your time." 

He is so gentle in everything that he does. It's in the way he looks at you, eyes searching into yours but never once displaying pity, as if everything was perfectly normal. It isn't to you, but he seems so relaxed and unbothered. The way he speaks softly and expresses nothing but patience and serenity, the way his flesh hand slowly moves closer to your leg and almost hovers above your skin.

You sigh, head banging against the cupboard again, and spread your legs a little bit further. The right one brushes against his limb and he hesitates for a moment. Another look at you and his hand is resting on your calf. The warmth seeps through your black jeans and at this particular moment it comes back to you that you used to love being touched.

"I can't believe I dropped the fucking turkey," you say flatly. Bucky blinks slowly at you, the only proof that he heard you. He doesn't think he should talk and break your train of thoughts right now. "This isn't…what I normally do. On Thanksgiving. I've never spent Thanksgiving here. I mean, after I moved out."

Bucky's fingers move slowly against your leg, a sense of satisfaction washing over him as you start talking. You purse your lips, somehow wanting to keep your mouth shut but feeling oddly relaxed to be sitting on the floor with his thumb brushing over your jeans-clad skin. You look down, eyes following his fingers before focusing on your own, still numbly resting at your side.

"Yeah, that's what your mom was saying earlier," Bucky nods, eying your hands as well. 

On your left, there is this hook with towels hanging from it. His arm is long enough for him to grab one without having to get up. You don't respond, instead staring at the tiles and the space between your legs. You don't seem to notice when he hands you the towel, so he slowly moves his flesh hand towards yours. The loss of warmth makes you look down to your calf, stomach dropping a little when his fingers aren't dancing on your skin anymore. 

"What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?" 

You blink. He grabs your arms, hands sliding from your forearm to your wrist, thumb resting on your pulse point longer than he should. Then his hands are cupping yours, gently turning your palms upwards. There is this small beat of silence and tension where both of you are looking at your almost intertwined hands as if you were not their owners, as if they were moving on their own and you could only watch as this unfolded before your eyes. 

Should he let go? 

"I always spend it with Natasha." Your voice breaks the moment. His gaze snaps up but you're staring into the void again. "We have this tradition." You blink. Once, twice. Slowly, kind of like a cat. "Had. We used to rent a cabin, somewhere remote and snowy, and Tony used to come as well. Well, before he had Morgan. Then we used to come to his house and have this big dinner with him and Pepper, sometimes Clint and his family." 

Your gaze drops to your hand in his, one holding it up and the other wiping the oily substance away. Every movement seems so soft and gentle it makes your brain go fuzzy for a second.

"That sounds really nice." Bucky comments softly, going for the other hand.

"Steve came sometimes," you add, and he quirks a brow in surprise. "When everyone was taken away. Sometimes he held a little something at the VA, but we had him over once or twice." You nod. "It was nice."

Bucky simply nods. Your hands don't shine with turkey grease anymore, and it physically pains him to let go of your hands. For a second he thinks you are about to hold his tighter and keep him from prying off his fingers, but his ears suddenly pick up movement, and the way his posture visibly changes makes you snap out of it. Back straighter, eyes wider, shoulders squared.

"Shit." 

He is quicker than you and stands near the door to tell your mom that the turkey’s ready — you’re on your feet again even if you have to grip the counter’s edge for a second so your legs don't give out under your weight. His body is blocking your mother's view of the kitchen and you can only hear her voice.

"Look at her, making us Thanksgiving dinner with her boyfriend," she tells your dad and you snicker. 

"Look at her making us eat a turkey she dropped on the floor!" You singsong, pressing the heel of your hands to your cheeks as you try to make the red disappear.

"Now this is girlfriend material," Bucky mocks. The door is closed again and he takes a few steps towards you, the turkey being right next to where your hand is set.

You laugh at the absurdity of the situation and he smiles. He is only a foot away from you and you wonder if the warmth you are feeling is real or if it is your imagination, your mind and chest aching for comfort again. Touch is a vicious and dangerous thing when you can still feel it linger on your skin well after it is gone.

Metal hand reaching for the plate and body almost trapping you against the counter while you fix your gaze on anything but him, Bucky freezes for a moment — he meant to grab the plate and turn around, but this does feel intimate. 

"Hey," he breaks the silence and you have to look up. In this instant, you want to take a mental picture and remember exactly how he looks. Light shining into his eyes, illuminated the tip of his perfectly carved nose and cheekbones. Pink lips parted and tongue swiping over them. Could this be nervousness?

You raise your chin, biting the inside of your cheek and fighting to maintain eye-contact. He is so close that you cannot help but being distracted by his smell, the way your chests would touch if you just pushed yourself off the counter, the way you want to feel cornered and caged if it means resting your cheek against his chest and having his arms around you.

Fuck.

"You gonna be okay?" 

You wonder if his senses can pick up your internal turmoil. If he can hear your heart hammering against your ribcage, the quickened and shaky breaths. You fold your arms and hug yourself, a poor attempt at gaining back some control over yourself.

"M'fine," you mutter. He doesn't look convinced and still hasn't moved. You lower your head, the remnants of previous haircut mistakes and bangs falling over your eyes. "Really."

"Yeah?" 

You look up again, mustering up a smile.

"Yeah. A little meltdown can work wonders for a girl." 

He chuckles and you have never wanted to kiss anyone this badly in your entire life, but you blame it on the emotional rollercoaster this day has been. You almost flinch as Bucky raises his hand but exhale as his fingers graze your cheeks, moving your hair out of your eyes.

Your mother calls your name and you sigh. Bucky brings out the turkey and you set the side dishes on the table, carefully avoiding the candles and almost squishing a green garland. It's a perfect picture, you and him stepping out of the kitchen in tandem and smiling down at your parents as they congratulate you on the turkey — this is probably a picture you had in mind as a child. Something out of a romantic comedy.

You sit down and Bucky's hands linger on your shoulders, thumbs stroking exposed skin and your neck. You raise your head, leaning back in your chair to meet his gaze. Should you put your hand on his? Should you smile and gaze lovingly at him — isn't that what you are already doing? He bents down, softly kissing your cheek, lips ghosting over your ear.

"Let's sell this thing, shall we?" 

* 

You step out of the bathroom, silky pajamas hugging your figure and wet hair sending shivers down your back. You sigh heavily, feeling the need to seek warmth but not having enough energy. Your arms are at your sides and your bare feet have a hard time moving.

Bucky stares at the carpet as drops of water trickle down your hair and slowly form a dark spot at your feet. His gaze travels back to your face, eyebrow quirked. You look absolutely drained, with your lips slightly parted and the way you blink slowly, as if your eyelids weighted tons.

"If they ask us to stay for lunch tomorrow," you begin, slowly approaching the bed. "Please say we have a mission." 

Bucky gives you a small nod. You sit down on the bed or rather let your body drop unceremoniously and lay down, hands on your stomach and eyes glued to the white ceiling. The mattress moves with Bucky and you hear him rest his back on the bed's head. Creaky wood that won't stop making noise.

"Well," Bucky starts, looking down at your form. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" 

You slowly peel your gaze off the ceiling, body and face still as your gaze moves to his face, his eyes already on yours.

"I don't have the strength to answer you right now." 

His shoulder shake and so does the bed. You groan.

"Can I ask you a question?" 

"No."

"Why did you decide to contact your parents after all this time?"

"Did you hear me say no?" 

He gives you a half shrug and you sigh, rolling so you are lying on your stomach, elbows propped up on the mattress. Bucky knows this means you are going to talk, and he sits up straighter, intrigued.

"Everyone was gone," you say simply, fingers drumming mindlessly on your cheek. "It was…utter and complete chaos everywhere. You're lucky you didn't get to see it. Just to go out in the streets, enter a coffee shop and see the look on people's faces…" You don't finish your sentence, eyes fixed upon Bucky's torso but mind miles away from your room. His shoulders sag as he takes in your expression. "And I felt lucky I still had Natasha, and Steve. And Tony. I was so lucky compared to others — sometimes I helped Steve out with his therapy meetings and I just…hearing about other people's loss…I wondered about my parents, somehow. I drove all the way up here and the house was so silent and empty, I just knew." You shrug, lowering your gaze to numbly observe the patterns on your sheets. "We've never been close, and I thought I didn't care about them the way I've always felt like they didn't care about me, but when I realized they weren't here anymore…they're still my parents, you know?" Not expecting you to look up at him, Bucky is at a loss for words when you bite your lip and go silent as if you were waiting for an answer.

You swallow thickly.

"So when everyone came back, I had this urge to make sure they did too. And now we're here," you purse your lips. "Not sure this was a good idea." 

Sometimes you think contacting them was a mistake. Yes, you felt an incommensurable sense of loss, standing in this empty house with the wooden floor creaking underneath your feet, dust flying and twirling around you, your reflection staring mockingly at you whenever you passed a mirror. Too late. Visiting your childhood home was the moment it all came rushing back to you ; the moment your mind finally caught up with reality and you simply crumbled. Orphan, half of your friends turned into dust, a whole world of shades of grey and not an ounce of hope. But spending Thanksgiving here doesn't give you the comfort or closure you thought it would. Being here and feeling like a stranger in your own home, bringing a fake boyfriend, having to sit through celebrations when there is nothing left to celebrate on this earth for you.

"They looked happy to see you."

Your chest tightens for a moment. It's somewhere between guilt and longing.

"Yeah, I guess," you give him a half shrug. Your face is resting right next to his thighs and you stare for a moment. Another barely perceptible movement and the headboard squeaks again. You almost let your face fall on his thighs when heavily groaning. He laughs and it gets worse.

"Well at least it's gonna be easy to convince them we really are a couple, right babe?" He says, deadpan. You look up at him through your lashes, sly smile on your face, a force of habit. Striking blue eyes staring back at you, perfectly sculpted face and a smirk on his plump lips. It would be so easy to pretend this is a normal scene from a domestic life. The creases around your mouth disappears as you blink a sort of haze away.

The moment passes and you busy yourself with the laptop you brought, while Bucky stalks to the bathroom. The sound of water running manages to soothe you, weight on your chest slowly dwindling and breaths coming in lighter. It's a white noise lulling you to sleep. You lazily brush your hair and slide into bed, covers pulled to your chin and body stiff as the cold from the sheets seep into your bones for a long moment. 

The shower curtain rattles, bottles clink against the sink and water runs again with the sound of a toothbrush. You turn on your side, chin tucked to your chest and arms under your pillows, scared to stretch out your legs and meet a biting cold again. The bathroom door opens and you relish the very small amount of warm steam reaching you.

The bed dips and you keep your eyes closed.

"You sure you don't want me out of your bed?" You don't know how many times he has asked this question. You only hum, too tired to voice your thoughts out loud. You feel the covers being lifted and shiver — could it be his thigh brushing against yours?

His mere nearness already warms the bed up and you silently thank a higher presence for the super soldier serum.

"God you're like a personal heater," you mutter, faced squished against your pillow, body moving closer to his on its own until warmth has engulfed you and you can finally extend your legs, feet reaching the end of the bed.

"Mh, I get that a lot," you feel his chest rumble next to you and you hum in response, something between contentment and an attempt to hide a blooming sensation in your chest.

You get closer again, face now pressed against his arm, cheek to warm and toned flesh. It doesn't take long for his arm to move, a frown etched on your features before they ease up again as he guides your face to his chest. An arm snaking around your shoulders and holding you closer, a chest rising and falling with deep and even breaths, a back and forth that rocks you.

You can't even remember the last time you felt this at peace. This warm and safe, arms secured around you like a cocoon, the smell of your childhood and his cologne mixing together. And it hits your half-asleep brain that you had craved this all along, all those years of darkness and loss.

"M'sorry," you murmur, your lips moving against his chests and your words barely discernible. "Just really need this right now." 

His fingers linger on your back, hand sliding down to rest on your waist. Squeezing, thumb stroking your skin, fingers tracing random shapes. You shift, your own arm laying on his stomach, almost hugging him like a pillow or a big stuffed animal. Fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like a reflex, legs tangling with his.

"It's okay." His voice is smooth, quiet. "Me too."

*

Eyes bleary and squinting to adjust to the light, you hold on to the banister as you wobble down the stairs. Voices echo around the living room and you frown. It's only eight.

You still as Bucky's laugh reaches your ears and hurry down the remaining steps. The morning light shines through the windows, surprisingly blue and clear skies facing you. Red and green lights dance around the living room's walls, reflections from the Christmas Tree's decoration. Lips parted in awe, you linger for a moment. The atmosphere is different from last night, it feels lighter. It's not just that the downpour has been replaced by a blue sky and what seems to be a perfect fall day — ice cold but the sun still shining. You feel lighter.

"Hey." You whirl around. You didn't notice Bucky approaching you. Coking his head to the side, he looks at you with an unreadable expression. "You planning on spending the day standing here?" 

"Tempting," you give him a half shrug, and he extends his flesh hand towards you, palm up and inviting.

"We made breakfast," he says as you rest you put your hand in his warily. 

"We?" 

The smell of bacon hits you when you enter the dining room, a table full of pancakes and pies greeting you. Steaming cups of coffee, a teapot — Bucky discreetly tugs you closer to him, hot breath on your cheek.

"You prefer tea in the morning, right?" It is whispered as not to draw suspicions towards the fact that he knows nothing about you, but it takes you a moment to recover from the initial surprise of the gesture. You nod numbly, eyes fixed upon your intertwined fingers. When did you say it was okay for PDA? 

The conversation flows more easily in the morning, the sight of a table this impressive and Bucky's touch lifting your spirits. You think life could be this easy all the time. This tranquil and domestic, a good night's sleep with someone and pancakes waiting for you in the morning. You smile as you talk about some of your most confusing missions, as you and Bucky tell stories about Sam. Albeit a bit pained, but it's something.

Leaving your parents after breakfast isn't as satisfying as you thought it would be, and you give warmer hugs than what you gave last night.

You sigh when the driver's door closes, sinking into your seat and resting your forehead against the cool window. The landscape is an orange blur, the sound of the wind blowing around the car loud enough for the radio to be useless. When you are in the city again, the car slows down and you are stuck in traffic. Bucky's hand reaches out to switch the radio on and you turn slightly in your seat, body leaning towards his.

"I was a bitch to you," you state without any warning and he snorts, looking at you with a confused expression. "When we first met." 

"Oh," his raises his brows high, as if in absolute agreement.

"You just reminded me of Steve," you say softly. "And I hated him for leaving. Still do, sometimes." you think, frown etched on your features. "Most of the time. But it wasn't fair to you and I'm sorry." 

He turns his head towards you, a simple nod to you. You fold your hands on your lap, chest lighter now that you have said it out loud. He clears his throat and you look at him again. Sun reflecting on his sparkling eyes, a smile pushing its way onto his lips. Genuine, soft. You find yourself returning the gesture naturally — no pursed or tight lips, no physical pain in your cheeks. 

"And this was nice," you add quietly.

*

"It's not that we haven't talked," you roll your eyes, nursing a drink of champagne and crossing the bal room with Sam at your side. Voice louder than usual, eyelids and lips glittering, your heels click against the floor and you side step dancing couples. 

It's quieter near the Christmas Tree. Well, near the bar.

"So you have talked?" Sam sets his empty glass on the bar counter and asks for a refill with a simple tilt of the head. Perks of being Captain America, surely. You lean against the cold marble, in-between the stools, huffing.

"No, we didn't," you repeat for what is probably the third time.

"Man, this isn't going anywhere," Sam shakes his head, eyes skimming over the crowd. You do the same.

"That's what I told when you insisted on starting this conversation, Wilson." 

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," he grumbles before taking another sip of his drink. You give in with a half shrug and a sigh.

"We just haven't had a reason to, Sam, don't read too much into it," you say casually. "No missions, no meeting…" 

"Right. And the fact that you haven't been to our headquarters in a month."

"Well, as I said. No mission, no meeting," you raise your eyebrows. "You think I'm gonna drive all the way up there to say hi and prove you that everything is fine?" 

"I was expecting this kind of commitment to the team, yes," Sam sighs dramatically and you return to your bubbly drink.

The song switches to Mariah Carey and a chorus of cheers erupts from the room, almost making you physically wince. Hands in the air, feet jumping up and down and literally making the room shake, every vibration felt deep in your chest.

"Now this is a song I haven't heard today."

Sam snickers.

"Here we go. Was wondering when you were gonna ruin the mood." 

"Hey!" You head whirls around, mouth open. Brown eyes twinkling with amusement, eyebrows barely raised, the kind of satisfaction you get when you want to say I told you so. "You have to admit that this is getting redundant." You are definitely not to blame here — surely more there are more than three Christmas songs in the world?  

"It's Christmas." 

"Yes, I'm painfully of aware." Someone falls on the dance floor and you judge them silently. You and Sam probably look intimidating as both of you are leaning against the bar, glass in hand and chins raised. "Plus it took me more than an hour to…" You trail off, a sudden glint drawing your attention to the entrance of the room, right across from the bar. "…get here." 

Sam follows your line of sight. Through a flurry of red figures, glittery and twinkling dresses twirling around with every move and laughter mixed with animated chatter and pop songs, a dark figure parts the crowd and makes its way towards the bar. Something akin to slow-motion happens in your brain. Completely unprepared for something you had been thinking about for days. Not days. Weeks.

Your chest rumbles with the rhythm of the song, matching each beat of the drums. It helps you cover up the fact that your heart is violently pounding against your ribcage and that he can probably hear it. Hell, Steve could probably hear it from his grave — this thought makes you blink, a semblance of composure coming back to your face.

"Hey man!" Sam happily greets his friend, patting him on the back. "Happy Christmas Eve." His hand lingers, squeezing Bucky's shoulder. His gaze is warm and the silent eye-contact you two share when your eyes travel above Bucky's shoulder is a way of wishing you the same. Playful face merging into something sincere. Jolly songs contrasting with the sad look in your eyes and the woeful smiles you three have plastered on your face. Civilians like to call this night the first Christmas into a normal life again. Their old life.

"Hi," Bucky greets you, a little breathless, and you wonder if he took the stairs to get here. 

Sam is whisked away by a politician and you remember that he is here as Captain America and therefore is on duty. Champagne has never looked prettier, swirling in your glass as you try to focus on anything else but the man ordering a drink beside you.

"How have you been?" He asks, mimicking your exact posture and taking a first sip of a scotch. You cast him a side glance. There's a scratch above his left eyebrow and you wonder why no one told you about this mission or called for backup. 

"You mean, have I lost my goddamn mind in the kitchen again and thrown a poor animal on the floor?" He chuckles. Your eyes travel down his face and his midnight blue suit for a moment. Too long, and he notices. "Nope. I'm good." 

He nods, then tilts his head to the side. His once-over is even less subtle than yours and you bury your face into your glass, not knowing where to look anymore. Shit. This was easier when you just bumped into him on your way to see Sam or simply shared missions with him — no small talk, no information on each other, nothing. 

Thanksgiving was supposed to be unpleasant. And it was — bleak, gloomy, melancholic. But he wasn't.

"Care to dance?"

Your head snaps up towards him. You laugh, the rest of your drink downed in a second. Bucky stands up straighter — finishing a drink means being freeing oneself from having to hold a glass, right?

"I don't dance, Barnes." 

"You don't?" You shake your head, already lifting a hand to motion for another drink. He steps around the bar stool that was previously keeping you apart, the smell of cologne and aftershave hitting your senses. 

"I don't. Certainly not on Christmas songs." 

He turns his head towards the crowd, chest rising as he breathes in deeply. The room does look pretty. Golden, red and green. Trees and fake wrapped gifts on the floor, fairy lights cascading down the windows and giving a kind of ethereal glow to everything and everyone standing here. It makes looks softer, eyes lighter. A couple captures everyone's attention ; skillfully dancing on every single song and adapting to every tempo. Their smiles are so bright that your lips quirk up a little without you even noticing it. It is radiant and contagious and for a moment they are all you can see.

A small gasp gets stuck in your throat when Bucky steps in front of you, breaking your focus on the dance floor. How did he get so close? 

He offers you his hand, palms up and inviting. You remember how they felt on Thanksgiving.

"Bucky, I…really can't dance," you shake your head, lips parted.

"C'mon. No one cares."

He doesn't wait for you to place your hand in his, but simply grabs it, fingers naturally intertwining as if they had been designed to fit together. You open your mouth to argue, but all that escapes your mouth is a chuckle. An incredulous and surprised chuckle — almost a giggle but it hurts to admit it, eyes flitting over the crowd and the people surrounding you. Are they looking? Are they seeing what you are seeing? 

He tugs on your hand and it is a slow song that echoes around the room, two bodies felling in step and gliding across the glittering floor. You hide your surprise at the way he leads you effortlessly — you had heard stories about his days in the forties and you suppose this is what he mastered to woo the dames. A warm hand in yours and the other firmly placed around your waist, drawing you close to his chest. You wrap an arm around his neck, fingernails tingling his skin.

"Is this Bing Crosby?" You ask lazily, body swaying slowly.

He hums.

"Uh. Better than Mariah Carey," you state quietly, almost in his ear. Hot breath on his skin. He huffs, quiet laughter and crinkles by his eyes. Out of all the things you could say to him right now, this is what you do.

"I'm glad you came," he says softly and you look at him curiously. He gives you a half shrug as you slowly twirl in his arms. "We haven't seen you in a while. Didn't want you to be alone today." 

Your stomach twists when you are pulled into his arms again, your hand hesitantly cupping the back of his neck. You had indeed considered staying in bed and possibly crying in front of a romantic comedy, as cliché as it sounds. Completely immerse yourself in a universe that isn't yours and whose characters you do not have to grieve for. Vicariously feeling the Christmas Spirit of others.

But you wanted to be with your friends, as painful as it is to be reminded that your circle is half empty. Sam has poured his heart into this party — a tribute to Tony, a bit of giving after having taken so much, money raised for people in need and an opportunity to reunite and share something as a group again. You admire his strength and will and it is no surprise to you that he gets to carry the Captain America mantle. Someone whose heart knows no limit and who would do anything for his friends.

You smile wistfully.

"It's a nice party," is the only thing you say, small shrug accompanying a casual tone.

"It is," Bucky nods. Eyes going over every decoration again. It is a nice feeling — swaying in his arms, warmth and cologne engulfing you whole and caging you from the outside world. His skin is so soft against your fingers and you want to nuzzle your face into his neck, completely hide away and feel nothing but him.

You shouldn’t let yourself feel this way for someone you might lose, but you can’t help but relish the feeling of being held again. His hands cannot mend the pieces of your broken heart but they can contain them and keep you from crumbling down. 

Disappointment probably shows on your face and your tired smile when the song ends and he steps away from you — hand still lingering on yours. As if reading your thoughts, Bucky casts a glance behind him and motions towards the exit with his chin. You follow his line of sight, then eye the crowd around you. He is right, no one cares.

Trailing behind him with flitting glances around you, hand grabbing a hold of his suit as if you could squeeze fabric tighter than flesh, you don’t notice when he stops and you bump into his back.  The idea of leaving this party with him is taking up all your thoughts — no clear ideas but a definite feeling, an urge to find the comfort of his arms again.You almost don't look up as a string of cheers and laughter erupts around you. Way too close to you to be a simple coincidence. Bucky's hand tightens around yours. Green stares back at you.

Oh.

No.

Mistletoe. 

Should you shake it off with a good laughter that makes it look like this is extremely funny but he is just a friend? Should you pretend not to see it even though your eyes are boring holes into it? 

Bucky has already made up his mind.

Warm flesh squeezes your hand while cool metal rests on the small of your back, encircling your waist and pulling you close so unexpectedly that you almost stumble into his arms. The warmth emitted from his body is already melting away any smart quips or observations you had ready to get out of this. Completely shattering your resolve not to melt into his arms. You can only feel him. His arms around you, flesh hand moving up your arm, caressing and squeezing your shoulder until it is resting on your neck, fingers delicately holding your chin. You don't resist when he lifts it, eyes meeting his through your thick lashes.

This is the opposite of the quiet and intimate moment you were thinking about when leaving the room. Far from discreet touches but right among flashing lights, booming music and expectant stares. You’ve never had a kiss under the mistletoe and this is way too cheesy and holidays-like.

But he leans forward and his lips are on yours. Softly. Delicately. It lasts a split second. It satisfies the crowd and it seems like a peck that could happen to both lovers and friends but it leaves you aching for more.

You look up in a daze when he pulls away, lips parted and eyes wide. You blink it all away and plaster a tight-lipped smile on your face when you fake-bow to clapping strangers, and it takes all the willpower in the world to hold yourself upright. 

The corridor is almost empty, save late-comers jogging towards where you are coming from or drunken people escaping the warm and almost suffocating air of the party. You have absolutely no idea where you are going, numb legs carrying you all the way to a remote corner. Your back hits the wall — his arm around you softens the impact.

Who instigated the second kiss? You feel like he met you halfway, or maybe you stayed rooted to your spot like a deer caught in headlights, pulse probably heard from a miles away. You can only focus on the softness of his lips on your skin, tender kisses on your neck and on the corner of your mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, fingers making their way through his hair and tugging, cheek to cheek and chest to chest — time has stopped.

You only open your eyes halfway when he pulls away for air, blurred vision and pounding heart. You feel his hot breath on your face when he chuckles breathlessly.

"Still hate this damn season?" 

[shaynawrites23]

Neighbors

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 909

Prompt: It snowed but now the streets are full of slush and I just stepped in it and nearly stumbled face first into an embarrassing death until you caught me and laughed.

Written for @the-ss-horniest-book-club’s Clean Up the Archive challenge as well as @wonderlandmind4’s writing challenge!

Snowflakes danced around you, floating slowly down to the ground. Under normal circumstances you’d marvel at their beauty, stopping to admire them, but this was no ordinary day. Any who passed by you today would know, and shoot you a pitied glance before carrying on with their day.

You hated it. You knew that was the effect your tear-stained face would have, but you couldn’t stand pity. The only thing you wanted was the very same thing you’d lost; your job.

Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. You could still see where you were going more or less, you just couldn’t discern a five from an eight on a sign. Not that you needed to; you were just walking aimlessly.

Bad idea. You felt your foot sink into some icy slush, and before you knew it, you were falling. You braced yourself for the impact, only, it didn’t come. You didn’t hit the pavement; instead, you felt an arm wrap around you, holding you up. The person who caught you chuckled, the musical sound immediately telling you it was a man.

He helped you regain your balance, and you recognized him as soon as you laid eyes on him. It was your handsome neighbor, Bucky Barnes.

“You okay, doll?” Concern flashed in his eyes when he saw how downcast you looked.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He raised one eyebrow, and you sighed again. Your gut was screaming at you that this was a terrible idea, to confess all your troubles to a man you didn’t even know that well, but you weren’t listening.

“Actually, no,” you admitted. “No, I’m not okay.”

He smiled softly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Why don’t you come with me for a cup of tea and we’ll see what we can do.”

Your protests died in your throat when you saw the expression on his face, so willing to help. So you accepted his offer, following him to his apartment.

He held the door open for you, letting you enter first, and then he proceeded to take your coat from you. It nearly made you tear up again. He was being so nice and gentlemanly to you and it was exactly what you needed after these rough few months.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” His calm voice broke the silence, a soothing hum piercing the chaos inside your mind.

“Yeah, thanks.” Your voice cracked and he turned to face you, concern written on his features. You smiled a watery smile, sniffing slightly. “I’m fine.”

You could tell he didn’t believe you completely, but he didn’t push it, instead focusing on making tea. He set the warm cup in front of you, and you held it gratefully, feeling your hands slowly regain feeling after being out in the cold for so long.

“So,” he began, “what’s got a pretty dame like you so distressed?”

And it came pouring out. How you lost your job when the pandemic took over the world, how you couldn’t see me to find another one and now your bills were piling up and you were about to be evicted from your apartment simply because you didn’t have the money to pay the rent. How you went to one job interview after another only to be turned away.

Bucky listened patiently, not interrupting you once as you told your story. When you fell silent, he didn’t speak for several moments, instead staring at the wall, deep in thought.

“Tell you what, doll,” he finally started. “I have an extra guest room that’s not being used since the outbreak. You could move in with me; that room would be all yours. I have no problem covering the rent, you don’t need to contribute a cent.”

Stunned, you gaped at him. Your own family was nowhere to be found when they got wind of your financial struggles, and here was your neighbor, a man you barely exchanged more than a few friendly sentences with at a time, offering you a room in his apartment.

He probably took your silence the wrong way; you could see him getting nervous.

“Oh god, I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I’m not trying to be a creep, I promise. I just figured I could help you by taking away the rent issues, and I can probably pull some strings to get you a job too…” He trailed off, looking away in embarrassment.

“Are you sure you want me in here? I’m not always the best company..”

“Hey, if I weren’t sure, I wouldn’t have offered.” His smile was back, the soft smile that made you feel like everything was going to be just fine. “However, if you don’t want to, or if you need time to think about it, that’s okay. I don’t want to pressure you into deciding.”

“No, no, I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, you’re the first person who offered to help me, and to help so much, I’m just.. a bit stunned.”

He nodded in understanding. “Fair enough. So, doll, what do you say?”

You smiled despite yourself, the first smile you’d cracked in weeks. “Yes, I’ll move in with you. Thank you so much, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

He shrugged, but not dismissively. “Hey, it’s what neighbors do.”

Today you were neighbors. Tomorrow you’d be housemates. And who knew what the future might hold?

[silverarmedassassin]

Home For the Holidays (1)

Bucky x Reader | Words: 8,608 | Warnings: None 

A/N: Happy holidays and happy December 16! This is my holiday submission for @wonderlandmind4 Fall/Winter challenge. My prompt was: B is very enthusiastic to introduce A to all their traditions, but tries to be sensitive when A seems like they’re struggling to fit in/enjoy themselves. 

I’ve been working on this guy for so long, so I decided to split this up into two parts. Part two will be posted this weekend! I’m so happy to finally be sharing this bad boy with you all! If you feel so inclined, I would love to hear what you think. Happy reading!🎄

From the time he was a young boy, Bucky has had an aversion towards the elderly. Which is ironic considering since, technically speaking, he is the elderly now. It’s not that he doesn’t like old people; it’s just that they make him uncomfortable. Which is why, on a balmy Sunday in October, when he walks into the Brooklyn Manor nursing home, he feels his skin crawl.

This trip has been a long time coming. Two years on the run, a voluntary deep freeze, a universal war, and the obliteration of half the earth’s population and its subsequent return, to be exact. But no amount of time would ever prepare Bucky for the visit he was about to make. But it was “essential to his healing,” as Sam so often liked to say. This, along with therapy and the establishment of a place of his own outside of the Tower, was meant to help him move past what had happened to him, help him see that he was a victim and that people still loved him despite what he was forced to do for all of those years.

"Good morning," a cheery redhead says from her spot behind the front desk. "Can I he-" She cuts herself off when she looks up from the computer screen and sees who is looming over her.

"Er, hi," Bucky says, suddenly convinced this is a terrible idea. He should expect nothing less, considering his line of work, both current and past. "I was told Rebecca Proctor lives here..."

It took a second for the woman to register what Bucky had said, but then she jumps into action and begins to type into her computer. "Of course! Are you a relative?"

"Brother."

Her eyes go wide for a second before it clicks. "Oh my goodness, of course." The woman grabs a sticky note from the pad next to her keyboard and scribbles down a series of numbers before handing it to him. "Her room number is 117. This is the code to get into the residence portion of the building. If you need help finding the room, there should be a nurse's station in every hall."

Bucky offers a tight smile and nod of appreciation as he takes the slip of paper from the woman. As he makes his way deeper into the facility, he can feel his nerves waxing and waning with each step. He shouldn't be nervous. It was just Becca, just his little sister, one of the last living ties to his life before all of this. But it had been so long, who knew if she would even recognize him?

When Bucky recruited Sam to help him find out where, or even if, his sister was living, he figured it would be a fruitless quest. He was surprised, however, when Sam came to him a week later with the address of the building he was currently attempting to navigate, shyly dipping his head every time he would pass an older woman in a wheelchair or a group of men concentrating on a board game. Sam had managed to hunt her down with a little help from his Avenger title. The nurse couldn't give him much information since he wasn't a relative or listed on her medical files, but what she could share broke Bucky's heart.

At 102 years old, technically a little less since she was a Snap victim, Becca's memory was less than stellar. Her children had made the tough decision to place her in a home after her mind had started to slip, and she was no longer able to care for herself. It makes Bucky feel guilty because he wasn't around to help.

But today, hopefully, that would change.

After a little wandering and a helpful point from a nurse, Bucky finds himself standing in front of the oversized, thick oak door with a golden plaque in the center proudly displaying "117." He waits a moment, listens for any sign that someone is in the room, but all he hears are the general noises of a nursing home just after lunchtime. He raises his hand to knock but stops short of making contact. Should he knock? What if she’s sleeping? He wouldn't want to wake her. He decides to slowly press the door open instead.

He enters the room slowly, unsure of what he will be greeted with when he reaches the end of the short hall blocking his view from his sister's bed. What he sees, however, thoroughly surprises him. Instead of finding a small, frail body lying in a too-sterile hospital-grade bed, he finds his sister sitting in one of the two armchairs in front of her window, quietly looking out into the garden just outside. After a moment of shifting back and forth on his feet, Bucky clears his throat in an attempt to catch Becca's attention.

The woman slowly turns her head to eye the intruder, and, to Bucky's amazement, a slight look of recognition flashes across her face. Despite her age and sunken appearance, her bright blue eyes still shine as brilliant as they did when she was a little girl. He focuses on those eyes as he slowly crosses the room to her.

"Hey, Becca. Do you," Bucky grimaces as the falter in his voice caused by the tears that are starting to form in his own blue eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

To save his sister from having to crane her frail neck to look up at him, he settles himself into the chair across from hers. The smooth velvet is cool on his overheated skin, and he could sink into the feeling of comfort it gives him. Another piece of home, he thinks as a picture of his family's home flashes across his mind, the two chairs nestled in a similar position to how Becca has them now.

Rebecca studies her brother for a moment before a thin but bright smile spreads across her aged features, and Bucky lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You're from the pictures. Just over there."

Bucky watches as a boney finger points to the dresser, the top neatly cluttered with picture frames and trinkets, a sign that his sister had lived a full and happy life after he'd gone. He gets up and makes his way to the piece of furniture to better look at the mixture of black and white and colored photos scattered together. It's strange, he thinks, seeing his sister's life play out across the years in the span of just a few short seconds. When he lands on a black and white photo in an aged frame, he freezes. Smiling back at him are his parents, Bucky himself sitting in front of them on their home's front steps, and Becca nestled snugly in their mother's arms. From when they first brought her home, Bucky thinks to himself as he reaches out and caresses the delicate glass. He moves on to another older photo, this one depicting the two Barnes children dressed in their Sunday best with a scrawny Steve Rogers thrown into the mix. Bucky shakes his head at the sight of his best friend, remembering all the trouble he used to get the two of them in.

The last photo he sees, though, causes a lump to rise and settle in his throat. Frozen in time in the cracked and fading film is the last time he ever saw his family. Bucky, Rebecca, and their parents stand on the dock just in front of the boat he was to ship off on. Becca and his mother have a tight grip on him, and his father only offers a tight smile to the camera. Looking at the image of his younger self, not too different from what he looks like now, is a heart-wrenching moment. The man in that photo has yet to see death first-hand, feel the visceral need to kill or be killed. That man was still innocent, naive to the world, and convinced he was invincible.

Bucky remembers that day and how, despite the nerves, excited he was to see someplace other than dinghy Brooklyn. Yeah, that war wasn't one he signed up to fight, but he'd made a promise to himself he would do what he needed to keep his ma and sister safe.

As he reaches for the frame, a soft knock on the door startles him from his thoughts. "Mrs. Proctor!" a sweet voice sing-songs as the door is pushed open once again. "I hope you didn't fill up at lunch. I brought-Oh!"

Standing in the doorway, both hands full of reusable bags filled to the brim with goodies of all sorts, is a young woman. Her smile, one of the prettiest Bucky's ever seen, he thinks, falters just a little when she sees his towering form taking up so much space in Becca's room. However, she recovers quickly and nudges the door shut behind her as she makes her way deeper into the room.

"I didn't know you were expecting company this afternoon," the woman says and deposits the bags onto the bed. "Who is this?"

Bucky studies the woman in an attempt to figure out who she is to his sister. She couldn't be a daughter or granddaughter, right? She looked nothing like them. Plus, she was calling her Mrs. Proctor. Bucky also felt confident in his ruling that she was not a nurse or staff member at the facility, considering she wasn't wearing scrubs or donning a facility badge.

The only indication that she even belongs in this facility is the sticker she wears proudly just above her heart, with "Y/N" scrawled in bright red letters.

"The pictures," Becca finally says with a smile, pointing towards Bucky. "He's from the pictures."

Their visitor looks between Bucky and Rebecca with a soft look somewhere between pity and a faint sense of joy. "Bucky," the frail old woman says, and Bucky instantly feels the lump that had settled into his throat not ten minutes earlier begin to grow again.

Y/N must sense the energy shift in the room because she quickly pulls out a few homemade goodies wrapped in cellophane and places them on the rolling table next to Becca's bed. "Well, I'll let you be with your visitor, Mrs. Proctor," she says as she shoulders her bags again. "I'll see you Tuesday evening, okay?"

Becca simply nods as she watches the younger woman make her exit, then shifts her attention to Bucky as he steps back towards her and crouches down.

"Bec, you remember me?"

She says nothing at first but brings her hand up to rest on Bucky's freshly shaved cheeks, a fresh set of tears gathering in their twin blue eyes. "You came back."

Bucky sits with his sister for two hours after they reacquaint themselves. The nurse that spoke with Sam was right; it was difficult to be around her, as she often slipped up with her memory. She couldn't remember the names of her grandchildren, nor her great-grandchildren, but when she saw their smiling faces looking back at her in the pictures, she knew they belonged to her. Her fragile mind, however, seemed to favor older faces and memories. She could recall events from when she was a teenager and even got some details right from when Bucky shipped off. The remembrance came with a repeat of the same stories two or three times, but Bucky didn’t mind. He was never around to bear witness to some of these stories, and it was just good to hear his sister’s voice again.

It's around 3 o'clock when Rebecca begins to grow tired, and so Bucky takes that as his cue to take his leave. He helps his sister into her bed for a pre-dinner nap, then quietly makes his exit when he is sure she is fast asleep. For a visit he was hesitant to make, he can't think of a better way to have spent his Sunday afternoon.

As Bucky makes his way back through the winding halls of the facility, a jaunty tune he recalls from his teenage days plays through his head, and he feels like he could face the world if needed, which is why he finds himself doing the unimaginable as he reaches the redhead at the front desk.

“Excuse me,” he says with a renewed sense of confidence that had been absent earlier in the day. “I don’t know if you can give me this information, but there was this woman...Y/N I think her name is. I don’t think she was a nurse, but maybe someone else that works here? Would you be able to tell me if she was still around?”

The woman smiles gently back at him but shakes her head. “We’re such a large facility, I’d need to see a face to know exactly who you’re talking about.”

There’s a momentary lapse in his confidence, realizing just how weird the question could come off. He’s suddenly very glad she had no idea who he was talking about and hopes she doesn’t mention it to anyone else.

“Uh, thanks anyway,” he mutters as he gives a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Oh well, he thinks to himself, at least I could make it out my door this morning.

The Snap impacted each and every person differently. While most think the Vanished had it the worst, people tend to forget about those left behind. Many lost their jobs due to closures and shortages, others were evicted due to insufficient funds for rent. The uncertainty of it all, the not knowing what happened to family and friends, not knowing when you’d find your next job, if you’d have money to buy groceries this week, took a harder toll on some than others.

You had been a relatively fortunate one. Since moving to the city, you hadn’t quite made a large group of friends yet, which meant there were fewer people for you to lose. Your family had somehow lucked out as well. Due to an abundance of workers suddenly gone without a trace, you’d been able to snag a corporate position that you managed to hold onto even after the Snap was reversed.

However, the one downside was the aftermath of families coming back to their homes only to find that someone new was living in their space. That, unfortunately, happened to you. Two days after everyone reappeared, you had a knock on your front door. When you opened it, you found a lovely couple who had just been married before the Snap and had just started renting the apartment you were living in. And, even though you’d called this building your home for the past five years, you did what any half-decent individual would do and moved out. Goodbye state-of-the-art gym and central location, hello paper-thin walls, and a forty-five-minute one-way commute.

At least you were able to take a few days off of work to get your belongings out of the old apartment and into the new one. Most of the larger furniture had been the couple’s, which meant you only had to carry a few pieces into your second story Brooklyn brownstone apartment. The problem, however, was that there was no elevator in this renovated building, which meant you had to find a way to carry your low-quality Ikea TV stand up the too-narrow stairs without busting a wall or your furniture. The only thing you were close to bursting was a nerve because it was turning out to be more of a two-person task, and you were the only one participating in this moving process.

“Fuck you,” you groan as one of the stand’s legs gets caught on the stairs again. Despite the chilly breeze that was blowing in from the building’s front door you had propped open, you were perspiring more than would be deemed ladylike. With the rate you were going, you would need to need to take another full day off just to get your stupid furniture into your apartment.

“Do you need some help?” a voice calls from above you. You peek over your shoulder to find a rather tall, rather bulky man standing at the second-floor landing. It hadn’t even occurred to you that people might actually need to use the stairs to, you know, go about their daily lives. What doesn’t go over your head, however, is the fact that the man standing at the top of the stairs was not a complete stranger like you originally thought, but someone you knew almost too well for not actually knowing him at all.

“That would actually be wonderful,” you huff out a laugh, attempting to be nonchalant about the fact that Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier - soldier turned assassin turned Avenger - was standing just feet away from you for the second time in twenty-four hours, this time in your new apartment building. Maybe this place wasn’t as safe as you had thought?

He makes his way halfway down the stairs, and you attempt to shimmy out of the way so that he can grab the corners you had been holding up. “If you could just get this thing back down the stairs, I could-” Your meager offering of help is cut short when Bucky manages to slot his arms into place and life the entire piece like it was nothing. A metal arm will do that to someone, you suppose.

You awkwardly direct him to your apartment, shoving open the door to 2B and waving your arm to give him a vague idea of where you want the stand. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. I thought for sure I was going to have to take the thing apart to get it up here.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Bucky says as he stuffs his hands into his jacket’s pockets, the stiff leather shifting and rubbing as he does so. When he looks at you for the first time, his bright blue eyes light up even more with recognition. “Hey, you were visiting my sister’s place the other day.”

“I was,” you laugh as you extend your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

There’s a brief moment of hesitation before a warm, leathered hand slips into yours. “Bucky,” he says as if you wouldn’t already know who he is. "Do you, uh, need help bringing anything else up?"

You watch him as he slowly glances around your small apartment, void of much except for a few boxes and the stand he just carried up and your mattress you've yet to shimmy into the bedroom. “Oh! No,” you laugh, realizing how pathetic your new home looks at the moment. “I have movers bringing the rest of my things from storage tomorrow. But thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s really no problem. If you, uh, ever need anything, I rent the unit above you. Not sure how often I’ll be home, but for whatever it’s worth,” he shrugs as you follow him back out your front door.

“I’ll keep it in mind. I guess I’ll be seeing you around?”

Despite his nod of agreement, you don’t see Bucky for another two weeks. You try not to let the unexplained but forewarned absence weigh on your thoughts. With the exception of listening for the creaks of his floorboards that never come and the brief visits with his sister, you find yourself doing everything you can to not fixate on the Grecian god of a man you have somehow come to call a neighbor.

It’s not until you receive a call from Rebecca’s daughter that you finally admit he was home.

“Oh, I’m...I’m so sorry…” you choke out when Mary informs you her mother had passed away in the early hours of the night. Despite having no real relation to the Proctor family, you’d known them for a handful of years due to your time spent at the nursing home. In that time, they’d come to be like family to you, so their loss affected you just as strongly as the passing of your own family member would. “Have you told her brother?”

“No. We have no way to contact him. I know he’d spent some time with Ma at the nursing home, so I left a message for them to pass the news and my number on if he came in or called. But I haven’t heard anything.”

“I actually have a way to reach him. I’ll tell him to give you a call, okay?”

When you get home the following day, you’re greeted by the sound of Bucky’s shower turning on. Five minutes later, it shuts off. You give him another ten before you make your way up to his apartment. The idea of telling this man, a practical stranger who you knew nothing about other than what you’ve read in books and seen on tv, that his sister passed away leaves you feeling nauseous. This isn't exactly what you pictured when you said you’d see him around.

He’s quick to answer his door. You’re taken off guard when his door is pulled open to reveal his broad chest covered in a blue Henley that is clinging to his still-damp skin. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts and remember exactly why you were here.

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” he asks as you drag your eyes up to meet his own.

You clear your throat and shake your head in an attempt to gather your thoughts. “Uh, yeah. No? I’m sorry to bug you, but I, uh...You haven’t heard from Mrs. Pro-er, I mean Rebecca’s daughter, have you?” When he says no, you sigh. You knew that was the answer you were going to get, but a part of you still hoped you weren’t going to have to be the one to deliver this information. “Mary called me yesterday. She, uh...She wanted you to know...uh...Rebecca passed away...early yesterday morning…”

You can visibly see Bucky shift through several emotions - shock, grief, anger, to finally an almost expressionless mask. You unintentionally stiffen at the sound of metal shifting and grating together, which seems to break Bucky’s haze. You can tell he’s struggling to find words in that moment, so you continue on, hoping a coherent sentence will come out.

“I know I’m probably not the person you want to hear this news from, but I couldn’t really give her a way to contact you and...Here!” You shove your hand out towards him, the small piece of paper you wrote Mary’s number down on resting in your palm. “I told her I’d give you her number. So you could call her or whatever.”

Bucky just looks at the slip for a moment before you clear your throat. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I wi-”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he cuts you off and grabs for the paper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go call her.”

Before you can respond, Bucky is turning his back. “Yeah, okay,” you whisper to the dark oak of his door before making your way back down to your own apartment.

“The service was beautiful, Mary,” you say as you hug Rebecca’s daughter. “She would have loved it.”

“It’s all thanks to Bucky. He paid for everything.” Mary says as she sets her gaze over your shoulder. “Or, I guess Uncle Bucky is more appropriate to say…”

You turn and follow her gaze to where the man in question is, his great-great nieces and nephew using him as their personal jungle gym. You can tell, even from across the room, that his face is absolutely glowing, eyes crinkled in the outer-corners with delight as Bridget, the youngest of the bunch, wraps her tiny arms around his neck and demands a horsey ride.

“I’m glad they’re taking it so well,” Mary says as she watches her grandchildren. “It’s almost like he’s been a part of their life this entire time instead of just appearing out of nowhere.” There’s no hostility in her voice when she says this. Rather, she sounds remorseful. “I went my entire life hearing stories about my uncle. My dead uncle. Yet, after all these years, he shows up looking exactly like he does in the pictures I’ve been looking at since I was a little girl.”

You felt for Mary and the rest of the family. You couldn’t begin to comprehend how difficult and confusing it must be to find out that the man you’d come to know as just a ghost story was alive and real and more than willing to be a part of even the most difficult moments in life. It’s a testament, you think, to how good of a man Bucky really is. Despite the horrors of his past and the apprehension he’s likely still faced with every day, he’s still willing to put himself out into a world that has been less than kind to him.

As if your thoughts summon him, Bucky looks up and over to where you are standing. When he catches your eye, his smile grows. You’re sure there has never been anything as beautiful as Bucky Barnes flashing a megawatt smile at you. “At least you’re in good hands.”

You decide not to stick around for the luncheon after the service so, after snagging a few refreshments and a quick chat with a few of the family members you recognize, you begin to inch your way closer to the exit. You hadn’t seen Bucky since you’d spoken with Mary, and you were in the middle of trying to figure out why that left you with a hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach when you’re abruptly stopped on your way to the doors.

“You can’t leave before I get the chance to apologize for the other day,” Bucky says, a small smile gracing his face. He cleans up well, you decide as you get a better look at his lightly stubbled face. He has his hair tied back in a neat, low bun, which allowed his eyes to stand out more than they usually did, and a black-on-black suit is stretched just right over his broad chest. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was a model on loan to add some cheer to the rather dreary day.

Bucky quirks his head and shifts his body weight when it takes you a bit too long to answer, and it’s only then that you realize you’re ogling him. His sister just died, Y/N, you chastise yourself, this is not the time to be checking him out.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat, hoping he can’t feel the heat that is rapidly clawing up your neck radiating from you. “I don’t want to intrude on family time,” you say rather lamely. It was true, but for whatever reason, Bucky left you feeling almost guilty.

He lets out a humorless laugh and crosses his arms. “If anyone is intruding, I think it’s me,” he says as he looks over your shoulder back into the banquet room the rest of the family is in.

You turn to follow his line of sight and can’t help but smile when you see one of his great-nieces twirling around, showing off her dress. “Nah, don’t say that. The little ones seem to love you,” you laugh, hoping to lighten the mood just a little.

Bucky chuckles and then sighs. “Yea, but I just...don’t feel like I belong.”

Hearing Bucky, this man who had his entire life ripped from him multiple times, who, after spending just a few short hours in total with, you ardently believed deserved every good thing in the world and then some, say that he feels he doesn’t belong among those who are supposed to love him most broke your heart. You know that it’s likely untrue that Rebecca’s family was anything but unwelcoming, but that Bucky even felt that way caused a pit to open in your stomach.

“Oh, Bucky…” you say softly, trying to avoid sounding full of pity. “I’m so sorry this all has happened to you.” He averts his gaze and shrugs. “You know what? I could probably stay for a little while longer…”

At that, Bucky looks back at you, eyes as bright as when his own sister recognized him on that very first day. You knew then that, no matter what, you’d do anything to keep that look on his face.

“I promise it won’t be for nothing. They have a ton of food, and I guess there are some famous deviled eggs that, not to sound awful but...are to die for.”

You stifle a laugh and shake your head as Bucky leads you back into the banquet room, excitedly rambling on about the various food items his relatives have to offer. After piling your plates full and grabbing a coffee, you follow Bucky to a small table conveniently tucked away in the corner. Over the next hour, you watch Bucky’s perfectly constructed walls begin to crumble just a little. You quickly uncover which topics make him uncomfortable, particularly those revolving around his current line of work and those he can talk about endlessly. You learn the ins and outs of what it was like being friends with Captain America before he was the size of a brick house. You also discover that Bucky is someone you could listen to talk for hours on end.

“I don’t think it ever came up,” Bucky says as he takes a seat back at the table, two fresh cups of coffee in hand, “how did you know my sister?”

You hum your thanks and take a sip before answering. “Well, a few years ago, or I guess a few years before the Snap, I started volunteering at the nursing home. You’d be surprised how many families just shove their parents or grandparents in those homes and forget about them. They get lonely and just want someone to talk to that isn’t a nurse or whatever. It got worse during those five years. Rebecca never really needed me to sit with her; her family visited all the time. However, she was still one of my favorite residents.

“She talked about you all the time, you know. Even when she couldn’t remember her own children’s names, she always had a story to tell about you. She was immensely proud of you.” Bucky grunts, and you playfully roll your eyes at him. “She was a good storyteller. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she was trying to pull my leg or not. She...she was something else, but she’s going to be dearly missed.”

A somber sort of silence falls between the two of you then. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s the kind charged with a unique sense of melancholy. It’s so strange, you think, to share a common heartbreak with someone you still barely know. Loss and grief have a curious way of bringing those once unknown together.

“Uncle Bucky,” a high-pitched squeal cuts through the moment and brings with it the excited, flushed face of an excited great-niece. “Uncle Bucky, I made you something!”

Bridget worms her way up onto Bucky’s lap, a piece of paper with her hand traced to look like a turkey in its center. “To Unkle Bucky, Luv Bridget” was written sloppily across the top.

You watch as Bucky’s expression goes from one of strain to that of absolute joy. “Thank you so much,” he smiles as he takes the paper and examines it as if it were a piece on display at the Louvre. “I know exactly where I’m going to hang this as soon as I find a frame.”

The little girl, who bears a striking resemblance to her long-lost great-uncle, beams as she wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes. You catch Bucky’s eye, causing him to break into an even wider smile. You hope he can see how truly and unconditionally he is loved.

You watch as she scrambles off back to where her brother and cousin are sitting, coloring away. You nod at the sweet drawing. “Planning on spending Thanksgiving with them?”

Bucky smooths his hand over the paper in front of him and thinks for a moment. “They invited me. I guess they, we, have family in Indiana that they usually visit for the holiday. I just...I don’t think so. I don’t want to be that far from where I’m needed most, and I think meeting a whole new set of family would be a bit much, ya know?”

You hum in response, fully understanding the dilemma. It’s unfortunate, though. “Well, I’m sure I could never compete with a real home-cooked meal, but I’m staying home because I don’t...really agree with the holiday and will be heating up a nice frozen turkey TV dinner if you would like to join. I might just throw in a pumpkin pie, too.”

Bucky looks up then, a soft, small smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Thanks, Y/N, really. But I’m not sure. Might not even be home,” he shrugs.

“Well,” you say as you look at the time on your phone, “the offer stands just in case you change your mind. But, hey, I think it’s time for me to leave for real now. I have some work to catch up on before I go back to the office tomorrow.”

You can tell he’s disappointed, but Bucky offers to walk you out anyway. He wants to stay and help his family clean up, or he would offer to walk you home. You make your rounds to say goodbye to the family you were familiar with and, when you reach the kiddie table to say goodbye, Bucky’s great-nephew Jackson refuses to let you go.

“Will I ever see you again even though we can’t come to visit Grammy no more?” he wails as he buries his little face into your stomach.

“Jackson, please,” his mother says as she comes to diffuse the situation. The little boy lets out one last sob into your dress before letting his mother pull him into her arms. “Y/N will still be around,” she smiles mischievously, directing her gaze over your shoulder to where Bucky waits at the front doors. “I’m almost sure of it.”

You can feel the heat of embarrassment as it claws up your neck, and you quickly give another round of hugs and goodbyes to the children before heading back to Bucky. “Is everything alright,” he asks as he hands you your coat.

“Fine. Jackson is just…” you slip on your coat and refuse to meet Bucky’s probing eyes, “dramatic sometimes.”

The weeks following Rebecca’s funeral saw Bucky locked away in his apartment. Calls from Sam and Wanda went unanswered, and the curtains were scarcely opened. He’d even ignored your attempts of delivering some semblance of comfort. The pasta dish you dropped off was left mostly untouched in his fridge, and he’d only managed to eat half a slice of a pumpkin pie you’d left for him on Thanksgiving. He knew that hiding away was doing nothing for his mental health, would do nothing to help him move past the loss and pain, but it was all he knew. How he reacted was all he could control, and Bucky liked to be in control.

His control, like most things in his life, came to an end far too quickly when Sam decided he’d finally had enough. Bucky knew that he couldn’t hide from his friends forever, but he would have liked to come out on his terms.

“Man, I know you’re in there,” Sam shouts as he knocks on the door of Bucky’s apartment. He’d been there for five minutes now, and, at this point, Bucky was testing to see how long he could keep the man waiting. “Seriously, Buck, open the door, or I’ll use Redwing to knock it down. And I won’t pay for repairs or reimburse your security deposit.”

Bucky sighs before hauling himself off of the couch. “What?” he deadpans as he opens the door. It takes everything in him not to slap the toothy grin off of Sam’s amused face.

“I was beginning to think I was going to have to call the Smithsonian - tell them to get your exhibit ready because, as far as any of us knew, you were dead,” Sam says as he pushes past Bucky into the apartment.

“What do you want?” Bucky asks again as Sam looks around the scarcely decorated apartment. From the discontent on his face, Bucky could tell Sam was less than thrilled with the state of his apartment. It was dark, the only furniture being a couch, a small coffee table, and an old TV he’d stolen from the Tower. Not exactly what one would consider a "space of their own."

“Listen,” Sam says as he moves to push open the curtains, “you’ve spent enough time locked up in here. You need to get out, see the sun, get some air. Plus, Wanda misses you, and that spider kid has been coming around asking for you.” Bucky grimaces at that. Peter Parker had asked his fair share of questions about his arm, and Bucky didn’t feel like entertaining the teenager anymore.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sam continues as he flops down on the couch. “Go get dressed. You can hang out with the crew for a few hours today. I promise if you have the worst time of your life, I’ll let you sit in your own filth and wallow for the foreseeable future, okay?”

After a moment of contemplation, Bucky agrees. Despite his dwindling interest in seeing anyone outside of his own reflection, he knew that seeing his friends - his chosen family of mix-matched misfits - would make him feel at least a little better. So, he allows Sam to tidy up the apartment, put away the dishes Bucky has been neglecting, and open the rest of the windows while he goes to get dressed. Bucky will never admit, however, just how much lighter he felt when he emerged from his room to the man he reluctantly called his best friend, smiling back at him.

December creeps up in a flurry of deadlines and personal obligations. The two-week break your company gave you every holiday season was a welcomed reprieve to the daily hustle and bustle of life, but it also meant long hours at the office in the weeks leading up to the holiday. Plus, the holidays were always a sour topic around the nursing home, as many of the residents were left to their own devices instead of being a part of family celebrations. That meant, in addition to staying until six or seven o’clock at work, you were spending hours afterward crafting decorations, cards, and personalized goodies for each of the residents you visited each week. This all, understandably, left you with little to no free time.

So, when the first of the month came rolling in, and you were yet to have played a single Christmas song or even thought about pulling your tiny table-top tree from storage, you felt deflated. You’d never been so thankful for online shopping and overnight shipping because, by Saturday afternoon, you had a brand new artificial Christmas tree waiting for you on your building’s front steps. In your excitement of getting into the holiday spirit, however, you completely overlooked just how you were going to get this tree up your narrow stairwell. It was like moving day all over again, except for this time you were sure a knight in shining vibranium armor was not going to show up to save the day.

To your dismay, you hadn’t seen Bucky since his sister’s funeral a month ago. It’s not like you hadn’t tried to make contact. You had prepared him a small meal the day after and had even left him half of the pumpkin pie you picked up from the market down the block. The only way you could tell he was even inside his apartment was the fact that, when you went back up to check, the items were gone. That or one of your other neighbors had taken them for themselves. Either way, you were missing Bucky. Even though you’d only had one proper conversation the entire time you’ve known him, you enjoyed just knowing Bucky was around. The thought of him suffering to any extent made your heart twist into unmanageable knots.

You sigh as you prop the building’s front door open, bringing your attention back to the task at hand. You were strong and independent, and you were more than capable of getting this hefty box up to your apartment. With that mindset in tow, you’re pleasantly surprised to turn around and find Bucky and another man making their way towards the building.

“He’s alive,” you exclaim, unable to hide the smile that blooms across your face. You’d feel embarrassed at the overexcitement that laced through your greeting, but you were genuinely happy to see that he had been out of his apartment and with a suspected friend.

“Uh, hey, Y/N,” Bucky says as he looks down to his boot-clad feet. Despite his quiet demeanor and tendency to be closed off, you’d never seen Bucky so...shy.

So you turn your attention to the second man standing in front of you. “I’m Y/N,” you smile as you bound down the stairs to the men, hand out and waiting for Bucky’s friend to shake, “Bucky’s neighbor!” You hope that whatever icy tension that had settled over Bucky would thaw if you directed the spotlight away from him.

“Sam,” the man says as a toothy grin breaks across his face. “Bucky didn’t mention he had neighbors.”

“It’s an apartment building, bird brain, of course I have neighbors,” Bucky mumbles as he buries his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks at you then or rather looks past you at the tall box leaning against the brick building. “What’re you up to?”

“Well, I just got a new Christmas tree delivered,” you say as you bite your lip and try to hide your desperation for help. “I was just getting ready to take it up.”

Bucky looks from you to the tree before settling his gaze on you. “Do you need some help,” he asks coyly.

You don’t even attempt to mask your smile as you guiltily nod your head. As Bucky turns to look at his friend, Sam puts his hands up. “Nah, man, I was getting ready to leave. Plus, heavy lifting is more your thing,” he says before looking at you. “Plus, Bucky is still learning how to play nice with others. And it’s my day off.”

You chuckle and playfully roll your eyes. “You better go relax, then. I’m sure a day off is rare for a superhero.”

As Sam starts backing up towards the way they came, he nods. “I like her, Buck. She really gets it. It was nice meeting you, Y/N!”

“Bye, Sam,” you wave as you watch him make his way down the sidewalk. “He seems really nice,” you say as Bucky hauls the tree box over his shoulder.

“He’s a pain in my ass,” he grumbles as he nods towards the front door.

All you can do is laugh and lead the way to your apartment.

“Thank you so much, Bucky,” you say as he finishes up pulling the faux tree from its too-small confines.

“It’s not a problem,” he shrugs and takes a step back to look at the tree. It’s in pretty rough shape, but once you’re done with it, no one will ever be able to tell it’s lived most of its life in a cardboard box. “You know, I haven’t had a Christmas tree since 1942.”

You stop shuffling around in the bin of ornaments and turn to look at him. “You’re joking,” you say, absolutely appalled. When Bucky shakes his head, you make a decision. “Stay and decorate with me, then.”

This obviously takes Bucky off guard, and before he can even attempt to come up with a reason to say no, you’re busting out your best pout, absolutely determined to share some holiday cheer with him this afternoon.

“Fine,” he sighs, but you can see the hint of a smile twitching on his lips.

You put Bucky to work immediately, pointing at boxes and bins full of ornaments, tinsel, and other holiday goodies. To your delight, he has quite the eye for placing ornaments, a skill he attributes to having a best friend who forced him into art classes and design lectures as teenagers. You’re almost certain he’s enjoying himself, a suspicion that is all but proven when he starts cheerfully humming along to the Christmas station you have playing on your phone.

“I’m really happy to see you out and about today,” you say as you hand him a sparkling orb to hang on one of the taller branches.

Bucky falters in his movements just a little before delivering the ornament onto its new home for the season. “I’m sorry I disappeared for a little bit…”

“Oh, Bucky,” you say as you place a hand on his metal forearm. You'd been surprised when he took his jacket off to reveal his metal arm with little more than the sleeve of his t-shirt covering it. You try not to think of the implications behind the small but seemingly intimate action. “Never apologize for how you grieve. We all process and deal with things differently.”

A moment passes in silence, though it’s not awkward. It’s simply a moment where both of you seem to process what was said. Surprisingly, it’s Bucky who breaks the silence. “That pasta thing you left me, that was really good,” he chuckles.

“Remind me, and I’ll write the recipe down for you. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods.”

Time passes easily with Bucky. Despite what Sam said early, Bucky is an excellent companion to decorate with. He cracks jokes every now and then and comments on your collection of antique ornaments. You even manage to get him to try some of that crockpot wine you had attempted to make earlier in the day. By dinner time, your tree is fully dressed and situated in its corner, and you’re tipsy on holiday cheer and alcohol. As you make your way towards the couch with a fresh glass in your hand, Bucky begins to hum along to Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as the beginning notes start to float through your apartment.

“God, I remember when this song came out,” he says quietly as you take your seat. “They played it nonstop at camp. Dunno what they were trying to do, raise our spirits, maybe? It just made me think about how Ma and Becca were going to be all alone that Christmas.” He pauses then, likely lost in the memory. You’re about to say something to pull him back from wherever he drifted off to when he adds, “I couldn’t help thinkin’ that this was a song I’d ask a girl to dance to, too.”

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you laugh as you set your wine glass down.

“Oh sweetheart, I had girls lining up outta the hall to dance with me back in the day. I wasn’t always so…” he turns to look at you and gesticulates with both arms to make his point, whatever that may be.

You squint your eyes in a challenging glare and stand. “You have to show me these moves, Bucky Barnes.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you quickly cut him off. “I’ll sing along if you don’t. I know you can hear the concerts I put on for my shampoo bottles in the shower. Save you and the neighbors the show, come on.”

Bucky gives you a mock grimace before giving in. You’re not sure if it’s the wine that’s causing time to feel so slow or if it’s the fact you want to savor the image of Bucky standing over you, flesh hand outstretched for you to take. You don’t question it, though, and simply step into his warm, welcoming embrace. It’s all too easy to melt into Bucky’s arms and allow him to guide you around your tiny living room.

A few moments pass with little more than Crosby’s melodic crooning drifting around the two of you. You hope that, despite how close you are, Bucky can’t hear how rapidly your heart is beating. When you finally muster the courage to look at him, you find that he was already looking at you. He squeezes your hand a little and gives you possibly one of the most tender smiles you’ve ever seen.

“Nice to know I still have it,” he exclaims as he winks, and you smile and shake your head before resting it on his shoulder.

When the song ends, Bucky ends his effortless glide across the antiqued hardwood floors, and you pull back from his chest enough so that you can look into his eyes. If your gaze lingers a little too long on his plump, pink lips, you’ll never admit. Despite the impossibly low lighting of the room, you can see the way Bucky’s crystal blue eyes sparkle and dance when they catch the lights from your tree.

“Thank you for helping me today,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“‘Course,” Bucky replies and, as the seconds pass, you’re pretty sure that he begins to lean towards you, eyes flicking between yours and your lips.

Just as you’re about to close the small distance, a disorienting ringing begins from somewhere. Bucky pulls away, irritation quickly taking over his expression. “Goddammit,” he practically growls as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “What, Sam?”

You watch as a range of emotions flash across Bucky’s face before a seriousness shadows his features. He barks out a gruff, “See you in a few,” before quickly ending the call. “We’re, uh, needed. Immediately.”

“O-oh,” you mummer, disappointed that he has to leave so quickly. You watch from where Bucky had stopped the two of you as he gathers his jacket and scrambles to put his boots on. He’s almost to your door when your brain finally catches up to what is going on, and, in that moment, you’re appreciative for how small your apartment is because you’re able to get to him before he is fully out of the apartment.

“Wait, Bucky,” you call as you grab for his arm. When he turns to look at you, you almost back out of what you’re about to say, but you persevere, knowing that the world will continue to turn if he rejects you. “Come to Christmas with me. My parents only live two hours away. We’re pretty low-key, no big party or anything. Please?”

Bucky considers you for a moment before he visibly softens and nods. “You know what, sure. That...that sounds great.”

You smile so wide when you hear him accept the invitation, something you thought for sure would be for not. Before you can even consider your actions, you’re leaning up to place a chaste kiss on his rough and prickly cheek. “Stay safe out there,” you say gently. Bucky simply nods, a blush begins to work it’s way up his neck.

You stand in your doorway until you hear the front door of your building click shut behind him. You’ll never confess to it, but when your own apartment door is securely shut behind you, you do an excited, happy dance.

[nekoannie-chan]

In the darkness

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader X Brock Rumlow

Word count: 1108 words.

Summary: Brock and Steve saved you from one of HYDRA's compounds, but will you tell them all your secrets?

Warnings: Nightmares, voices in the dark, mention of experiments, angst.

A/N: This is my entry to the @wonderlandmind4​’s “Fall Winter Writing Challenge” with the quote #19:

“This house is not haunted”

“Then why does your scary ass live here?”

Also my entry to @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​’s Once Upon a Midnight Dreary…Challenge with the quote and prompt:

“There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told”

“Voices in the dark”.

Reader is a mutant and also enhanced by HYDRA’s experiments.

The nightmare is in italics.

Okay, this fic is a mix of fluff, angst and horror, so maybe is a little weird.

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistake please let me know and I will correct it.

I don’t give any kind of permission that my fics be posted in other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don’t steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other’s people. The only exception is the ones I gifted ‘cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and is not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Marvel’s characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

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Tags: @sinceimetyou​ @navybrat817​ @angrythingstarlight​ @shield-agent78​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @charmed-asylum​ @pandaxnienke​ @real-fbi​ @smokeandnailz​ @adriannajackson123​​ 

You looked up when you heard the door open when there was light the voices were silent, but something worse happened, the experiments hydra did were horrible and painful, let's not say about the workouts, the only times when training was pleasant was when Brock was there. 

"It's your turn to go to the infirmary, they'll run some tests," the guard told you. Y

You got up and went to the place, but there was something weird about the expression of the "doctors"

“The test is simple, we want to see how your powers affect the recruits," they explained.

 You turned your gaze to the recruits, you knew that day was going to be a nightmare..

You opened your eyes, you were in your bedroom at your house, Brock and Steve had promised you that no one would hurt you again after they took you off HYDRA’s compound, but they couldn't do anything against your mind.  

You pouted, the bulb burnt out, the voices appeared again, you got out of bed as fast as you could and you came out of the hallway light, you had to change the bulb or go to sleep on the couch. 

It wasn't the first time you wanted to believe it was all a dream and you'd wake up at home before HYDRA kidnapped you and experimented with you. 

And the endless nights you slept with the light on as long as the voices didn't appear and you could rest. 

You assumed the voices belonged to dead people, maybe they were trying to ask you for help somehow, and you weren't sure, which was sometimes scary.

You've never told anyone about that specific power, they'd probably walk away from you and you'd be left alone.

 2014

 Brock cursed quietly as he approached the emergency stairs, HYDRA and the plan no longer mattered, he had to get to the nearest compound somehow, he had to go for you and take you somewhere safe, he knew that they would soon begin to investigate all the compounds of the infamous organization. 

He thought it would be easy to sneak out because everything was a disaster, but when he opened the door he met Steve. 

"Are you trying to escape Rumlow? We all know you belong to HYDRA.” 

"There's something more important than all this Rogers, you'd never understood," he replied, stepping aside, yet Steve stopped him. 

"Don't think you'll run away so easily.” 

"You'd never understand, I have to go.”

Steve didn't let Brock go alone, believing he'd escape when they got to compound it was all chaos. You hid in Brock's office the moment it all started, you'd heard that S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers would go after the mutants and probably send them to a detention centre, you didn't know where Brock was, but he promised you he'd take care of you, so you were sure he was going to show up at any moment. You threw yourself into his arms when you saw him open the door. 

"I knew you'd come for me," you exclaimed as you kissed him on the cheek. 

"W-What does this mean?” Steve questioned. 

"First we have to go somewhere safe.”

 Present-day

 You were sitting on the couch with the TV on, but you couldn't stop thinking about the day Steve and Brock rescued you from the compound, not to say it was hard for the rest of the Avengers to trust you. Your cell phone rang when you received a message, they had arrived, you laughed as you shook your head, they probably forgot the keys…again, and you lost count of the times they stayed outside. Steve was fighting with the microwave because he was trying to make popcorn while Brock was taking out the other purchases they had made on their way to the house, you were waiting for them in the living room, that night they'd watch movies. Unexpectedly the light was cut, you were trying to stay calm.  

"Please shut up," you murmured, all you wanted was for the voices to leave, everything they told you was very frightening. 

"Did you hear that? Steve questioned in the kitchen.

"No, maybe it's your imagination or the neighbours, you better help me find some lamp or candles," Brock lied, he was pretty sure it was related to HYDRA's experiments did to you. 

You sighed relieved when the light returned, with the back of your hand you wiped away the tears that fell down your cheeks to avoid questions.  

"Is everything okay?” Steve asked, entering the room. 

"Sure, everything is perfect, I just didn't expect the light was cut.” 

"Are you afraid to the dark?”  

"No Brock, not exactly," you took the popcorn container Brock was giving you as he sat next to you and pressed the buttons to get the film started. 

"I'm sure there are ghosts in your house," Steve suddenly remarked. 

"Excuse me?” 

"Yes, it's the second one I seem to hear slightly strange voices," he continued. 

"Then this house is haunted," Brock replied.

“This house is not haunted”

“Then why does your scary ass live here?”

"You don't say the same thing when...” 

"You two stop fighting, you act like kids," Steve said. 

You and Brock saw each other and started laughing, yet Brock got serious again.    

"Y/N you have secrets, if you tell me or tell Steve and me, we could help you," Brock said, for a moment he thought Bruce or someone else would have the solution and help you.

“There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told”

"What do you mean?” 

"Even if I tell you everything, there's nothing you can do to fix it.” 

"Doll, tell us, we'd do anything for you,” Steve said. 

"Are you sure you're not going to think I'm crazy?” 

"Too many things have happened to you, you can trust us.” 

"I can hear voices in the dark," you confessed. 

"What do you mean?” 

“What kind of voices? What do they tell you? We can find a way to reverse everything they did to you at HYDRA," Brock questioned with concern. 

"I've heard them for many years... actually before HYDRA.” 

"But what did they tell you?” 

"I didn't understand the whole message, was something about “loa”, Morgan... I don't remember the full name, it was a very confusing message, it sounded like a prediction or warning,” 

"Maybe it's a new enemy," Brock said. 

"Do you remember anything else? Steve inquired. 

You shook your head, yet no one imagined what would happen in the coming months, maybe you should have paid more attention to what the voices were telling you.

[anika-ann]

The Fall Tale (S.R.)

(Of Fallen Leaves and Falling Dames)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 3400

Summary: 

You just wanted to take advantage of the joy that the fall provides. You just wanted to be silly for a bit, let go of the adulting and feel as carefree as a kid again.

It gets enormously out of hand, but you find yourself unable to complain at the turn of events.

Prompt: one involving the fall, colourful leaves and a meet-cute (full prompt at the end of the fic as to not spoil the plot)

Warnings: swearing and tooth-rotting fluff (no really, it’s dripping sweetness as a damn maple sirup)… kids involved, not reader’s

A/N: For wonderlandmind4 challenge. Thanks for letting me participate in such awesome challenge! I adore this prompt! I hope you’ll get many sweet followers and that you’ll enjoy the submitted fics!

A/N 2: the lovely fall devider by firefly-graphics

The air was crisp, almost biting against our skin, but for the first time in a while, you didn’t mind one bit – even if your outfit was clueing otherwise.

The last October week was an unpleasant thing for multiple reasons, but the weather really was the cherry on top of your bittersweet cake; saying that was you being dramatic as hell, the past few days had only required of you to run many many adult errands, but still.

The gloomy morning fog that often lingered, overstaying its welcome, the cold wind and the absence of sun was beginning to take its toll on you, painfully reminding that the ‘sweater weather’, better-known to you as the ‘witch-bitch autumn time’, had long chased Indian summer away. You hated this kind of weather.

Colourful leaves, sun seeping through the clouds, playing with the vivid yellow, orange, red and remaining green in the treetops? God bless.

The kind of weather which this week graced you with, more or less requiring to keep your mouth covered with a scarf when going out? No, nope sire, shove it.

Today, however, a small miracle occurred; despite the yucky morning drizzle and downright icy wind, sunrays found their way through the clouds, illuminating you path as you had decided to reward yourself for the boring adulting-filled morning you pushed through.

The park was mostly quiet, the majority of New York City citizens clearly discouraged by the slick traps of mud and fallen leaves and the reluctant rise of temperature. Walking in the alley lined with maples and oaks felt like a dream, the uneasy feeling, tied to the many responsibilities to your person, that had been clutching at your gut subdued, the weight falling from your shoulders and allowing you to breathe in. Smile even grazed your lips as you spotted a dark-skinned man practically serving like a jungle gym to two kids, whose laughter was brought to you by the wind.

God, you wished to be a kid just for a moment again! (And the opportunity to climb that broad-shouldered man was only a part of the reason.)

You snickered under your breath, your gaze moving on—and falling onto a pile of fallen and neatly raked leaves by an old oak roughly three hundred feet from you.

Your smile widened. Someone from above was clearly sending you a signal and a wordless approval of your need for some child-like behaviour – because damn, was there anything more childish that wanting jump right into those leaves?

Your mind helpfully supplied you with an image of kids stomping into a puddle and jumping in that muddy mess and you came to conclusion that there were worse things you could do. Laundry day was ahead anyway.

With one goal ahead, chanting that you deserved a break from adulting, you quickened your pace and approached the pile with determination. You spun around, chuckling to yourself and trying hard not to think about the poor person who had worked on raking the leaves so hard, you spread your arms wide, closed your eyes in bliss and let yourself fall to the soft natural bedding.

The collision with something hard came sooner than expected, causing a startled yelp erupt from your throat – mostly because the mass your body met with moved and grunted.

You quickly spun away, literally falling on your ass when you tried to stand up again. A head peeked out from the pile of colourful leaves, followed by impossibly large frame of a man sitting up.

You sat there with our mouth open in mute awe, heart pounding in your chest, head spinning from both the shock and abrupt movements.

Still, you had enough wits to notice two things.

One, the man was gorgeous. Blond hair slightly ruffled by the wind and his previous hideout, startlingly bright blue eyes framed by unfairly thick and long eyelashes, plush lips, sharp jaw—and gosh, you didn’t think you had even seen shoulders so broad and arms begging to be wrapped in so prominently.

Two, the man, obviously, had leaves in his hair, a tiny smidge of mud on his cheek, his clothes, while rather fine and as if stolen from a sports catalogue, damp and little dirty; and he was frowning at you. And kinda gaping. Probably hurting too – the impact for you had been unpleasant, but it must have seriously hurt him.

And yet, instead of apologizing to him for this absurd situation, a whole different sentence left your lips as you were still seated on your ass on the wet ground, palms supporting you on your sides.

“What the hell are you doing here, hiding in a pile of leaves?!” you shrieked, the high-pitched sound as embarrassing as your reaction. You gulped when the real-life Adonis in front of you grimaced, cleaning himself of some of the leaves stuck in his hair. Your fingers might have twitched in urge to help him, but your mind went entirely elsewhere, another thing occurring to you. “Could you even breathe in there?!”

Clearly, he could, since he was perfectly fine.

Bravo, you genius, why couldn’t you figure that out before asking such a stupid question?

He stared at you for another moment too long, apparently as taken aback by the situation at hand as you were… and then he chuckled, his hand scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Eh, yeah, I could. And I was… uhm-“ he beckoned to the trio you had noticed earlier, the man who was probably babysitting for a friend, and you let out a silent oh as a victorious yell carried through the park “-playing hide and seek. Are you okay?”

The question was so softly spoken, a timid smile creeping to his lips and your heart melted an instant, laughter bubbling in your chest at the ridiculous predicament you found yourself in.

Talk about an embarrassing meet-cute with the most beautiful (yes, beautiful) man you could ever imagine. What else could you do but laugh… and perhaps fall in love a bit? You had jumped at him and he was asking if you were okay.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you assured him, returning the smile, not any less sheepish. His eyes lit up even more and your heart, finally slowing down a bit, started racing again. You must have hit your head and now you were making this guy up, right? There was no way a man like this actually walked the Earth. “Are you though?”

One corner of his lips rose higher as he climbed to his feet, dusting off his palms as much as he could, and gentlemanly offered you a hand to help you stand up. You could swoon at that moment.

“Worse things happened to me than having a pretty woman land on me.”

Uhh, a smooth talker when he wanted to be. Would you look at that.

You accepted his hand just for the sheer indulgence and to make sure you actually hadn’t imagined him, because this--- this specimen was talking to you and flirting with you. Doubting his existence was only natural.

His calloused palm tugged you up gently with barely any effort, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours and you had to force yourself to let go.

“Well, I’m glad. And uhm… I’m sorry. I really didn’t expect to--eh, you know,” you gestured awkwardly between him and the messed-up pile in a place of an explanation. He only shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours, a spark of laughter in them. “Question still stands though. Why would you hide here of all places? Kids love jumping into these.”

His eyebrows shot up and he chuckled, looking you up from head to toe. You felt a rush of blood warming your cheeks when you realized what a dishevelled picture you must have made and you self-consciously dusted off your clothes as if it had any effect.

“And yet it was you who jumped. Interesting,” he mused in a teasing manner, with no malice in his voice as he called you out on your child-like antics.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, grinning self-depreciatingly. You had totally walked into that one.

“I-uhm… I have a young soul…?”

The god amongst men huffed a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling and fuck, you really were falling hard by the second. He was—no words existed in English language to describe what a looker and charmer he was. The infamous butterflies flipped their wings wildly in your stomach, the slight embarrassment, while lingering, you barely acknowledged when the man laughed at your joke.

A sudden movement to your right startled you along with a heavy thud of feet and you yelped for the second time that afternoon, instinctively jumping away; your feet slipped on the wet ground and you prepared yourself for an unwanted meeting with the ground-

Only to land in Steve’s arms, curling around you protectively, sending your heart plummeting on the park floor – both in fright and dizziness, because shit he was warm and strong and over the natural scent of the park that lingered on his clothes, you got a whiff of his cologne and detergent and whatever and gosh, he smelled so good too. And his face was now in dangerous proximity and his beaty was even more startling up close and you could die a happy woman right here.

You found yourself so intoxicated that it took you a while to follow his gaze to the source of your current predicament; another man, just as ridiculously fit (what the hell was happening today, first the kid guy, then the charming blondie and now this brunet), with a shit-eating grin on his lips.

“Is all good, dollface. Steve here is an old soul, you’ll make a perfect match,” the man hummed as a thumping of several pair of feet shook the ground, announcing the incoming trio, still too far to overhear your absurd conversation.

The cheekiness of the newcomer and the fact he had just dropped from a freakin’ tree only to land right next to you would be annoying if he hadn’t just called you a good match to Steve and hadn’t finally reveal your handsome stranger’s name.

Steve.

He kinda looked like a Steve.

Steve sighed, sounding bone-tired because of his friend’s attitude. “Dammit, Bucky. Give the dame here a heart-attack, why don’t you?”

Dame?

“Got her in your arms, didn’t it?” Bucky retorted nonchalantly and as if in slow motion, Steve glanced down at you as he held you securely to his frame, appearing to realize your proximity for the first time. He swiftly helped you to find your footing for the second time that day and let go, causing you miss his warmth in an instant. “Hey there. This was so funny to watch that I forgive you for compromising our positions.”

Your cheeks felt like on fire again.

Sadly, you didn’t get a chance to come up a snarky remark as the ‘seekers’ finally reached you with booming laughter.

“We found you, Uncle Steve! And Uncle Bucky! Do we get the hot chocolate?” the girl around eight years old asked excitedly as she grabbed Steve’s arm and tugged on it as if she already wanted him to lead the way towards what you assumed was the promised sweet treat.

Truth to be told, your heart might have skipped a beat in relief upon learning that your new flirty buddy wasn’t the father. Also, you almost swooned, again, when he scooped the girl to his arms – correction, arm – and booped the girl’s nose, making her giggle. The image pulled at your heartstrings and you didn’t even bother analysing the fact that you felt such intense emotions after barely meeting the guy.

“Of course we do, Lila! They promised!” the boy, of whom you guessed was maybe two years younger, stated as if it was clear as day. Then, he swiftly took advantage of his new tree to climb – Bucky.

The man whom you seen earlier with them huffed.

“Not sure if it’s a good idea to feed them more sugar,” he questioned, sceptical. Then he turned to you, flashing you a smile that seemed kind despite his next words. “Hi. Thanks for your tremendous help. You sentenced us to an afternoon with sugar-fuelled monsters.”

Your eyebrows rose at such accusation, challenging, as you were not about to take the blame.

“Pretty sure you did that when you agreed to babysit.”

“Okay, that’s a fair point, I suppose.”

“It is,” you sassed him back.

Despite that, you couldn’t but make an offer. Not because you felt too guilty for ‘compromising Steve’s position’ – but because you couldn’t pass at the potential opportunity to spend more time with th--- yeah, mainly with Steve, who were you kidding. Though they all seemed like a funny bunch.

Yet, you eyed Steve as you worried your teeth over your lower lip. “However, since you’ve been made because of me, I might treat you guys a coffee? In a café that won’t kick us out despite the state of our clothes?”

Steve’s eyes met yours and even if he was beat to speaking by Lila, you could tell that he liked the proposition. Whether it was because of an intense coffee craving or liking the idea of not parting ways with you yet (he had been flirting!), you couldn’t tell.

You hoped for the latter.

“Yes! The nice lady will buy coffee for you grown-ups and we get a hot chocolate! Yay!”

All the grown-ups couldn’t but smile at the girl’s enthusiasm.

“Well, the nice lady needs to know that she doesn’t have to do that. But I could use some caffeine,” Steve said politely, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “But we all know we shouldn’t let a stranger walk us to god-knows-where, don’t we? No matter how pretty they are. Does the nice lady have a name?”

Ah, the smooth talked was back. And if Bucky’s and the other man’s smirks were anything to go by (or the look they exchanged for that matter), they were both amused and impressed by his flirting skills.

You introduced yourself then, shaking hands with Lila and her brother Cooper’s hand, followed by Bucky’s (with some difficultees as he was a bit occupied with the climbing Cooper) and then Sam’s. Steve shifted Lila from one arm to the other, just like that-- Jesus he was strong, and shook your hand as well, his touch lingering a little.

You certainly didn’t complain.

“It’s settled then. Lead the way,” Sam beckoned to you, before he stared down the two youngsters. “And you, down, you were full of energy a minute ago, you can walk just fine without these two carrying you.”

“Yes, Uncle Sam,” sounded unison from the kids, and you snicked, a picture of a leaflet asking men to join the army flickering in front of your eyes at the addressing.

Looking back, it should have dawn to you right then. Hell, you even considered that they might have all been a part of some law enforcement, or maybe firefighters, judging by their built, but the obvious didn’t occur to you; not until you reached the café and got questioned by your friend about when you had adopted three Avengers and two kids.

You stopped dead in your tracks upon Jill’s exclamation, your whole body freezing – including your brain.

Steve.

Bucky.

Sam.

Their ridiculously ripped bodies. Steve being an old soul, for Christ’s sake!

Oh no.

The air was tense for several seconds as you reconciled with the fact that you had had found yourself landing on Captain America twice today and that you had met the Falcon and the Winter Soldier while they were babysitting of all things.

“Pretty sure that now we’ve been made,” Sam uttered, causing you break from your trance. To your own surprise, a half-insane chuckle erupted from our throat, the sound being just another reason to hide your face in your palms, wishing for the floor to swallow you. The cheek you showed to damn superheroes! “Well, it was fun while it lasted and she treated you like the dorks you are.”

Huh?

“Look who’s talking, birdbrain,” Bucky huffed and based on the audio, since you sort of eliminated your visual input by hiding behind your hands, it sounded as if Bucky pulled Sam and the kids away, leaving you and Steve alone by the counter with a swift ‘you know our orders, punk’ thrown over his shoulder.

When Steve didn’t say anything for what felt like an eternity and a half, you spread your fingers so you could peek at him between them; you found him smiling at you patiently, but the twinkle from his eye, the one you had already learned to adore, was gone.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect, or-“

Steve – Captain America – shook his head, slowly reaching out to gently grasp your forearms to make you lose the barrier created from your hands. The movement was very slow and easy to spot so you could stop him if you wanted; because of course, he would respect your boundaries, he was a gentleman from the past century. You let him; you gave up to the pressure, but fixed our gaze on the floor, unable to face him fully as he released your arms.

“Hey. No worries. It was actually really nice to be just a weird guy who got jumped on, because he was hiding in a pile of raked leaves,” he admitted kindly and that had you raise your eyes to his again, finding nothing but honesty in his brilliant irises. “It was really nice to think I might have had a shot with a gal like you even being just that guy.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, your breath hitching in hope.

Wait, hold on a second, did that mean—but- certainly you weren’t that lucky, you-

“Uhm… it- it was?” you stuttered, mesmerized by the comeback of the twinkle to his eyes as he smiled wider and nodded. Your pulse skyrocketed, your head spinning for a bit because of what he was implying. He really liked you? “Oh. That’s… he did have a shot for sure. He—uhm, he was pretty charming.”

A shot? Like thousand of them! A million!

You wouldn’t even dare to dream about a guy like Steve being interested in you – he was so out of your league. Showing as much as a mild interest and you’d jump after the chance despite questioning the reality of it all – you kinda wanted to pinch yourself.

If he wanted to give you two a try and see you again… gee, who were you to protest. Already you had been falling for his gorgeous smile and stupidly handsome face… and body. And flirting. And-

He searched your face for a short moment and only then it dawned to you that with the words you used, it might have sounded as if he didn’t have that shot anymore. But he must have understood what you meant from what he read in your expression, because he took a tiny step closer to you.

All of sudden, you found it incredibly hard to breathe, as if your racing heart and spinning head wasn’t dangerous enough; you were almost afraid to breathe in, because if you got another whiff of him, you might jump him right here and now.

Focus.

Steve’s smile was bright as were his eyes, his voice only carrying a trace of self-consciousness as he spoke. “And now? Do I still have it?”

With sudden surge of confidence, your fingers brushed his hand as you glanced at him from under your eyelashes; his smile when you squeezed his hand could power a good part of Manhattan.

“Yeah. I think I’d like him to take me out for coffee or something…” Your gaze flickered to the boot padded with towels, which you got from the friendly owner in order to not let the hide-and-seekers dirty the cushions, and you couldn’t but grin cheekily. “Preferably without four children to babysit.”

Steve reciprocated the squeeze of your hand first and then burst out laughing when you finished, watching you as if you were the greatest and funniest thing that ever happened to him in like a month – which, as far as the humour went, it might have been.

“You got yourself a deal.” And as if you weren’t already halfway in love with him, he raised your still connected hands and landed a brief kiss on the back of yours. “I can’t wait.”

The Winter Tale - sequel

S.R. masterlist

Thank you for reading! 

Our fall weather does suck momentarily, so I hope your doesn’t and if it does that this warmed you up a bit.

Full prompt: Jumping into a pile of colourful leaves. Only to accidentally land on a body hiding in the leaves as a stake out or game and now their position is compromised (Fall)

[wonderlandmind4]

Wonderland4Seasonal Writing Challenge Masterlist:

This is where the fics for the writing challenge will be posted! I will continue to post as fics come in. Thank you for everyone who joined! 

Any fics marked with ** indicates smut/NSFW/18+

Fall Fics:

The Fall Tale (Of Fallen Leaves and Falling Dames) by @anika-ann  Steve x Reader

(more to come) ((divider by @firefly-graphics ))

Halloween Fics:

You Belong to Me by @need-a-fugue with Sam and Bucky 

 Summary: A ghost story, if you will

...And Everything Nice by @silverarmedassassin Bucky x reader

Summary: “I am the pumpkin king!”

Scare by @wienerbarnes Bucky x reader

Summary: A tries scaring B but keeps failing because nothing scares B… or so it seems.

In the Darkness by @nekoannie-chan​

Summary: Brock and Steve saved you from one of HYDRA’s compounds, but will you tell them all your secrets?

Warnings: Nightmares, voices in the dark, mention of experiments, angst.

(more to come) ((divider by @firefly-graphics ))

Thanksgiving Fics:

(coming soon)

((divider by @firefly-graphics ))

Winter Fics:

Neighbors by @shaynawrites23​ Bucky x Reader

Summary:  Written for @the-ss-horniest-book-club’s Clean Up the Archive challenge as well as @wonderlandmind4’s writing challenge!

The Weight of Winter by @need-a-fugue​ Bucky x Reader

Summary: You find comfort in the snow, in the eerie silence of winter. But Bucky’s just not into that shit.

More Than You Will Ever Know by @indyluckycharlie​ Sam Wilson x Reader

Summary: Sam has organized an all day team baking marathon in preparation for the VA’s big holiday community dinner for veterans and their families.

(more to come) 

((divider by @firefly-graphics ))

Hanukkah Fics:

(coming soon)

Christmas Fics: 

**Stockings by @anika-ann Steve x Reader

Summary: You just wanted to decorate the apartment for a bit, you swear. It wasn’t your fault that it was impossible to stay with your mind out of the gutter for longer than five minutes whenever Steve was around.

Home For Christmas by @nacho-bucky​ Bucky x Reader

Summary: The first Christmas with Bucky has come and gone, and he’s surprisingly disinterested in letting it go. Bucky x Reader.

Home for the Holidays (pt.1) Part 2 by @silverarmedassassin​ Bucky Barnes x reader

(more to come)

New Years Eve Fics:

(coming soon)

((divider by @xmasdividers​ ))

[silverarmedassassin]

...and everything nice

bucky x reader | word count: 1296 | warnings: fluff, fluff, and more fluff

a/n: so, this was not my intended halloween fic, but i had this idea late last night and just ran with it. I'm currently sick with a killer sinus infection and discovered the beauty of pumpkin spice lattes yesterday, so this kind of just happened. it’s not the best thing i’ve ever written, but here it is! this is going to act as my submission for @wonderlandmind4​‘s fall/winter challenge! my prompt will be bolded. enjoy! :)

divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics​

What a time to get sick.

You haven't had the slightest hint of a cough at all year, not so much as a sniffly nose. Then boom, the day of Halloween comes around, and you’re confined to the bed or the couch. Body aches, runny nose, obnoxious cough, and all. And you are mad.

You’d scored an invitation to Tony Stark’s ridiculously over-the-top Halloween party this year, and you have to miss it. Not only did you have the best costume picked out for the evening, but you were finally going to get to experience a Stark party. But mostly, you were bummed about not being able to spend the evening with Bucky.

You'd met Bucky, like any true whirlwind, not quite friends-with-benefits but less than "official" romance starts, by accident. A chance encounter in Central Park had led to an afternoon of coffee and conversation. You swore that on that mild spring Saturday afternoon inside a lowkey diner away from prying eyes, you felt your entire world shift.

Despite the complicated nature of your non-relationship, Bucky always managed to sneak away from official earth-saving business to spend some time with you. He often spent his evenings off of training recruits with you in the city and long weekends snuggled up on your couch, a slew of movies both past and present flashing across the TV.

"I don't even have the good candy," you moan as you toss a package of Skittles into the now half-empty candy dish on your coffee table. All you want is a king-sized Snickers and a pumpkin spice martini.

The thought of pumpkin spice anything makes you groan, realizing that, despite being so late into the season, you've yet to have anything in the signature seasonal flavor. You'd sworn to Bucky that you would take him to get a pumpkin spice latte with some pumpkin spice Oreos and end the day with a pumpkin spice kiss or two, but that plan never had the chance to play out. If it wasn't HYDRA cronies attempting to revive the long-defunct terrorist organization, it was a new alien race that used the knowledge that, at one time, the Avengers had been defeated to attempt a planetary takeover. All month it was like you were living in a horror movie. So much so that you'd yet to even watch one.

You burrow down into the blanket nest you've established for yourself and flip through the channels in hopes that something will catch your eye. As you settle on some ghost hunting show you have zero interest in staying awake to watch, a soft knock on your door echoes through your dark, quiet apartment. You blissfully ignore it, having not bought candy for trick-or-treaters this year and frankly not being in the mood to entertain children.

A beat passes and, when you think whoever is at your door has given up and moved on, the knock comes again, this time a little more forcefully.

"Are you kidding me?" you grumble and wrap the thick quilt a little tighter around your shoulders as you stand. You shuffle your way slowly over to the door, fully prepared to rip whatever parent or teenager on the other side a new ass because no answer means no candy, ugh. But the sight that meets you on the other side makes you take a startled step backward.

There on your doorstep, in all his tall, dark, and handsome glory, is Bucky. "Hey," he says, his trademark smile resting gently across his lips.

"Shouldn't you-Why are you-" As you try to stumble through a competent sentence, a coughing fit cuts you off.

“Hey, hey, come on now,” Bucky says as he wraps you up under his flesh arm and guides you back into your apartment. “I made my appearance and had Steve cover for me for the rest of the night. No one’s gonna miss me.”

As he settles you back onto the couch, you notice the large grocery bag he’s carrying with him. “Did you bring chocolate?” you ask between sniffles and reach for the bag. Bucky only laughs and pulls the bag away from your grasp.

“Something better. Have you taken any medicine lately?”

You shake your head and frown. “The stuff I have is disgusting.”

With a chuckle, Bucky takes the bag with him to your kitchen and starts to rummage around. “Where is it? You’ll only get your surprise if you tell me.”

You mutter that the cough syrup is in the bathroom. He makes quick work of retrieving it, measuring the green liquid out, and handing the measuring cup over. You stifle a gag before downing the cup, slamming it on the coffee table like a shot glass. “Look, I took it. Now, what did you bring me?”

“So pushy,” Bucky mocks as he sits down beside you. You’ve never been so grateful for an immune system as enhanced as his. You scoot over a little, just enough that your thigh is resting just slightly against his, and bask in the warmth that radiates from him. As he begins to grab item after item out of the bag, your foggy brain begins to register the theme.

“Where did you get all of this?” you laugh as you grab for the pumpkin spice Oreos you’d just been thinking about not ten minutes prior.

“I know how excited you were to get me to try all these things, but I’ve been gone all month,” Bucky says as he places the last bits from the bag. “And, since you’re not feeling well, I thought I’d bring the fun to you.”

You watch Bucky rip open a bag of mini pumpkin spice donuts and pop one in his mouth, excited to see his reaction. He had been skeptical of the pumpkin spice craze. He wasn’t a big fan of pumpkin, to begin with, and yet here he was, popping two more donuts in his mouth and reaching for the Twinkies.

“This is like heaven in my mouth,” he says around the spongy dough, stopping mid-bite when he looks over at you. “What?”

You can feel your gaze soften as you look into his pale blue eyes. What started as a miserable, lonely night, curled up on the couch feeling sorry for yourself, has turned into one of the best Halloween nights you’ve had in a long time.

“Thank you, Bucky. You really didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs and bumps his shoulder against yours. “Hey, I am the pumpkin king, baby! Anything to see my girl smile.”

Your smile, the one Bucky is most definitely responsible for, falters a little when he says that. My girl?

“I uh, I mean…” Bucky must register what he said because he starts to backtrack. “It’s just that...I mean...I…”

You let your gaze travel down to his lips and back up, and can see the large gulp Bucky takes as he watches your eyes. Before you can register exactly what is happening, he’s leaning in for a sweet-laced kiss, innocent at first and then he deepens it. Pumpkin spice is still heavy on his tongue as it slips past your lips, mixing with a taste unique to Bucky to create an intoxicating sweetness you never want to lose. You do, however, when Bucky pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time,” he says before he pecks your nose.

“What took you so long?” you laugh as you lace his metal fingers with your flesh ones. “Because it’s kind of all I wanted to do since I’ve met you.”

Bucky lets out a playful growl before coming for another kiss. The pumpkin spice goodies and terrible show are long forgotten.

[silverarmedassassin]

Home for the Holidays (2/2)

Bucky x Reader | Word Count: 5,661 | Warnings: None

A/N: Here is part two! Thank you to those who humored me and read this little mini story! Part 1 can be found on my masterlist, which is conveniently pinned to my blog 😬

This is part 2 to my holiday submission for @wonderlandmind4​‘s fall/winter writing challenge. My prompt was: Character B is very enthusiastic to introduce character A to all their traditions, but tries to be sensitive when A seems like they’re struggling to fit in/enjoy themselves.

Dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics​

“You’re going to love it here,” you announce as you take the exit to your small hometown. The drive out of the city had been relatively quiet, the playlist you’d crafted specifically for the trip was only briefly interrupted a handful of times by you pointing out a landmark or attraction tied to childhood memories. Normally, silence on a road trip would make you uncomfortable, but not with Bucky. In the few months you’ve known him, you’d come to understand he was a man of very few words most of the time, so you rarely felt the need to fill the empty space with senseless words.

You’d gotten to know him a lot better in the few weeks leading up to Christmas. He had been making an effort to spend time outside of his apartment more, which often meant he would come down to yours to share a meal or watch a movie. It was nice, getting to spend so much uninterrupted time with Bucky and, if the offhand comments that Sam had offered the handful of times you’d seen him coming and going, Bucky was enjoying the time too. If anything, it was helping him open up again. And, if that’s all you could offer your neighbor, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, instead he continues to look at his window at the passing landscape. Driving home has always been one of your favorite things to do, as the concrete jungle of the city slowly tapered off into nothing but dense forest, hills, and nature preserves. As much as you loved where you were in life now, there were always moments in time where you questioned why you’d ever decided to re-root yourself in New York City.

Once off the interstate, it doesn’t take you long to reach town limits, and it’s only a few short minutes of driving to reach your parent’s home. As you pull your car into the drive, you see Bucky tense out of your peripheral. You’d had a feeling the reason he was being so quiet today was because he was nervous, but this subtle action reaffirmed that.

“My dad’s not home yet,” you state nonchalantly in an attempt to ease his anxieties a little. “It’s just my mom home. I told her to be on her best behaviour, so you don’t have to worry about a million questions.”

Bucky glances over at you and the look in his eyes tells you that statement has eased him just a little. The fact he was so nervous to meet you family made you feel bad for even inviting him in the first place. But you knew he didn’t have anyone, as Rebecca’s family was going on a cruise, and Bucky had shared Sam was spending the holiday with his mother out of state. Despite your wanting to help him feel less alone during this awkward time of transition and settling, you felt guilty for bringing him all the way here.

Before you can let that guilt settle uncomfortably in your chest, you pop the trunk and jump out of the car. You’re only going to be home for four days, as Bucky didn’t want to stay away for too long and you wanted to use the extra time off of work to finally finish making your apartment feel like your home. Due to that, you both only had a small duffle of clothing, so unloading your things was quick.

As you lead Bucky up to the front door, you’re suddenly reminded to alert him of one tiny detail that might make him uncomfortable. As you turn to tell him, the front door of flings open and your mom comes barreling out, arms wide open. “I forgot to tell you,” you say, voice slightly muffled by your mother’s arms, “Mom’s a hugger.”

“Oh hush,” your mom says as she pulls away from you, her sights already set on Bucky. “Everyone needs a good hug.”

That night, Bucky had an easier time falling asleep than he ever imagined. New places, mixed with the fear of having one of his nightmares typically kept him up, if not all night, into the wee hours of the morning. The non-prescription sleeping pills Sam had suggested, mixed with the calming effect you seemed to have on him, were likely to thank for the early night. He isn’t surprised, however, when he startles awake around three in the morning. As he sits up in bed, sweat-drenched hair sticking to the sides of his face, he tries to remember what exactly the dream was about. It was another little something Sam and the others had suggested he do, something about acknowledging the things that hurt us most or something.

After a few minutes of sorting through his brain and trying to pin-point exactly what was the cause of his sudden consciousness, he gives up. Bucky decides that, instead of attempting to fall back to sleep right away, he would refill his glass of water and attempt to clear his mind of any lingering shadows.

Your home is quiet, a kind of peace settles over the entire building that no place in the city could ever harness. He thinks that maybe one day he’ll retire, move someplace quiet like this, maybe have a family of his own. Bucky pauses slightly in his descent of the staircase, caught off-guard by his own thoughts. He’d never been one to think about the future, not since he woke up in it. Just living to see the sunrise over Manhattan another day was enough for him. But his mind hasn’t quite been the same since you came along.

As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, he expects to find it devoid of others, but instead finds your mother sitting at the small kitchen table you’d all been sitting around just hours before, laughing and sharing a lifetime of memories with an outsider.

“Trouble sleeping,” she asks without looking over to where he’s standing. Instead, she raises a steaming mug to her lips and takes a tentative sip.

“Ye-yeah,” Bucky says, voice still thick with sleep and disuse.

Your mom hums as she looks over to him, profile lit effortlessly by the early winter moonlight streaming in from the back door. “That’s nothing a good cup of tea can’t help fix. There’s still water in the kettle if you’d like.”

Bucky watches her a moment longer before accepting her offer. She directs him on where everything he needs is located and, before he knows it, he’s sitting down across from her, his own warm mug full of a lavender and something concoction. If anything, at least it smells good.

“I’m really glad Y/N brought you along, Bucky,” your mom says as she takes another sip of her own tea. There’s a glint in the corner of her eye that Bucky can’t quite place, and it admittedly makes him a little nervous. “I do have to admit that her father and I were a bit shocked when she said she was bringing someone home. And then finding out that someone was a...well, you. I guess you never expect your own kid to get mixed up in the affairs of a superhero,” she chuckles to herself.

Bucky takes a large drink of his tea, instantly regretting it as it burns his throat the entire way down. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. When it had sunk in that he was going to be visiting you home for Christmas, meeting your parents and seeing your hometown, it made him anxious. He remembered that, back when he was still the punk who ran the streets of old-time Brooklyn like he owned the place, when a girl invited you to meet her parents it meant you were going steady, or at least headed in that direction. He knew things had changed a lot in terms of dating and relationships in general between men and women in the eighty-odd years he had been under, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this - spending one-on-one time with his beautiful downstairs neightbor’s mom - still held the same implications as it did in the forties.

“I, uh,” Bucky isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t want to make it sound like he is disinterested in you, he knew that you talked about him in some capacity with your mother, afterall. But at the same time he didn’t want to sound too overzealous on the off-chance that this entire trip meant nothing other than a friendly visit for the holiday. “I’m really thankful you opened your home for me.”

Your mom takes Bucky off guard when she snorts out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to...Listen, I don’t know exactly what is going on between you and my daughter, but whatever it is, it’s really good for her. Y/N is, as you’ve likely picked up, a giver and a caretaker. She never asks for help when she needs it, and rarely accepts it when it’s offered.

“She took the whole Snap thing pretty hard, harder than she let on I think. That’s when she really threw herself at taking care of others, so much so that she forgot to take care of herself sometimes.” She pauses and looks intently down at her mug. “Y/N needs to be taken care of sometimes, too. And, whether you know it or not, I think you do that. I haven’t seen my daughter this happy in a long time. So of course we would open our home for you. Now and whenever you may need it.”

Bucky’s unsure of how to respond to such a tender sentiment, but the way your mom is looking at him tells him no response is needed. It’s a look, he assumes, only a mother can give. One of knowing and mystery and tender loving. One that she so openly offered to him, a stranger, an intruder in her home and holiday season. He realizes then that, everything he’s gone through, everything he’s ever done both voluntarily and not, doesn’t carry as much as he’s been thinking. That, despite it all, maybe he is more than what HYDRA made him and that he is deserving of the good things that have come to him in recent weeks.

“Well, Bucky,” your mom says as she takes one final sip of her tea. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. Christmas Eve is kind of a big deal around here. You’ll need the energy, especially if you want to keep up with Y/N.”

Bucky quickly learned that when your mom said that Christmas Eve was a big deal, she meant it. You had come knocking at his door a little past seven this morning, telling him that, if he did not get up, you would not hesitate to grab a handful of snow. Despite the too few hours of sleep he ended up getting and the desire to hide away just a little longer before facing your entire family again, Bucky pulled himself out of bed and plastered a smile on his face.

The morning passes in a flurry of Christmas activity. Cookie dough is beat and patted and molded into festive shapes while various Christmas melodies flowed through the home. It was tradition, you had said as you deposited a fresh batch of snickerdoodles into the oven, that Christmas Eve morning was reserved for baking and eggnog making and singing out-of-tune to Christmas songs. So, you taught him how to use a rolling pin properly, showed him the perfect amount of pressure to put on the cookie cutters, and even scolded him when he took a spoonful of dough all for himself. The uncooked sugary goodness was just as good as he remembered.

As the last of the cookies are placed on a rack to cool, and the eggnog is nestled neatly into the fridge to chill, Bucky feels his back pocket start to vibrate. His heart drops momentarily when he pulls his phone out and sees Sam’s name scrolling across the screen. Sam only called for two reasons: Avengers business or to coax him out of the hole Bucky sometimes digs himself into, and only one was pertinent to the situation at hand.

Bucky excuses himself and steps out onto the back porch where he can talk in private. “Is everything okay,” Bucky asks in place of a proper greeting.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas to you too, bud,” comes Sam’s witty response. Bucky has never wished to reach through a phone and slap the grin he just knows Sam is wearing right off his face. “I was just calling to see how things were going.”

“They’re fine, Sam,” Bucky huffs out, crossing his metal arm across his chest. “I made cookies for the first time, I think.”

Bucky can’t help but crack a smile when Sam starts to laugh on the other end. “That must have been a scene. I would tell everyone not to eat ‘em, though.”

The easygoing banter continues for a few minutes before the topic shifts to how Bucky is really doing. He shares his past day - because really he’s only been away from the city for a little over twenty-four hours - and Sam updates him on the goings-on at his own family gathering. Bucky listens intently while watching a pair of cardinals take turns pecking at the bird feeder hanging just beyond the porch and the sunset looming just beyond the yard.

“You sound really good, Buck. I’m real happy this neighbor can look past your shitty moods and spend time with you,” Sam says before saying his goodbyes. Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to hear from him. It was one of those little things that reminded him there were people out there that cared.

Instead of going back inside right away, Bucky decides to stay out on the back porch a little longer to enjoy the view of the setting sun and the tranquility that comes with being out of the city. It was rare that he found himself in a place as quiet as this, with a view unobstructed by skyscrapers. He wanted to savor the moment a little longer, appreciate the things he hadn’t realized he’d been missing for all these years.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” While lost in reverie, Bucky hadn’t heard you join him on the porch. He looks over to find you standing just to his left, already focused on the view. He admires the way the last rays of daylight streak across your face, takes in the way it makes you look like you’re lit from within by some ethereal, otherworldly energy. And maybe you were. After all, you’d somehow found a way to look past his flaws and broken pieces and settle yourself deep within his bones, whether you knew it or not.

“Yea, it is,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off of your face. He’s not sure if he means the sun or you.

You look at him, then, the softest smile he’s ever seen planted on your face. He notices that under your left eye is a streak of flour that had found a home there at some point throughout the day. Without much thought, Bucky makes to wipe it away. “You have a little...” when he swipes his finger across the soft skin of your cheek, he swears he hears your breath hitch in your throat, but he tries not to think too much into it. He had unintentionally used his left hand, after all.

You both stand there like that for a moment, his thumb still lingering just under your lower lashes and you looking at him like he was the one responsible for this sunrise and sunset every day. The spell is broken, however, when a winter breeze blows through, causing your to shiver and curl in on yourself for warmth.

“Hey, so, if you’re up to it, we still have one more Y/L/N tradition that we have yet to complete.” You wait for a reaction, and Bucky’s not sure what you were looking for, but when he doesn’t say anything, you continue. “The city goes all out with the lights each year, and we usually go downtown to look at them. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It’s usually kinda busy, and I know it’s cold and-”

“I’d love to,” Bucky smiles, and when he sees the unparalleled joy that spreads across your face, he knows then that he would say or do anything to be the reason for that look over and over again.

It’s just beginning to flurry when you make it to the main drag of your little hometown. Your parents lived just far enough away to feel like a quiet neighborhood, but close enough that you could easily walk downtown without immediately regretting your decision.

It comes as no surprise when you find the wider-than-normal sidewalks in front of the neat row of old storefronts crowded with other residents bundled up in their winter’s best. Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder situation in some sections of the street, you didn’t mind the crowd one bit. The unique and beautifully decorated window displays and intricately lit buildings and trees made the awkward shuffling and getting elbowed by strangers worth it.

At some point, you get separated from your parents and, when you turn to see Bucky’s reaction to the spectacle, you find he’s a good two couples away from you. You decide then that the only way you’re going to avoid being separated from anyone else is by looping your arm through his. He doesn’t fight it, and there’s only a slight moment of stiff awkwardness before he relaxes his arm and allows you to guide him through the crowd. Your cheeks hurt from the genuine smile on your face, and your throat is already feeling the effects of the amount of talking you’re doing. You have to point everything out to Bucky, though, from the horrifying, oversized light-up tooth the town’s dentist has put on display since you could remember to the ever-changing elegant light show that danced across the courthouse. You’re so enthralled in making sure you share every last detail of this special tradition that you fail to notice the way Bucky has closed in on himself.

Despite the glistening lights and the way the moonlight was catching on the large snowflakes as they fell, the light that usually shown in Bucky’s eyes had dimmed to barely the flicker of a candle. The smile that graced his lips was for your benefit and only appeared when you looked back at him to ensure he was still listening to you. As much as he loved watching your enthusiasm seep out of every pore, and enjoyed hearing the way the pitch of your voice got just a bit higher when you spotted something you especially enjoyed, Bucky wasn’t having a good time. The crowd, despite living in New York City, was making him nauseous. Every time he let you pull him down a side street, each seemingly smaller than the next, you felt the knot that had settled in the bottom of his belly tighten just a little bit more. At least when he was in the city, he felt comfortable, knew his way around most of modern-day Brooklyn, and had identified the perfect escape routes just in case a situation went south. Luckily, he’s never had to utilize such routes. But here? The place you were so excited to show him, share with him was foreign to him. The idea of not knowing what waited beyond each turn of the corner, who stood watching through the windows above the quaint storefronts took him back to his time on the run, back to when his days were filled with strict, careful routine, and he felt he was living on borrowed time.

“Earth to Bucky,” you laughed as you waved a hand in front of his face. He blinked a few times, pulling himself back to the surface before he could drown in his thoughts. You were looking at him, obviously waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t hear. “Where’d you go?” you laughed, blissfully unaware of the demons that were creeping in the shadows of Bucky’s still fucked mind.

“I, uh, got caught up in the lights, I guess,” he replied lamely, flinching when he realized just how stupid the answer sounds. He watches as an array of emotions flick across your eyes; amusement, questioning, concern. He had to look away before you could settle on a look of pity. Bucky couldn’t handle that.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” your probe, pulling him off to the side of the walkway into the entryway of one of the many buildings. “You don’t look so good.”

Bucky felt like kicking himself, wanted to scream at and scold his fragile mind for taking the joy and excitement you had been exuding just moments ago and turning it into worry, pity, anything but what you deserved to be feeling right now. “Bucky, please tell me if something’s wrong.”

He takes a breath before looking down at his snow-covered boots. “The crowds, being in an unfamiliar place...I still have problems with that, I guess.”

Your face falls even more at that. “Why didn’t you say something? We could have gone back home ages ago. Or not come at all. Or, or…”

“Y/N, it’s fine. Really. This is a tradition; I didn’t want to ruin it.”

You cross your arms and pout at that. He’s waiting for you to stomp your foot, much like Becca used to as a child when something didn’t go her way. The thought of his sister stings a little. She would have loved something like this, Bucky thinks, and that makes his uncomfortableness even more of a nuisance. He’s alive and able to see crazy Christmas displays and enjoy the things children growing up when he did couldn’t experience, yet here he is, broken and wishing he was anywhere else.

You pull him from his revere again when you start to tug on his metal arm. “Come on,” you huff, not out of annoyance or anger, but something else he can’t quite put his finger on.

“We’re not going back to your house,” he says, digging his heels into the concrete. This causes you to stumble a little and let go of his arm. “Please, don’t let me ruin this for you. I’ll be fine.”

“The only way you’ll ruin this is if you continue to be miserable while walking around. This is the same display as last year anyway,” you shrug. “I think I can skip one year.”

The two of you stand there for a moment, just looking at each other before Bucky sighs and relents. You loop your arm through his again, this time holding it a bit firmer and closer to your body, and begin to worm your way through the crowd. The further you get from the downtown streets, the quieter and emptier the sidewalks became. It wasn’t long before it was just the two of you walking along in silence. Despite the crowd-less walk, you don’t drop his arm.

“I’m really glad you came with,” you whisper after a few minutes. You’d lead him down the long route to your home, both for the fact it was sparsely traveled by foot and because you weren’t quite ready to lose the closeness of holding Bucky’s arm. “Even if I made you uncomfortable.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you think he’s retreated back into wherever he goes when he’s feeling stressed, but then he replies. “No, thank you. This is obviously a special holiday for you and your family. And here I am, intruding.”

You snort and bring your free hand up to wrap around his metal forearm. “You could never intrude, Bucky. I enjoy spending time with you.”

Despite the chill in the air, Bucky has never felt as warm as he does when those six words leave your mouth.

When you return home, boots are quickly shed and coats are hung neatly in the closet. Bucky stands quietly by the door, waiting for your lead. Despite your efforts of making him feel comfortable in your home, his movements were still shy and timid as he glided over the hardwood floors.

“I’m going to finish putting the dishes away,” you say after a moment and nod towards the T.V.. “You’re more than welcome to turn something on, I’ll only be a second.”

Bucky nods his head and watches you disappear into the dark kitchen. He waits until the clatter of pans and ceramic bowls reaches his ears to head up to the guest room. He didn’t feel much like socializing anymore. The day, despite its laid back approach and festive touch, had been both mentally and emotionally draining for him.

Bucky gracelessly flops down onto his back on the borrowed bed. He’s contemplating sending a message to Sam, maybe do that video chatting Wanda enjoyed so much but he loathed. He needed the comfort of home, the familiar to drag him from the hole he could feel himself sinking into. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t even enjoy himself on Christmas fucking Eve. He sighs as he flips onto his side and listens as the faint sounds of you puttering around the kitchen, his enhanced hearing allowing him to hear your humming of a Christmas song he can’t quite place, travel up the stairs and wrap him in a warm embrace.

He’s not sure when he drifted off, or for how long, but you pull him back to the surface of consciousness with three soft knocks on the cracked bedroom door. “Bucky?” you say softly, not daring to enter his space without an invitation. “Is everything alright?”

“Tired, I guess,” Bucky says as he pushes himself to sit up. As he swings his feet over the side, you push the door open a little more so that you can see him.

“There’s a...We have one more tradition that I’d like to share with you, but I wanted to do it separately.” You timidly step further into the room, arms held behind your back. “We usually share one present on Christmas Eve. Typically pajamas, sometimes just a gag gift. And I, uh, I wanted to make sure you were included this year.”

Bucky watches you carefully as you make your way to sit next to him on the bed. As you settle in on the mattress, you rest a neatly wrapped package on your lap. He watches as you run your hands along the paper in a nervous attempt to smooth out the nonexistent impurities. When he finally looks up to your face, he finds that you are already intently watching him, your gaze unwavering as his meets it.

“But I don’t have anything for you,” he nervously blurts out. He can feel the heat of embarrassment as it creeps up the back of his neck when you offer him a soft laugh.

“That’s not the point, Bucky. Just...here.”

You shove the gift into his hands and, as he examines it, he can feel you practically vibrating with the excited but nervous energy you’re not giving off. This was always the worst part of receiving gifts - having to open them in front of the giver. It always made Bucky a little anxious, worried that he wouldn’t deliver the expected or desired reaction. He smooths his hands over the silver paper a moment longer before he digs a finger into a seam in the wrapping. He’s slow to unwrap your gift, a part of him wishing that you hadn’t gifted him anything at all. Bucky didn’t have anything for you, and, the more he thinks about the fact he showed up to a holiday without even a small gift for the one who invited him, it makes him want to leave and never show his face around you or your family again.

When the wrapping is finally discarded, a brown leather book sits firmly in his lap. His name, his full name, is expertly embossed across the front, and the corners decorated with a simply but intricate design. When he flips it open to the first page, a set of familiar faces are smiling back up at him. His ma, dad, and himself with Becca tucked neatly in what he remembers to be a soft yellow blanket - the photo of when they brought her home, the first photo he saw when he visited her just two short months ago.

“I wanted to give you something special, meaningful,” you say when Bucky looks up at you. “Your family helped too. They gave me copies of your old pictures, provided some of their own.”

Bucky looks back to the book as he continues to flip. He watches himself grow older with each turn of the page. Pictures his ma had taken, some from school, even some from his time as a Howling Commando. Articles, magazine clippings, and copies of book pages filled the middle of the book, all about him, praising him for what he did and what they thought he lost his life doing. He can feel tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes as he looks over previously unread words of kindness, admiration, and sadness, all for him.

He doesn’t think he could feel any fuller until he flips to a hand-drawn picture of himself and Bridget, signed sloppily but in the most loving way. He can’t help but let out a watery laugh, and he can hear you add your own chuckle. “She was very excited when I asked her to contribute. That little girl loves you so much already, you know?”

Yes, Bucky knows. He knows his worth in this world now, thinks he’s finally found his misplaced spot in this place in time, and it’s all thanks to you. His chest grows tighter the further he flips in the scrapbook. Pictures of his sister when on her wedding day, when his first niece was born. Graduation photos, birthdays, and family get-togethers just because all were documented for him to see, for him to live through these pictures because he wasn’t around to bear witness in person.

When he gets to the very last pages, he pauses. A face he hadn’t expected to see smiling back at him was tucked neatly in this book, and it filled him with a warmth he thought his poor, frozen bones would never feel again. A picture of you and him on the day of Becca’s funeral, all smiles despite the somber day. It looks like you’re mid-laugh and had only just looked at the camera in time for the photo to capture your face. He’d almost forgotten that a family member - name and relation lost to him at the moment - had insisted on getting pictures of all those in attendance, had mentioned something about never seeing each other outside of things like these so he had to take advantage. He was glad that cousin or nephew or third-something-twice-removed had pestered them into taking it, because, despite not wanting to look at his broken, mismatched self, you were there shining brighter than he thinks he’s ever seen any star.

“Bucky,” you whisper, clearly unsure of what to make of his silence.

“I...I don’t know what to say, Y/N,” Bucky swallows the lump in his throat in an attempt to keep the tears that have begun to swell in his eyes from coming out in his voice. “This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given me - done for me, actually.”

When he looks up at you, he tries to blink back the tears but it causes them to spill down onto his cheeks instead. “Oh, Bucky,” you gently laugh and raise a hand to wipe away his tears. When your hand makes contact with his cheek, however, you realize what you’re doing and make to pull it back. Bucky, however, is quicker and places his flesh hand on top of yours to hold it firmly to his fuzz-covered cheek.

“I lied,” he whispers and you give him a concerned and questioning look. “Earlier. I said I didn’t have a gift for you, but I do.” As he’s speaking, he slowly begins to lean in closer until your face-to-face, only a breath away from one another. “Only if you want it, though.”

You nod and bring your other hand up to fully cup his face as he closes the space between you, gently connecting your lips. It’s a slow, chaste kiss that has him craving more. More of the feel of your soft lips against his, more of your breath catching in your throat, more feeling your eyelashes butterfly across his own as you pull away just enough to rest your forehead against his. He opens his eyes slightly to get a peak of you. You’re already looking at him, a smile spread across your lips.

In that moment, he wishes he had the ability to read minds so that he could know exactly what you were thinking. Before he has the chance to say anything, you’re leaning back, this time pressing your lips more firmly against his own. If it weren’t for the fact he was so enraptured in the essence of you, he would be embarrassed by the low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. He feels your lips perk up into a wider smile before planting another quick peck to his lips before pulling away so that you could look him square in the eyes.

You brush a lock of his hair from his face and tuck it behind his ear before whispering, “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

[need-a-fugue]

You Belong to Me

A ghost story, if you will... Written for @wonderlandmind4​‘s Fall Winter Writing challenge. I know this is in well before the deadline, but it felt like it needed to be read on Halloween. 

The prompt? “Goblins and ghosts and ghouls, oh my!”

Characters: Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, etc. (no pairings)

Every night, now, is the same.

Every night, the woman comes for him, entering his room like an ethereal dream. Climbing atop him like an old fashioned nightmare.

Every night, Sam feels her sit atop his chest, gripping his shoulders with icy fingers. Squeezing his ribs, his lungs, between her naked, knobby knees.

Every night, she leans in close and drips foul-tasting lake water into his wide open mouth as he releases yet another silent scream into the dark, empty room.

Every night, he breathes her in – the cold, cold water that she seems to be comprised of – choking and sputtering and retching. Until he drowns all over again.

---

It was supposed to be an easy mission. It was an easy mission. Little more than lookout duty on his part.

He and Bucky were tasked with sitting, it seemed, the two of them made to hunker down and hold steady at the tree line, to keep watch while Steve and Natasha infiltrated the tiny – likely long ago abandoned – building nestled deep within the Siberian wilderness.

“This place is hell.” The words crackle in his mind, the sound of his own voice – pitching into pure petulance – echoing eternally as the memory plays out in yet another restless dream. He shakes his head idly to-and-fro before craning his neck a bit and twisting, the slight crack-crack-pop­ resounding in the air.

Bucky snorts in reply, his eyes still – always – suspiciously narrowed, trained ahead, his advanced vision allowing him to see the cracked open door where their teammates had entered without the need of his rifle’s scope. “It’s Siberia,” he drones. “What did you expect?”

“Not this.” No, not this, he thinks, breathing out a sigh, absolute boredom stretching out along the deep exhale as his eyes tick off past the outpost.

This is nothing like what he had expected Siberia to be. He’d pictured a barren wasteland. A snow-covered desert. A place – dead and dark and devoid – that could be of no use beyond breaking men and building monsters.

This place is beautiful. Stunning. Lush and full and picturesque, with swaths of deep, rich color popping through the low-hanging clouds. Every shade of green blanketing the ground, swirling with earthen browns in the distance as the forest gave way to the far-off mountain range. Snow-covered peaks, buried deep in the background, showing a hint of the frozen scape that he had expected to see as they traveled from the other end of the world.

Off to the east, just at the edge of the expansive clearing… that’s where a small lake lay, the water reflecting the soft gray hues of the overcast sky, small slivers of silver shining from between the thick branches of peculiar looking spruces and pines.

No, it isn’t the place he expected to see when they first climbed off the jet and began the four mile trek to the tiny outpost. Nor is it the kind of place that warrants being called hell. At first glance, it seems more like an expansive – albeit cold – paradise. And yet, Sam can’t help but feel an eerie tingling up his spine, a physical sensation that tells him there is something very not right about this little part of Siberia.

It’s the noise. Yes, that’s it. It’s the noise – or lack thereof – that has his shoulders set high and his chest tight in a sort of nervous anticipation. This place… it sounds like something out of a nightmare.

They’d been sitting in the same spot for what feels like hours, crouched at the edge of the forest, huddled in amongst the thick, spiky bushes and sap-covered trees. They’ve been sitting in their own self-induced silence – because Barnes is worse at small talk than Romanov – for a veritable eternity. And nothing, not a single bird nor squirrel nor whatever the hell kinds of animals live up here, had made a sound.

There is nothing. Not even the soft rustle of the trees in the wind. There is no wind. There is only stillness. And utter, deafening silence.

His ears ring and whomp from the emptiness filling them, the richly absent noise that burrows so deep it manages to infiltrate his brain with a cold, gray stillness to match that of the far-off lake.

And then… the silence is broken. Shattered by a deafening creak from the heavy, metal door on that small building that sits abandoned in the middle of the clearing. Blown apart by the sudden pounding in Sam’s chest, forcing a thunderous tide of blood to resound in his ears. Destroyed entirely by Bucky’s single, barely audible word, hissed out through tightly clenched teeth as he jumps up and shoulders his rifle.

“Shit.”

---

“It’s perfectly normal… this sort of reaction,” the doctor tells him with a shrug as she scurries to the other side of the small exam room. “You went through a traumatic experience. You very nearly died.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies with a bit of a scoff. “But I’ve very nearly died before,” he counters, challenging brow raised high.

She lets out a long-winded, exhausted-sounding sigh, the expression riding on her far-too-young face – what is Stark’s deal with hiring child geniuses, anyway? – showing more than a hint of annoyance. “It’s extremely common for the brain to either alter or block out entirely certain memories when a traumatic event occurs. And to have… disturbing nightmares. Trauma does funny things – ”

“Please stop saying trauma,” he laments thickly, cutting her off mid-thought. “Look, not to sound like a dick, doc, but I know what trauma is. Hell, I’ve been a trauma counselor. And this? It’s not that.”

She glares at him from over the top of her thick-rim glasses. “Alright. Do you see this woman when you’re not dreaming?” she asks, eyes narrowed in interest, or perhaps suspicion. “Are you having hallucinations?”

His shoulders drop, a low groan pulling from his chest amid an annoyed, “No.”

“Because you were without oxygen for a considerable period of time,” she goes on, eyes flicking to the tablet in her hand as she begins a frantic scroll through his chart. “I was going to sign off on you today, but if you’re experiencing symptoms related to possible brain damage, to some sort of mental deficit…”

“Mental deficit?” he repeats incredulously. “No, I’m not… it’s not…” He throws his hands dramatically up into the air and hops down off the exam table. “You know what? Forget it. Just… forget it. I’ve been traumatized. This is an extremely common reaction. No brain damage here,” he tells her, reaching up and rapping at his skull with his knuckles. “Right as rain.”

She eyes him warily for a long moment before clicking out of his chart and offering a painfully forced smile. “In that case, you are cleared for duty, sir.”

Cleared for duty. It should be a good thing. It is a good thing, he tells himself as he heads for the conference room on the ground floor. Their mission in Siberia had been effectively cut short by his little plunge into that icy lake, the team racing to his rescue in lieu of clearing out the bunker and following up on any potential leads.

The place had been abandoned, or so Steve had told him once he woke a day later, laid up in medical. It looked to be little more than storage, a thick layer of dust sitting atop mountains of boxes, piles of papers, and stacks of old hard drives. He and Natasha had been slowly making their way through the plethora of crap, attempting to discern what held the most intel, what items were important enough to be lugged the four miles back to the jet, when they heard the heavy metal door to the building slam open.

Steve couldn’t say where the woman had come from. Natasha either. They had seen a row of cells that extended down a long, musty corridor. Had walked the hall and shone their flashlights into each and every one. But there was no one there, not that they had seen.

And while they had heard the door creak open up above them, signaling the woman’s escape, and while both Sam and Bucky had seen her flee, race across the field and into the woods. Once she hit the water and plummeted into that deep, cold lake, it was as though she had never really been there at all.

“You good to go?” tears Sam’s attention away from his wandering mind, deep brown eyes shooting across the room and finding a rather concerned looking Steve staring him down.

“Uh,” he sputters, glancing back at the open door. He had been so lost in own world that it hadn’t even realized he’d made it downstairs and entered the conference room where the prep work for the return mission was taking place. “Yeah,” he says with a slow nod. “All clear.”

Steve gives him a quick, stilted nod of his own, worry still etched across his face. “Good.”

---

She’s here again tonight.

He feels her approach, splitting through the soft quiet of his bedroom with a foreboding silence that echoes deep in his ears.

He sees her loom above him, a pitch black shadow that swallows even the moonlight-tinged darkness around him.

He feels his lungs begin to burn and constrict as she coils herself around his chest, squeezing him tight as she settles in.

He watches – paralyzed, eyes wide and unblinking – as she leans in close and whispers something into his ear. Into the dead of night. Something soft yet cutting, familiar yet indecipherable.

He stiffens even further as she cages him in, dark wet hair spilling down either side of a face he can’t quite make out, drip-drip-dripping into his once-again gaping mouth.

And – again – he drowns.

Sam wakes with a start, a choking, burning sensation filling his chest and tearing up and out of his throat in a gasping shout. He bolts upright, wide eyes desperately searching the dark for… something. For the dark haired girl whose silhouette is scorched onto the backs of his lids. For a familiar shadow… of anything or anyone that might calm him, ground him, make him believe he’s here. Safe at home.

For nothing at all. Because that’s what this is after all. Right? Nothing but a dream.

A long, languid sigh spills out of him as he spins and throws his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting heavily as his breaths begin to level. He ducks his head, his bleary eyes blinking to focus on the hardwood floor beneath his feet.

Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s nothing. Until…

Drip. He hears it first, a drop of water plopping, tiny but close, a drip onto the floor beside him.

Drip. He feels the next, splatting on his naked toe. The smell of sulfur – of rotten eggs and putrid lakes, decaying dreams and literal brimstone – suddenly pervades the room.

Drip. This time landing on the very center of his foot.

He shifts to face up, head righting itself achingly slowly, hesitation flooding his veins. His lids roll shut, pinch tightly together, as his face straightens, head slowly shaking back and forth in a silent plea.  

Drip. A tiny, cold burst of water hits the tip of his nose. And his eyes snap open, taking in nothing but the pure, eternal dark.

---

Everything feels like a dream these days. Even this. Even sweating in the Avengers’ decked-out gym, Bucky by his side cringing like a mad man as he finishes his reps. There’s something odd and… murky about the world as it goes on around him now. Like everything is graying at the edges, the picture in front of him curling and singeing and smoldering into black even as he sits – paralyzed – at its center.

Sam shakes his head swiftly to fling away the eerie thoughts. To bring things back into focus.

“A roo-what-a?” he asks, voice thick and groggy, as he replies to Bucky’s just uttered words. He swipes at his red-rimmed eyes yet again, the thick grittiness left from too little sleep – from too much effort at holding them open – never fading, no matter how much he rubs.

Bucky racks the weights – just your standard 120-lb dumbbells, nothing too heavy for an early morning warmup – and grabs his half-empty bottle of water. “Rusalka,” he repeats before easily chugging the rest of his drink.

Sam rolls his eyes. The bastard just finished five drop sets, and he admitted to being late to the gym because he accidentally ran an extra five miles… and he’s barely even broken a sweat. “You do realize that doesn’t clear up a damn thing,” he issues out in a painfully annoyed tenor. “Right?”

He crumples the plastic bottle in his metal fist and chucks it into the recycling bin in the corner. “Look it up,” he says, his own voice taking on an irritated tone to match.

“You know, Barnes, you’re a real dick.”

Bucky glares at him for a moment, that oh-so-familiar dangerous stare that he opts for too damn often. Over the past several months – as Steve saw fit to pair him up with this wreck of a man for too damn many missions – Sam had grown rather accustomed to the stern, narrow-eyed scowl. But he was also starting to get used to the look that followed, the relaxed jaw and raised brow that seemed to signal a shift from the protective cover of the Winter Soldier to the knowing – at times even trusting – fellow Avenger. “I stood here and listened to you bitch about some nightmare witch, didn’t I? Seems like I’m a fucking fantastic friend.”

Sam rolls his eyes again, a deep, burning ache pulsating just behind them as he does so. “Look… I know it sounds crazy. It is crazy… but…”

Bucky nods slowly, his lips pursed and brows raised as if in absolute agreement.

“But,” he goes on, only to lose the thread entirely. The truth is, there’s no possible way that he can say anything, explain anything, that won’t make him sound like an absolute psycho. “I just… you were there, man,” he tries, voice fading off into a defeated sigh. “I don’t… I don’t really remember what happened. Not all of it. But…”

“A woman ran out of the compound,” he begins gently, his voice oddly deep and light. Patient. “Looked like a prisoner or a… an experiment of theirs. She took off into the woods, fell in the lake. You went in after her.” He relays what happened – for the umpteenth time – in a calm, matter-of-fact way. He is, after all, no stranger to gaps in memory. Nor, frankly, to traumatic nightmares. “I pulled you out,” he says, dropping his strong, flesh hand to Sam’s shoulder and giving a quick, firm squeeze. “Never found her.”

Bucky’s eyes tick up to look past him, over his shoulder. He gives a slight nod just as the heavy gym door clanks shut. “What’s happening, gruesome twosome?” Clint calls out as he strides over. “Cap got you two working out together now too?” he asks with a chuckle. “Feels like he’s trying to set up his best friends. Better be careful, I think that guy’s a step away from parent trapping you two.”

Sam blows an exhausted sigh out through his nose as Bucky pivots away and says simply, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Haley Mills, Sarge,” he responds with a crooked smirk as he steps up to the rack and grabs a pair of twenties. “Don’t bother with the Lindsay Lohan crap.”

“Okay,” he drawls out, gaze setting back on Sam, his clear blue eyes shining with a conspiratorial glimmer. “Doesn’t clear up a damn thing.”

Clint drops down to the bench to start some curls, watching his biceps carefully as he asks, no strain at all to his voice, “What are you two BFFs gossiping about down here all alone?”

“Ah,” Bucky breathes out with a soft cadence. “Sam’s seeing ghosts.”

“First of all,” Sam breaks in, single pointed finger raised high. “I hate you. And secondly, one ghost. Just the one. And you named her.”

“I didn’t name her,” he bemoans rather dramatically. “I said it sounds like a rusalka.”

“Which is…” Clint intones, inquiring brow raised high.

Bucky lets out a harsh sigh, his shoulders drooping as an annoyed expression tugs at his face. “It’s just this bullshit legend.” His countenance drops, eyes ticking away and darkening for a fraction of a moment as he states, “Couple of guards I remember used to talk about it. Superstitious fucks.” Another sigh, and he returns his typically steely gaze ahead. “It’s like the lady of the lake. A ghost,” he finishes with an exasperated cadence.

“Ooooh,” Clint mocks, glancing up at the pair and offering a playful wink. “Goblins and ghosts and ghouls, oh my!”

“It’s not funny,” Sam spits out, his normally good-natured attitude splitting at the seams and releasing a rather embittered version of himself… one that catches Clint off guard, causing him to stop his curls and gently set the weights down beside him.

“This about the mission last week?” he asks, his own lighthearted voice taking on a more serious edge. He turns to Bucky. “Lady of the lake? Like the lady you two saw drown in that lake?”

He nods, head bobbing low to hide the slight blush – a ruddy betrayer of shame – as he internally chides himself for mocking his friend’s pain. “I used to have to dreams too,” he says softly, voice low and tender. “Still do.” He looks up at Sam, nervously chews at the corner of his mouth before releasing a sigh and steeling himself once again. “You kill someone, or just… can’t save someone… yeah, that shit haunts you.”

“I know that, man,” Sam counters, a frustrated quality to his tone, to his stance. His eyes flit between Bucky and Clint, each man giving him his full attention, rapt and stoic and… invested. “I’ve had dreams too. Nightmares. Of missions gone wrong and people lost and…” His head begins a slow, certain shake, his gaze piercing and true as he states, “This isn’t that. I don’t know what it is. But it isn’t that.”

---

It hits him again, the moment his eyes finally fall shut, every battle against sleep seeming to end just the same way. The smell of the water. The stench of rotten eggs sitting high in his sinuses, tingeing the air he breathes now, here in his quiet, dark room.

“Shit,” breaks through the peculiar din, and Sam’s distant gaze snaps towards the building at the center of the clearing. To the door, no longer merely ajar, but flung wide open. “Shit,” Bucky repeats, the curse heavily spat as he rises and shoulders his rifle before launching forward through the brush.

It’s a woman – a girl – stumbling over a jumble of too-long legs before quickly righting herself, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the still-swinging door, and bolting across the clearing. Sam pops up the moment he sees her, takes off running just a fraction of a second before Bucky does, and chases after.

She’s heading for the lake, her bare feet plodding so delicately atop the grass that no sound comes from them, her escape seeming just as silent as the world surrounding them. It’s just breaths. His own, fast and hard as the air beats in and out of his lungs. Bucky’s easy and controlled, even as he runs in pace behind. The woman’s, stilted and frantic as she speeds across the land, slipping into the forest, making a beeline for the water.

She runs. On broken, blistered soles. Over frost-bitten grass and through sharp, stinging nettles. Branches slapping, cracking, whipping thick, red lines into the exposed flesh on her arms and legs. She runs. Away from the others. Away from everyone. Away from everything. She runs. Towards salvation. Towards home. Towards a wide, placid expanse.

Bucky pulls ahead, fueled by that damn super soldier serum that pumps endlessly through his veins. He flies into the forest after her, splitting the trees with his wide frame, plowing forward as his boots crunch violently on the fallen pinecones underfoot. And Sam follows. Just as he always seems to do. He chases after the super soldier, thoughts of Steve – I do what he does, just slower – flitting anxiously through his mind.

Sharp cracks and snaps echo through the air, breaking through the silence with small pops more startling than giant claps of thunder. Sam feels his chest constrict, his heart jumping at the sounds before resuming it’s wild beat against his ribcage.

And then… the heavy thump of boots on the ground stops, disappears altogether the moment he enters the forest. The sounds of crunching pine needles and snapping branches gone as well, leaving only the heavy pant of his own breaths and the fast-paced thrumming of his own heart echoing in his ears. Silence. Again.

Yes, this is what he remembers most.

The girl, pale and cold and desperate, running past him, slicing through the still air without making a sound. He turns, anchors his foot into the lush earth and swivels towards the flash of dark hair. The quick glimmer of a white dress. Or… no, it isn’t a dress, is it? No. It’s more like a hospital gown. No pants, no shoes. No jacket to cover her shivering body.

“Sam!” The shout pulls his attention and his heavy boots slip as he tries to turn, looking for the man he followed, the soldier who led him into these cold, dark woods. “Sam!” he hears again, finally lighting onto Bucky’s form, a quick, blinding flicker shooting off the bright metal arm. He’s far behind, stilled in the brush, his normally stoic face awash with something akin to fear. To terror.

Sam’s boots skid and slip on the muddy, moss-covered shore, eyes blowing wide as he looks down and sees the silver mirror of the lake, so close. In his periphery dances a swath of long, dark hair. He spins to see, spins and sputters, catches just a glimpse of her pale form just as it breaks through the water, the glassy surface splitting apart into violent ripples. A splash from a distance. The crunch of boots from behind. But the only thing he hears is his own short gasp as his feet slip out from under him.

And then… nothing. There is nothing to see but blackness.

He shakes himself awake, blinking almost maniacally, turning wide eyes towards the window, towards the sliver of moonlight peeking into his room. No. It hadn’t been black. It was green. The whole world was green. And gray. The water was pure silver and gray. Until he broke through that perfect, mirrored surface.

Sam! A shout, one carrying Bucky’s desperate tenor, resounds in a far-off corner of the room. How many times had he shouted his name? Once? Twice? Three times, as he raced frantically for him?

He can’t remember. All he can remember is the quiet that followed. And the cold. And the placid gray water turning murky and black the further he sank.

His eyes slowly close once more, lids too heavy to remain at attention. Body too heavy to keep from drifting off, from stilling and setting and sinking into the mattress. Sinking. He’s sinking. Down, down, down. Further into the cold dark. He feels a part of him twitch – his leg perhaps? maybe just a foot? – before he goes completely still. Paralyzed. Sunk.

A flash of a memory tears through the darkness, a snippet of something that he’s yet to recall with his waking mind. Traumatic experience, an easy explanation for why his dreams are so fucked, his memories so jumbled. So murky and black. But… This isn’t that. I don’t know what it is. But it isn’t that.

He remembers the silence. The stillness. A woman running.

He remembers the snapping and stomping and shout of a friend.

He remembers the cold, cold dark enveloping him as he sank. As… as she tugged him down. Long, dark hair. A white gown. Ghostly pale skin… gooseflesh all along her naked arms. She pulled him down. Down, down, down.

His eyes snap open once again, lungs clenching tightly as they try to pull in air. But they can’t. His chest burns, like the blister of ice water filling within. It aches, likes a thousand pounds rests atop him. Nothing works… not his lungs, nor arms, nor legs. Nothing works except his eyes. They tick up, widening in a frantic search, desperately cutting through the dark.

Something moves above him, the tiniest glint, a reflection of moonlight shining off of… long, dark hair. Wet, the thick curtain hangs heavily, concealing much of her face as it drips. Drip, drip, drip. Icy droplets ping against his skin, plopping to his cheek in scalding shards.

She’s sitting atop his chest, squatting, perched like a stony gargoyle atop its church. For the first time, he’s able to make out her face, staunchly white, oddly luminescent. Small features, a tiny nose, thin bowed lips. They part, just enough for a bitterly cold breath to blow past. And her eyes… her eyes are empty, pale, pale blue. No. Silver. And gray. And murky, like the lake water. She stares at him with those cold, dead eyes, cocking her head as his breathing and pulse grow more erratic.

Her lips move, the smallest echo drifting to him. Unintelligible words that he’s heard a dozen times before. A hundred? A thousand? She jerks suddenly off to the side, off of his chest, faltering for just a blink of moment before shattering into a million icy shards that melt into a cool puddle beside him.

Her soft voice continues to echo through the room. Through his mind. Through his soul.

Ты принадлежишь мне. Вы принадлежите нам.*

  *You belong to me. You belong to us.

[wonderlandmind4]

Writing challenge reminder

Hi!!! I hope everyone had a nice holiday, and is getting to kick 2020′s ass goodbye tomorrow!

This is just a simple reminder for the lovely writers who signed up for my writing challenge. I extended the “due date” to Jan 10th. I know some of you have already reached out to me about it, so no worries at all! And if anyone would like to pull out, just let me know. Don’t stress, and have fun writing!

(tagging with prompts under the cut)

I smell now by @rccket-writes (Bucky)

“Jack Frost can fuck right off” by @need-a-fugue (bucky)

“Wait, can you hear that? Santa says you’re an asshole” by @rougeheretic555

I tried backing cookies because you were down and had a bad day and I just burnt the first batch and this seasonal baking is harder than it looks by @rougeheretic555

@afewmarvelousthoughts (I got you boo)

(Vampire) I was walking home at night and found an injured bat but the next next I found some random person passed out in the room instead (could also work for wolf/werewolf) by @multi-fandom-imagine (steve)

Elf on a shelf except its not an elf its a creepy doll and either someone better be moving it or we burn down the house by @multi-fandom-imagine (steve)

Giving pretty fallen leaves B found to A because for some reason it reminded B of them or just to make A smile by @shaynawrites23

I used to love the snow but it’s turned on me so not it’s over between us and you have to witness my breakup with nature (winter) by @some-kindofgnome (bucky)

The ball is dropping and A is alone in the corner with an empty glass (new years) by @idga-buck

We’re the only people in this movie theatre on christmas eve; what’s your excuse? @some-kindofnome (bucky)

I just heard a ten pound turkey hit the ground and also very strong words. Do you need help? By @starrysebastians (bucky)

Thank you! Happy New Year!! (But seriously, if 2020 is still kicking your butt and you don’t want to submit a fic until next Christmas, that’s okay too 💗)

[wonderlandmind4]

Listen, I apologize for my holiday submission for your challenge because I am 3k words in and I haven’t even introduced the idea of the holidays 🙊 but this is the most inspired I’ve felt in a long time so I just have to say thank you for hosting this 🥺🥺

Oh, oh honey! First, you don’t have to apologize for 3k of words before anything, EVER. I will GLADLY accept all the words!!

Second, I’m so so so happy you are so inspired!! I hope you have a lot of fun writing what you’re writing! Thank you for being apart of it!

[wonderlandmind4]

Okay, I saw this and I much do this! May I have 35 with Steve Rogers and 37 with Bucky?

All yours! I’m so happy you picked those ones!

[wonderlandmind4]

Hello. It's me... again 😄 We had a lovely autumn day yesterday and during a walk, my mind wandered back to your challenge 🍂 I know I already took a prompt (and I plan on finishing it), but since you said it's okay to take more than one 😇 I just cannot with number 66, it's too cute for words - but I'm gonna try to do it justice 😍

Awww! I’m so happy (and a little jealous) you had a nice autumn day! Florida doesn’t get autumn 😒 lol.

That’s so sweet it made you think of the prints! Of course you can also have that one 🤗

[nekoannie-chan]

En la oscuridad

Pareja: Steve Rogers X Reader X Brock Rumlow

Palabras: 1057 palabras

Sinopsis: Brock y Steve te salvaron de una de las bases de HYDRA, pero ¿les contarás todos tus secretos?

Advertencias: Pesadillas, mención de experimentos, voces en la oscuridad angst.

N/A: Este One-shot es mi entrada para Fall Winter Writing Challenge con el diálogo #19:

“Esta casa no está embrujada”

“Entonces, ¿por qué tu aterrador trasero vive aquí?”

Y mi entrada para Once Upon a Midnight Dreary…Challenge con las frases:

“Hay algunos secretos que no se permiten confesar”

“Voces en la oscuridad”.

La lectora es una mutante y alterada por los experimentos de HYDRA.

La pesadilla está en cursiva.

Este fic es una mezcla de fluff, angst y terror, quizás es un poco extraño

No doy ningún permiso para que mis fics sean publicados en otra plataforma o idioma (yo traduzco mi propio trabajo) o el uso de mis gráficos (mis separadores de texto también están incluidos), los cuales hice exclusivamente para mis fics, por favor respeta mi trabajo y no lo robes. Aquí en la plataforma hay personas que hacen separadores de texto para que cualquiera los pueda usar, los míos no son públicos, por favor busca los de dichas personas. La única excepción serían los regalos que he hecho ya que ahora pertenecen a alguien más. Si encuentras alguno de mis trabajos en una plataforma diferente y no es alguna de mis cuentas, por favor avísame. Los reblogs y comentarios están bien.

DISCLAIMER: Los personajes de Marvel no me pertenecen (desafortunadamente), exceptuando por los personajes originales y la historia.

Otros lugares donde publico: Wattpad, Ao3, ffnet.

Si te gusto por favor vota, comenta y rebloguea.

Tags: @sinceimetyou​ @black23​

Alzaste la vista cuando escuchaste la puerta abrirse, cuando había luz las voces se callaban, pero algo peor ocurría, los experimentos que HYDRA hacían eran horribles y dolorosos, ni que decir de los entrenamientos, las únicas ocasiones en las que el entrenamiento era agradable era cuando Brock estaba presente.

—Es tu turno para ir a la enfermería, te harán unas pruebas —te indicó el guardia.

Te levantaste y fuiste hasta el lugar, pero había algo raro en la expresión de los “médicos”

—La prueba es sencilla, queremos ver cómo afectan tus poderes a los nuevos reclutas —te explicaron.

Dirigiste tu mirada hacia los reclutas, sabías que ese día iba a ser una pesadilla. 

Abriste los ojos, estabas en tu recámara en tu casa, Brock y Steve te habían prometido que nadie te volvería a hacer daño después de haberte sacado de las instalaciones de HYDRA, pero no podían hacer nada contra tu propia mente.

Hiciste un puchero, el foco se había fundido, las voces comenzaban a aparecer, te levantaste de la cama lo más rápido que pudiste y saliste prendiendo la luz del pasillo, debías cambiar el foco o irte a dormir al sofá.

No era la primera vez que querías creer que todo era un sueño y despertarías en tu casa antes de que HYDRA te secuestrara y experimentara contigo.

Sin contar las innumerables noches que dormías con la luz prendida con tal de que las voces no aparecieran y pudieras descansar.

Suponías que las voces pertenecían a personas muertas, quizás estaban tratando pedirte ayuda de alguna manera, no estabas segura, lo que a veces te decían resultaba aterrador.

Nunca le habías dicho a nadie acerca de ese poder en específico, probablemente se alejarían de ti y te quedarías sola.

 2014

 Brock maldijo en voz baja mientras se acercaba a las escaleras de servicio, HYDRA y el plan ya no importaba, tenía que llegar a la base más cercana de alguna manera, tenía que ir por ti y llevarte a algún lugar seguro, sabía que pronto comenzarían a investigar todas las bases de la infame organización.

Pensó que con toda la confusión sería fácil escabullirse, pero cuando abrió la puerta se encontró con Steve.

— ¿Acaso intentas escapar Rumlow? Todos sabemos que perteneces a HYDRA.

—Hay algo más importante que todo esto Rogers, nunca lo entenderías —respondió haciéndolo a un lado, sin embargo Steve lo detuvo.

—No creas que huirás tan fácilmente.

—Nunca lo entenderías tengo que irme, no puedo permitir que le hagan daño.

Steve no permitió que Brock fuera solo, creyendo que escaparía, cuando llegaron a la base, todo era un caos. Tú te escondiste en la oficina de Brock en el momento en el que todo comenzó, habías escuchado que S.H.I.E.L.D. y los Vengadores irían por los mutantes y seguramente mandarlos a un centro de detención, no sabías donde estaba Brock, pero él te prometió que cuidaría de ti, así que estabas segura que en cualquier momento iba a aparecer. Te arrojaste a sus brazos cuando lo viste abrir la puerta.

—Sabía que vendrías por mí —exclamaste mientras le dabas un beso en la mejilla.

— ¿Q-Qué significa esto? —cuestionó Steve.

—Primero tenemos que ir a un lugar seguro.

 Actualidad

 Estabas sentada en el sillón con el televisor encendido, pero no podías dejar de pensar en el día que Steve y Brock te rescataron de la base, sin contar que fue difícil que el resto de los Vengadores confiaran en ustedes. Tu celular sonó cuando el mensaje, ellos habían llegado, te reíste mientras negabas con la cabeza, seguramente olvidaron las llaves, perdiste la cuenta de las veces que se quedaron afuera.

Steve estaba peleando con el microondas mientras intentaba hacer palomitas a la vez que Brock sacaba las otras compras que habían hecho cuando se dirigían hacia la casa, tú los esperabas en la sala, esa noche verían películas. Inesperadamente la luz se fue, intentabas mantener la calma.

—Por favor cállense —murmuraste, lo único que querías era que las voces se fueran, todo lo que te decían era muy aterrador.

— ¿Escuchaste eso? —cuestionó Steve en la cocina.

—No, tal vez es tu imaginación o los vecinos, mejor ayúdame a encontrar alguna lámpara o velas —mintió Brock, estaba casi seguro que estaba relacionado con los experimentos de HYDRA.

Suspiraste aliviada cuando la luz regresó, con el dorso de tu mano limpiaste las lágrimas que caían por tus mejillas para evitar preguntas.

— ¿Todo está bien? —preguntó Steve entrando a la sala.

—Claro, todo perfecto, sólo no esperaba que la luz se fuera.

— ¿Te da miedo la oscuridad?

—No Brock, no exactamente —tomaste el recipiente con palomitas que Brock te estaba entregando mientras se sentaba a tu lado y apretaste los botones para que la película comenzara.

—Estoy seguro que hay fantasmas en tu casa —comentó de pronto Steve.

— ¿Disculpa?

—Sí, ya es la segunda que me parece escuchar voces un poco extrañas —continuó.

—Pues entonces esta casa está embrujada —respondió Brock.

—Esta casa no está embrujada.

—Entonces, ¿por qué tu aterrador trasero vive aquí?

—No dices lo mismo cuando…

—Ya dejen de pelear parecen niños pequeños —sentenció Steve.

Brock y tú se vieron y comenzaron a reírse, sin embargo Brock volvió a ponerse serio.  

—T/N tienes secretos, si me cuentas o nos cuentas a Steve y a mí, te podríamos ayudar —dijo Brock, por un momento pensó que Bruce o alguien más tendría la solución y te ayudaría.

—Hay algunos secretos que no se permiten confesar.

— ¿A qué te refieres?

—Aunque les cuente de nada servirá no pueden hacer nada para solucionarlo.

—Muñeca, cuéntanos, haríamos cualquier cosa por ti. —dijo Steve.

— ¿Seguros que no van a creer que estoy loca?

—Te han pasado demasiadas cosas, puedes confiar.

—Escucho voces en la oscuridad —confesaste.

— ¿Cómo?

— ¿Qué tipo de voces? ¿Qué te dicen? Podemos buscar la forma de revertir todo lo que te hicieron en HYDRA —cuestionó con preocupación Brock.

—Las he escuchado desde hace muchos años…desde antes de HYDRA.

— ¿Pero qué te decían?

—No entendí todo el mensaje algo de “loa”, Morgan…no recuerdo el nombre completo, fue un mensaje muy confuso, sonaba como una predicción o advertencia,  

—Quizás sea un nuevo enemigo —señaló Brock.

— ¿Recuerdas algo más? —inquirió Steve.

Negaste con la cabeza, sin embargo nadie imaginó lo que ocurriría en los próximos meses, tal vez debiste haber puesto más atención a lo que te decían las voces.