katharina

[softlyspector-deactivated202408]

valentine

Summary: You're Bucky's neighbor, Bucky is your secret admirer. Valentine's day and a potential date forces him to act.

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: ~3.9k

Warnings: neighbors to friends to lovers, cheesy, valentines day themes

A/N: This was entirely self indulgent so I hope y'all like it. Please let me know what you think!

It was early summer the first time Bucky caught sight of you in the lobby of his building. You had been standing in the entryway with a cardboard box hitched on your hip as you chatted with the mailman that serviced the building.

It had been hot.

The kind of hot that made him feel like he was drowning, like the heat was under his skin and inside his bones, like it was suctioned sharp and heavy to his lungs in a grip that would never loosen.

And yet none of that would come to compare to the way you would come to make him feel.

He hadn’t known it then, but everything about you would hang inside him like warm summer sun, deep inside his bones, pressed to the inside of his skin.

You would make him feel, when he so often felt nothing, running on autopilot most days.

You would make him feel like –

Like the cling film of shame didn’t always have to stick to him.

Like the ocean of you could drown him under your skin, and he would be happy.

You had reminded him of the jeweled green of trees in bloom, like spring and summer and heat and heart.

The smell of asphalt and diesel and clean rain had been shifting on the air that summer afternoon. It had been the first day of sunshine after days of rain, the city purged of itself, cleansed of itself.

Shedding its skin to begin again.

And, it had seemed to him, heralding your arrival in the building.

Your skin had been dewy, glowing, in the warm golden light of the afternoon.

You had been laughing, saying, hold on, I think I have a bottle of water. S’hot out there today.

Bucky never checked his mail, but he had needed a reason to linger in the foyer, to watch you.

Such a small kindness, and still it had been something that made him pause, made him want to fall into your orbit.

The mailman had swiped sweat from his brow, smiled, adjusted the satchel on his shoulder. You’d handed him the bottle of water.

He had thanked you, told you how he hated Amazon, that he’d look out for the letter you’d been expecting from your mother.

Don’t know many people that write anymore. It’s all junk mail and bills and packages.

Oh, not me. I love to get mail.

And so, you did. And so, you do.

And so, Bucky starts checking his damn mail every single day.

Quickly, he figures out your schedule. When you’re most likely to be at your mailbox.

Without fail, he manages to catch you. He finds out that you demand letters from friends and relatives. He finds out that you write and send letters almost daily.

You’re friendly with the mailman, sometimes leaving snacks out in the lobby. You give him a card with a tip at every holiday.

You love mail.

Not just packages but letters. Junk mail. Credit card statements. Water bills.

You delight in it all.

You’re the only person, the only modern person, he knows in the city that checks the mail every single day without fail.

It’s totally and completely bizarre but Bucky comes to love the mail too.

If only because he gets to see you, and maybe because he had thought people didn’t really do the letter thing anymore.

He gets to chat with you for a few minutes each day with a stack of useless paper in his hands. Your smile is like sunshine on a cold day. Your laugh like a balm against bruised skin. You always smell like vanilla and coffee, and he finds out that you work at a coffee shop to supplement your income from your office job.

Bucky treasures those talks, mourns the days that he’s away on assignment and doesn’t get to see you.

One day, he gets up the nerve to ask you down the street to a diner. He buys you dinner and tries to feel like he’s not the luckiest man in the universe for getting to sit across from you and listen to you complain about customers, for getting to watch you smile and laugh and sip on a terrible cup of coffee.

True friendship blooms between you that day. Like the seed of a relationship had only needed the smallest drop of water to sprout.

Bucky starts finding letters from you after that, on paper that smelled like vanilla. Just silly little anecdotes that made him smile, dropped among the ads and useless magazines.

You start hosting movie nights at your place where you burn incense and talk to your plants like they’re beloved children. In the darkness of your tiny studio, squished close to you on your beaten up, faded couch that you’d gotten at a curb sale, he falls in love with you maybe just a little bit.

He tells himself that he’s not falling in love with you, he’s definitely not. You’re friends and nothing more. And Bucky needs a friend, his therapist tells him so at every turn.

So what if he dreams about you almost every night? So what if he treasures the scent you leave behind on his clothes after a night in? So what if sitting close to you on that ancient sofa, his thigh pressed to yours, shoulder to shoulder, is one of the greatest joys of his life? So what if his heart almost beat out of his chest the day you laid your head against his arm while watching a favorite movie of yours?

So fucking what?

He’s happy to have you.

As a friend.

Does he sometimes sleep with the shirt he wore to your place over his pillow? Maybe. But it's only because the lingering scent of your lavender incense helps him sleep.

It has nothing to do with the smell of you. Like vanilla and coffee, lavender and bergamot.

It has absolutely nothing to do with staying close to you.

It has nothing to do with hoping he’ll wake up smelling like you just a little bit, just to keep you close.

Bucky convinces himself that it's normal to perfectly time his trip to the mailbox every day, just to talk to you, just to make sure that you’re okay.

Until, a few weeks before Valentine’s Day, in the deep chill of an arctic blast that had descended over the city at the end of January, you’d told him about your meddling coworker at your office job.

“She keeps trying to set me up with one of our other coworkers,” you had wrinkled your nose. “I’m not really interested but I’m thinking maybe I’ll go just to shut her up about it.”

And what if you went and felt something?

What if he lost you?

But what is there to lose, really?

You weren’t his.

You don’t belong to him, though he feels like he’s entirely yours.

Pressed close to you in the darkness of your apartment, TV screen flashing brightly over your features, he had wondered why he thought you’d ever want him in that way, see him that way.

Your features had been soft in the low light.

You’d lit the lavender incense again, which he was beginning to think might be for his benefit. You know he has trouble sleeping.

“Maybe I’ll get a Valentine out of it,” you’d said sleepily. “I’ve never had one before.”

And that had convinced him to try.

He could be your valentine.

You made him believe he could be, that maybe he was worthy of that.

~

You’re standing in front of your open mailbox, wearing an enormous pink knitted scarf, when Bucky ducks in from the winter storm swirling outside. The winter has been particularly brutal, one snowstorm after another making his anxiety flare like an emergency signal.

His heart almost stutters to a stop as he pauses in the entryway, glued to the spot. He hadn’t expected you to still be in the foyer, and immediately he recalculates his carefully thought through plan.

While he hadn’t expected you to be in the lobby, Bucky certainly hadn’t expected to find you wearing the scarf he had left anonymously in front of your door two days ago.

He’s glad you like it enough to wear it.

Just like he was glad that you liked the flowers he left a few days before that enough to post them on Instagram, enough to talk to them like the rest of your plants, thanking them for their contribution to the little garden of your window before they wilted and withered away.

It does make him worry just a tad that you’ve so easily accepted gifts from a stranger, anonymously dropped in front of your door or through your mail slot.

Now, you slowly shuffle through the letters in your hands, frowning gently at the junk mail.

He swallows, watching you flick past an electric bill, smile at a letter from your grandmother, before you get to the last envelope in the pile.

You frown and flip it over when someone ducks past him into the building, reminding him that he’s standing in the open doorway like an idiot, the bag of pastries from your favorite bakery in his hand probably freezing.

Bucky tries not to think about the way the corner of your mouth ticks up into a smile, your eyes widening just a bit, when you see the script on the back of the baby pink envelope.

He curses under his breath and heads in your direction. You look up at his approach, stuffing the pink letter between two pieces of junk mail. “Oh, hey, Bucky,” you say, smiling so big it looks like it hurts. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Bucky’s heart jumps into his throat and he almost chokes on it. “Happy Valentine’s Day, doll.”

You try and fail to suppress another smile, “Staying in this Valentine’s Day?” You nod at the bag in his hand.

“Guess you could say that.”

The door to the building opens again and you shiver as a gust of wind snakes through the lobby. “No world saving on the agenda then?”

“Well, the night is young,” he says drily. “The world has gone to shit in less time.”

You laugh and his heart flutters just a little bit. He feels like a kid around you, like the world is light and would never need saving again, not by him or from him.

“Here’s to hoping then. I’ll light a candle for you.” You eye him for a moment, one eyebrow lifted. “No date this Valentine’s Day?”

He snorts, even as his heart hammers, turning his ribs into a mosaic of black and blue with the force. If he’s lucky, you’ll be his date by the end of the night. “Don’t exactly have people lining up. What’re you up to tonight, sweetheart?” Bucky asks as you lock your mailbox.

You lift your pile of mail and shake it at him, “Gettin’ my mail.” The corner of your mouth twitches and Bucky tries not to let his eyes linger on your lips, or, more dangerously, on the pink letter peeking out of the stack.

The letter he had slipped into your mail slot yesterday.

“Other than getting your mail,” he says as you start towards the stairs and begin to climb. Bucky lags, deliberately walking slowly to prolong your time together, trying to work up the nerve to ask you over to his place. “No Valentine’s date for you either? Manage to avoid the date with the coworker?”

“Ugh. Yes. But now I’m totally avoiding this horrible speed dating thing my friend wants me to go to. She’s convinced it’ll be fun. It’s themed for Valentine’s Day.” You wrinkle your nose at him. “I think it sounds like the ninth circle of hell. So, I’m staying in with my book. I mean, I deserve it right? I’ve already put in so much effort into avoiding that date with my coworker.”

Bucky is grateful that you think the speed dating thing is hell.

His crush on you has rapidly turned into an obsession. And he knows himself well enough to know that he would absolutely sabotage that speed dating gig. Bucky isn’t about to let anything ruin his plan. He hasn’t spent the last two weeks meticulously playing the twelve days of Christmas Valentine’s Day style for something like speed dating to ruin it.

In addition to the flowers and scarf, he’d sent you a reservation to your favorite restaurant that you can’t really afford, your favorite brand of chocolate, a box of tiny candy hearts which he’d been present for when you found in them in your mailbox and laughed yourself sick over, delighted. He’s given you a sweater and a new perfume, a book, incense.

Maybe he’s not good with words, but he knows you well enough to know what you’ll love, even if it isn’t him.

Nerves are clawing at the inside of his skin by the time you stop outside your door, trying to work up the courage to ask you to come over.

Conveniently, he’d stopped at your favorite bakery. Conveniently, he’d ordered all your favorite goodies.

“-so glad someone sent me this scarf, I mean, the radiator has been broken for a week and its fucking cold. Landlord keeps promising to send someone but-,”

“I’ll take a look at it for you, honey.”

You peer at him, an odd emotion swimming in your eyes before it darts away, and you smile. “What would I do without you? Thanks, Buck.” You say, like it means nothing. Like every nerve inside him doesn’t light up at the thought you of you needing him for something as mundane as maintenance.

You pause and then continue, fidgeting just a bit, “I’d love to know who keeps sending me stuff.” Your tone is carefully light, but a little bit of sadness is hiding in the back of your throat. “Would like to thank them.” You don’t meet his eyes as you say it.

He hums, watching you fumble with your key, “What if you have a stalker or something, Y/N? Wish you’d be a little more careful.”

“Worried about me, Barnes?” You tease. Bucky just stares at you. Of course, he is. He’s always worried about you. You roll your eyes, “I get good vibes and intentions from these gifts. I think I would know if they carried bad energy.”

“You’re kidding right? This is how you end up on Dateline-,”

“Oh hush, let me enjoy my silly little gifts. I’ve never had a secret admirer. Or even a valentine. And besides, you’re in the building. I'm sure you’d know if I were in any danger. You probably already investigated and know who they are.” You send him a smile that makes his heart feel like cracked eggshell and turn to your door, “The worst thing about this apartment is that it's three floors up with no elevator,” you huff, finally jamming your key into the lock. “I guess I’ll-,”

Panic surges up his throat. It's now or never.

“You’ve never had a valentine?” He asks, stalling for time, though you had told him the night he decided to be your valentine this year.

“Some of us can’t pull ladies like you, Barnes,” you tease, bumping your shoulder against his. “I mean, I’ve had partners on Valentine’s Day in the past just not, like, a valentine, y’know? Like someone who sends you sappy little notes and just loves love.”

God were you about to be disappointed when you found out it was him.

He’s your fucking valentine. Your secret admirer.

While he’d planned to ask you over to dinner, Bucky would also like to delay you looking at that fucking envelope he stuffed in your mailbox like it was nothing.

It's not time for you to read it yet.

The letter is a security blanket for when everything inevitably goes to hell.

Really, it's a good thing he’d caught you in the foyer. If you’d already gotten your mail, likely you would have ripped open the letter and read it right away.

“You could come over,” he says. “Got enough here to feed an army,” he lifts the bag or pastries. “We can watch that new show you were telling me about yesterday.”

He doesn’t expect is for you to hesitate. Normally, you readily agree to an evening spent together.

You finally wrench your door open.

It swings in and you gaze down at the pile of mail in your hands. “Um,” you shift from foot to foot. “Y’know I-,”

You stop, seeming to consider how to continue, thumbing at the pink paper.

And Bucky finds himself jealous.

Of a letter.

That he sent.

He’s jealous of himself.

You want to read the anonymous letter from your valentine rather than spend time with him.

Maybe his heart sinks to the bottom of his belly, maybe his soul turns to ash in his mouth.

Better give up now.

“Don’t worry about it, hon-,” he starts, even though you not agreeing to come over would ruin everything, when you seem to snap out of it.

“No,” you smile and toss the mail on the counter by the door. “Of course. I’d love to.” From the door, he can see the whole of your apartment. The pink and white bedspread, your plants, the photos of family members and friends on your wall, the fairy lights, and that tiny couch in front of the TV that has come to feel like home, like love.

“Don’t have to, doll-,” he starts.

You shut your door and lock it again before looping your arm through his. “Of course I do. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

~

You sit on the floor in front of his coffee table, legs crossed, fingers sticky with powdered sugar and icing that you wipe on a napkin delicately.

You’ve been chattering at him for the last few minutes.

Something about work.

But Bucky can’t really focus on that at the moment.

He hasn’t touched his share of the goods and you’ve definitely noticed.

The room is thick with a tension that’s entirely his fault. He can see you trying to parse through it, why things feel so odd and strained.

You reach out and touch the back of his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking himself, trying to snap out of it. Bucky doesn’t want to frighten you, he knows how he looks, blank and foreign and far away, when he’s too deep inside himself.

Now or never, something screams at him.

“Actually, I have something for you.”

“Oh,” you smile. “Like a present?”

“Kinda, sweetheart,” he stands, and your hand falls away from his. His skin feels cold in the absence.

Bucky stands and moves to the kitchen where he earlier stashed your final gift.

If things go to shit in the next few minutes, hopefully you’ll read the card he dropped in your mail slot that’s currently waiting for you back on your kitchen counter.

Your eyes are fastened to him, flicking to the pink wrapped box in his hands.

He sits down across from you on the floor and presses the box into your hands across the coffee table.

You stare at it for a long moment, the look on your face unreadable to him.

“Bucky,” you say gently, decidedly not unwrapping it. “I-I don’t wanna sound – I don’t wanna ruin what we have between us but –,”

Oh. Fuck.

“But like, we’ve been friends for a while now and I – I dunno I was telling myself I should tell you –,”

Probably that you had a partner. That he’s gotten too comfortable with you and needed to back off.

“Well, that I’ve kinda been falling for you these last couple of months and –,”

Wait –

“And I don’t want to sound, like, presumptuous, but…are you the one who's been leaving all the presents?”

His brain goes staticky, white with blankness. How could you have known?

“I –,”

“Because I think maybe you would have – I mean is it you? I’m really hoping it’s been you.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you start to fidget, crinkling the corner of the pink paper in your hands, the edge of your thumb running under the tape nervously.

“It’s not, is it? I just made everything really weird between us. I thought it was you because you kinda seem like you would have hunted down someone randomly sending me stuff.” You don’t look at him as you say it. “Oh god, does that mean I do have a stalker?”

Bucky swallows and finds his voice, lodged tightly in the back of his throat. “You thought I would –,”

“Yeah, I mean,” Y/N tears the tape a little and sets the gift aside carefully. “You’re kind of protective. You seem to worry about me a lot and I thought it was odd this random stranger giving me things didn’t bother you but –,”

“Honey it's me,” Bucky says softly. “It is. It's me.”

You don’t seem to hear him, your eyes still locked on the tartes and eclairs in front of you. “Because you know how much I like getting mail and you know all my favorite things.” You shrug. “Sorry I’m making things weird –,”

Bucky says your name, forcefully enough that your head snaps up. “It’s me.”

“What?” Your brow creases.

“I – fuck, I like you. A lot. And I didn’t want you to go on that fucking date with your coworker and you’ve never had a valentine and – I dunno, I just really like you. I thought maybe –,”

“I did,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I said it didn’t I? I fell for you. You think I let other people in my apartment so much? Wait around by my fucking mailbox waiting for you to show up?”

A laugh startles out of him, “I thought I was just really good at timing it.”

You roll your eyes and stand.

He follows your movement, tilting his head back to keep you in his view. You crouch down next to him, and he reaches for you at the same time that you reach for him.

Then, you’re in his lap, knees digging into his hips as he kisses you.

You taste like candy.

Like Valentine's day chocolate and all your favorite baked goods.

Your fingers curl into his hair, curve behind his ears when you cup his face between your palms.

Bucky anchors his hands to your hips, afraid to do anything but kiss you. Just in case it's a dream, just in case you change your mind.

He’s dreamed of kissing you before, he’s dreamed of holding you, touching the curve of your waist.

It doesn’t compare to having you in his lap, your lips soft against his.

This pink scarf brushes against his wrist when he finally lifts his hand to cradle your cheek.

You pull back and press your forehead to his.

“Thank you for all my gifts, Bucky.”

He smiles, “Don’t read that pink letter, honey.”

“Why?”

“It’s…honestly I thought – doesn't matter. Just don’t read it. I’ll write you a thousand more letters.”

“Promise they’ll all be really sappy.”

He chuckles and hooks an arm around your waist, tugging you close before twisting to press you back into the rug. Bucky hovers over you, lets you twist your fingers into the chain of his dog tags and tug him down. “I promise,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, the curve of your cheek, your top lip.

“And that you’ll hand deliver them to my mailbox.”

“Promise,” he kisses your lips.

You arch up, kissing him back hard, digging your foot into the back of his knee so he collapses against you fully.

“Will you be my valentine?” It’s a breathless question.

“Thought I already was?”

[ptersparkers]

crush (peter parker)

summary: peter has been visiting you as spider-man long enough to develop a crush on you. the problem? you have a crush on somebody else.

notes: u guys…i love peter parker so much okay!!! also this is a short fic bc i have a longer one in the works. yes i realize this is 4k words but like, that’s short for me ok bye happy reading! 

also if you have a request, i’ll write a short blurb for it! you can send it in my ask box <3

warnings: typos, probably.

Peter Parker sat on the ledge of your fire escape, careful to avoid the patches of snow from the previous day. It had been a long night of patrolling and his lower back ached to no end. The familiar space spread warmth to Peter’s chest as he attempted to collect his breath, the inside of his suit scratching against his skin. 

It had been dark out for a few hours. Peter knew that May would be going to sleep in an hour, leaving the perfect opportunity for him to slip back into his bedroom undetected. He had lied to her earlier, saying that he’d be studying with a group of friends he had made at university earlier that semester. But he had other places he needed to be. 

He would be lying if he said his only reason for patrolling was to keep his city out of danger. While that was a big motivation for him to put his suit on, the other reason was because he wanted to see you.

Weiterlesen

[nexusnyx]

heavy in your arms

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: It was supposed to be an easy mission—as a trained spy, rarely do things happen without your predicted planning. No one can see true danger, though, and when it arrives, Bucky and the others feel the weight of their heart, realizing how much you’ve grown to mean for the team when they’re worrying for your life. — Word count: 2.8k — A/n: Requested by the darling Cherry. If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

⋅☾ My Masterlist | Join the taglist ☽⋅

Brasov, Romania — 2023

The last thing you hear before stepping on your ear-comms is your name screamed by a very angry James Barnes.

“Agent, status report.” His voice, usually rich and silky with mirth and teasing remarks for you, is filled with desperate anger. “Agent. Status report.” Even though the strain in his voice is visible, you swallow the pain and bite on your lip, still unable to answer.

If you open your mouth, they'll hear you. If they hear you, the rest of the mission is compromised.

Barnes' voice is joined by Sam's, and your heart squeezes itself with how even the Captain seems distressed.

"Buck—hold on, wait." Sam's ragged breathing says he made out of the secret compound they had locked him in, which means your interference worked. "Y/n. I saw the file you just sent—are you still at the castle? Please tell me you're still at the castle."

"What do you mean the file? What file? And why wouldn't she be—"

"Bucky, hold on," Sam interrupts. "I'm sending you. Widow found a bug and a rat, the mission's been severely compromised. They locked me in this—fuck, I don't know, secret basement thing. She hacked their files and opened the door from the outside, but I'm not getting readings on her location anymore. Y/n, do you copy?"

I do, Captain. You wish saying the words was possible.

Outside the window, there's the noise of cars approaching and you know—the time to kill your way out of this corner they backed you in has come, and given the hole in Monica's intel, chances of you making out alive were looking grim.

I'll miss him. Usually, thoughts about his smile are pushed out of your mind by yourself in order to not dive into emotions that could potentially jeopardize your job.

Now—your job has been done. Sam, Bucky and Joaquin could continue the mission, maybe salvage it, and you were two bullet wounds in too deep to care.

"Y/n?" Ah, Bucky's voice. The cars park and you hear the sound engines being killed, and you think—this is the fuel I need. I've got one last fight in me. Say my name again, James. Please. "Y/N!"

The ear-comm is the only final thing connecting you to the boys, and with your new visitors making their way inside to look for you, it's their last hope of finding the Avengers, led by their main target, Captain America.

Too bad that standing between them and their goal, there's you.

"Y/N!" Has Bucky ever sounded like this? The fuel ignites your veins in fire, and you get up, stepping in the comm.

You close your eyes, imagine James laughing at the breakfast table, and open them to face your enemies.

_____________________________________________________________

A year and a half ago, Captain America and the White Wolf helped Stephen Strange to save Scarlet Witch from dooming their entire world and reality and, after the battle, brought back from the dead the institution of the Avengers.

Led by Sam Wilson, the group of super-heroes birthed itself from the ashes with team members who seemed much more put together and like willing participants than the first try.

The Widows reunited in a secret location for a special reunion and, in the dark of a cabin somewhere in Siberia with over five bottles of good vodka and whiskey being shared, decided together if one of them would volunteer to take the place of the deceased and iconic Natasha Romanoff.

The conversation had been long, tiring and heartbreaking for many reasons, but the majority came to the same conclusion: Romanoff's legacy mattered.

It mattered to the kids, to the little girls who would see a new group of supers on their TV trying to fight the bad and needed the reminder that even if you had no mind-bending abilities like Scarlet, you too could decide to change the world.

It mattered a lot.

Taking the position involved more than just sentimentalism, though, and after a lot of deliberation, a unanimous decision was reached on who would be the one to step up for the job.

You.

Y/n. The newest Black Widow, hired by none other than Nick Fury and "approved" by none other than Sam Wilson.

The teammates loved you upon meeting you. Sam, Joaquin, and Wanda all smiled when Nick walked in the briefing and announced he'd found the newest and last addition to the team.

(Officially, Stephen, Peter and Thor were also Avengers, but the first one mostly kept to himself since his job as a Stone Keeper took up a lot of his time and required plenty of studying, the latter could only be contacted when he decided to grace Earth with his godly presence, and Peter. Well—you'd been an advocate to Nick that the boy needed time away from insanity. Brooklyn needed him—the world and its big, ugly missions could be handled by the adults.)

All the members sitting at the table smiled, waved and introduced themselves with delight.

All except for one.

James looked at you like he'd seen a ghost, and it took weeks for whatever haunted him to leave his eyes when you shared a room.

He intrigued you.

More than that—James surprised you.

"Widow. I'm sorry I haven't been... the most welcoming teammate," James had said that to you after the first month while awkwardly standing under the threshold of the shared kitchen. "I... Sam gave me file of the Red Room. Romanoff and Belova's secret mission. I—I had no idea that program still existed." He swallowed down a visible knot. "I'm sorry. I should've—I don't know what I should have, but I'm sorry."

That had been the first surprise, but not the last.

It had also been the moment you realized escaping from the infatuation you had with him would be impossible, and that you'd have to rationalize the hell out of every interaction with him in order to keep your thoughts strictly professional.

"What on earth are you apologizing for?" You had asked.

Bucky had blinked in surprise, speechless, and you'd taken the opportunity to continue. "James, listen to me carefully." His posture straightened with your request. "The previous Widow generation who trained me were the last ones trained by him. By the Asset. And while memories of the Red Room are ones I prefer buried and forgotten, these I'll share with you gladly: All of us, new or old Widows, knew that you were one of us. You, James, survived and went through more in the hands of Hydra than any other person that's lived, and you still managed to carry out the tasks the handlers demanded out of you without their strokes of cruelty. The Asset was known for helping Widows in their lowest moments, even if that cost him punishments later on."

With each one of your words, Bucky's eyes widened more.

"I don't know what you think that we think of you, but I can assure you that's not it." Then, you took a deep breath and put on your best image of what a genuine smile looked like. "And—please. Call me Y/n? Or I might have to start calling you Wolfie around this block."

That day, you were gifted with his first smile.

It had been so kind and appreciative that it almost broke your resolve and cracked a real smile out of you, and that had also been when you noticed the danger this man posed to you.

Was it your fascination with the Soldier?

It could be.

Days were spent restlessly turning in bed, wondering if the foggy and uncertain memories you had of Widows talking so fondly and reverently of him was affecting your judgment and ability to see clearly.

James, more than just a teammate, was also more than the ghosts he carried. He didn't deserve someone projecting their childish infatuations on him over bedtime stories they'd heard about the 'soldier they never managed to break.'

You had to be professional.

It's just—it was hard.

Even harder as the group went on missions together, bonded over successes and fails (more of the first than the latter, thankfully and to Nick's utmost pleasure) and did good things together.

Saving people and erasing some of the bad from this world rushed endorphins through the body like nothing else.

Nothing you tried, no exercise or food, ever brought you as much joy as working the people who you now lived with.

Nothing, except maybe making James laugh so hard he couldn't breathe, or seeing him blush when you gave him a rare and honest compliment.

James goes from teammate to colleague, from colleague to friend, from friend to person who occasionally pops up in my dreams and makes me wake up sweating, with not enough air in my lungs and my brain spinning with images of them holding me and smiling so up close.

The last development carried the most... difficulties, for obvious reasons.

So for the past months, part of your work had included talking yourself down from things involving him.

James needed a teammate of trust. Reliable. One who he would have no doubts about, sure of the fact they were watching his six and looking after him much like he did for the group.

You were the group's six.

That meant no dreams of his kissable lips, his joyous and youthful laughter, his ocean-blue eyes that looked good enough for a swim during mornings when the sun was shining just right.

That meant remembering constantly the dangers of letting yourself feel.

Black Widows were not meant for romance.

Bucky Barnes deserved a steady girl he could take on dates, you thought. He deserved so much, and you knew it couldn't possibly come from you, so it was easy to keep your mind on track.

That went well, until Romania.

One bug and one rat—you'd discovered the holes in Monica's intel thirteen minutes before Sam had been taken and Joaquin was left alone to handle the second part of this high-stake mission, so you'd taken matters into your own hands and took care of their six for them.

The window of time was clear: You could save Sam and have no time left to save yourself, or you could give Sam a window and have enough time to let Joaquin know of your location.

You were the Avengers' blind corner, and no one was making out of Romania with Sam Wilson on their trunk.

You'd taken the plunge, and if that meant two bullet wounds and three cars of highly-trained assassins coming to get you, then so be it.

This had been a high-stake mission from the start. Freeing Sam only meant you upped the chances of your team even through the loopholes.

Whether the Queen's agents managed to terminate you or not, you had allowed the road for the Avengers to win this one.

You'd go down for that easily.

_____________________________________________________________

Sovata, Romania — 2023.

Smuggling yourself with the food-produce trucks had been easy.

Staying alive for another 24h without any help had been the tricky part.

You were hiding now in a cabin lost in a small wood in Sovata, and you knew that only because you'd found the local mail post after a little searching.

From there, you could send an anonymous e-mail to Joaquin's inbox with the secret hint for your location, and then, hope to god he catches it in his spam box and Bucky decodes it before you bleed out to death or get an infection your body can no longer fight.

From your math, it had been 37 hours since the group split.

You hoped they were okay.

You were sweating, and something told you that the bullet wound which had entered your stomach area punctured something inside of you.

The medical training engraved in your brain was only enough to access the parts hurting and tell you what needed to be addressed, but not enough to tell you if you were gonna make it.

Y/n.

Bucky's voice had sounded so desperate.

You slide further down on the floor, clutching the stolen hoodie in your fists, trying to fight the dizziness.

Agent, status report.

You missed his voice.

If you were going to die, the least you could do was allow yourself the benefit of hearing his laughter, and thinking about his smile without beating yourself up for it.

He wouldn't care.

Would they care if you died?

Had you made a difference in their lives?

You'd like to think so.

You wanted to believe that Wanda liked you, given her occasional visits to your room.

You wanted to believe Sam appreciated you—even went as far as considering you a friend. You certainly valued his heart and field expertise, and he always asked for your opinion second after Bucky's.

You wanted to believe Joaquin and Peter would miss your friendly teasing and banter, always poking at their nerdiness and young, gentle hearts. They were slightly terrified of you, but always smiled when you showed up for their game nights.

Would they look for you until they found you?

Nick Fury loved Natasha Romanoff like his own daughter, but he'd barely looked at you whenever you entered a room. It hurt your feelings a lot—you could admit that to yourself now through the delirium and the pain, but maybe you were just another pawn to him.

A disposable Widow, coming from a place that created many.

You were no Natasha, that much you knew.

Something steps in the wooden floor on the cabin's first floor and you clutch the knife tighter on your right hand.

Someone was here, and if they thought finding a dying girl was their lucky they, the surprise they might find when attacking a dying spider would blow the brains out of their mind.

Instead of stabbing someone's eye, your swimming vision finds the frame of the one person you'd been thinking about since everything went down.

"Y/n!"

Bucky is here, and oh no.

"No, no, no—Sam, I got her, it was Sovata." There are arms wrapped tight around you, and the knife on your hand is taken away by stronger fingers. "Y/n. Y/n open your eyes."

When had they closed?

"You found me," you tell him. You're happy they found you—maybe there's time. "Thanks, Bucky."

"Sam, get Nick on the line and make him get a jet. We need to get her into special care right now, she's going into shock and the—Y/n? Y/n, please keep your eyes open."

His voice is so nice that all you can do is obey.

Opening them is a mistake, though.

Bucky's the one holding you—oh! That's nice. Bucky is strong, and you don't feel so cold anymore with his arms around you. Even the metal arm that you can feel through his clothes seem warmer than you, and you realize that's probably because right now, it is.

"Y/n, please, please keep your eyes open." There's a crack in James's voice that brings a chill in your spine, and you want the sadness stored in that crack to go away. Bucky should away be happy. "Oh, god, please stop talking, I can't—you can't do this like this. Not like this."

His voice is sounding a little distant, but that's okay—Bucky's always been a good thing to ground your mind in 'cause everything about him is so bright and warm.

The crinkles on the corner of his eyes exude the warmth of a summer afternoon, his laughter is the fireplace that keeps a house happy in winter, and his eyes.

Oh, Bucky's eyes have enough in them to make a poet out of a trained assassin.

"If you weren't trying to die on my arms right now I'd make fun of you for complimenting my eyes when the whole team can listen, but you're heavy and I'm way past jokes right now." Did he just say you're heavy?

You force your eyes open—your entire body aches, and there's no gravity under you because Bucky's carrying your body bridal-style somewhere else, and the trees blur together behind his head.

"Oh, thank fuck," he exhales shakily, and the tears in his voice make you wish you had yours.

"Bucky..."

"Yeah? I'm here. What is it? Sam is coming, Y/n. We're gonna fly you to a hospital, okay? Don't strain yourself," he tells you. He's crying.

Bucky Barnes is crying because you're dying in his arms, but the last part bothers you less than the first one.

Listening to his voice break in certain words hurts almost as much as the bullets holes in you or the stab wounds you know are still open on your body.

Still. Telling him this is important. And it's no strain.

"You..." your mouth feels like sandpaper, but the words still taste sweet. "You... are... the best guy... I've ever met."

There's a broken sob above you that feels like another gunshot, but you have to finish this because it's important. "And... you're... so good."

The feeling of your tears washing your temples are the last thing you feel before darkness takes over.

Even Bucky's broken scream of your name goes unheard.

Still—you're in his arms.

It's the most peaceful sleep you've ever slid to.

Taglist pt. One ☆ @undiadeestos ; @keepingitlokiii ; @hallecarey1 ; @mardema ; @mollygetssherlockcoffee ; @fanofalltheficsx ; @justlovelifeblog ; @fallenoutofrose ; @rvgrsbrns ; @tripletstephaniescp ; @mal-edictions ; @rippl3s ; @barnesafterglow ; @vintagepigeon ; @dirtyweenerking ; @couldabeenamermaid ; @winter-soldier-sebstan ; @leyannrae ; @nerdwholikesword ; @andreead ; @ren-ni ; @pastamomma ; @fairytalebucky

Part Two ❥ ; @bvckysmoon ; @buttybarnes1917 ; @rebekahdawkins ; @tylard-blog1 ; @xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie ; @carrotfantasimp ; @teenagedreams-bucky ; @buckyxplumsss ; @sltwins ; ; @spiderdudetom ; @mrsbarnesinmyimagination ; @pineprincess ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @agni-l ; @sstan-hoe ; @hawsx3 ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsdawnashlie ; @sweetdreamsbuck ; @slutforsteve ; @itsmedramaqu33n ; @fiftyshadesofokay ; @peonyophelia ;

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[lilleby]

Practice Makes Perfect

Summary: Bucky's having trouble in the dating department after such a long time. As a friend, you decide to give him a hand and show him what a good date looks like. Y'know, for teaching purposes.

A/N: Here's a oneshot for those who don't follow the blog for the connected story. This one is post-TFaTWS btw!

"What's with the long face?"

"Nothing."

Bucky comes into the common room glum as always and without once looking up when he answers your question. Instead, he goes straight for the liquor cabinet and pours himself a glass of whiskey. You and Sam share a long glance knowing full well how much of a bullshit answer that is.

"You ain't brooding for nothing." The pointed glare Sam gets is enough to get a chortle out of you. He exchanges the boring conversation for downing the glass faster than a glass of water instead.

"Sam's right," you say, hiding behind the couch in case he thinks of shooting that glare your way. "You look like you got dumped or something."

Time freezes for a very long second as your words fill the room and linger.

Bucky glares at you this time, nostrils flaring a bit as he serves himself another glass and downs it. Then nothing but silence. But his silence and what you see in those steel-blue eyes is enough to give it away.

Almost instantly, your jaw drops.

"No way!"

"Seriously?" Sam's just as baffled but the small smirk he shows makes it clear that he finds your mutual friend's inability to nail a solid date more than a little amusing. "Was it the redhead?"

"I'm not talking about it," Bucky immediately puts out there, grabbing the glass decanter by its neck intent on taking it with him.

"No, it can't be." You smack Sam on the shoulder to get his attention. "The redhead was last month. He was going out with the brunette, remember? The one with the pretty eyes?"

Sam snaps his fingers, lightbulb practically lighting up above his head. "Oh yeah. The one with the weird obsession with Billy Joel!"

"Hey! Billy Joel's an icon. Don't stain his legacy because some girl took it to another level," you retort.

"If you guys are done..." Shutting up, you and Sam eye the grumpy grampa that's staring you both down as you went down the list of his past suitors. "I'll be in my room. Don't bother me."

"You got it," Sam responds with a chuckle.

As you watch him leave, however, something about how he's so dejected bothers you. Things like these have bothered him before but never to this level. He'll usually yap away after some prodding from you two but that he's so reserved after this one leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't."

Sam's quick to interject when he sees you pondering. You're never this quiet. And when you are, it's mostly never good. You haven't known Sam for as long as you have Bucky but he's turned out to be a great friend to the both of you. Especially after all this Flag Smasher's business. And with him as the new Captain America, you've had your hands full helping him out where you can. Now that Bucky's getting a better hang of his past and wants to move forward, your work's only doubled.

Sadly you may have neglected one more than the other. And Grandpop Buck over here looks like he needs some serious help now.

"There's no guns involved, promise." You point out as you climb over the back of the couch and saunter over in the direction of Bucky's room. "Or violence. So you've got nothing to worry about."

"That it's you doing whatever you're doing is what worries me."

"C'mon, I'm just gonna go cheer grandpop up."

Sam shakes his head. "Not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

Your lips purse instantly. Yeah, you do know. Sam knows, too. And apparently, the only one that doesn't know about how you feel is the person in question. But that's not here nor there. You made peace with your one-sided love a long time ago. Bucky needed to deal with his past his own way and you respected that. He wanted to integrate back into somewhat normal life and you respected that. All of those things, you let pass as they should, as he saw fit, even when they didn't involve you.

Wringing your thumbs as a distraction, you breathe out a nervous chuckle back at him.

"That's in the past, Sam. All I wanna do is help a friend out."

It's clear Sam doesn't believe you, but he trusts you enough to do the right thing. So he dismisses you with a wave of his hand and a weary grimace.

With that, you skip away towards grumpy ole grandpa's room and knock a couple of times before opening the door. He doesn't seem mad that you came in uninvited; you both have long gone past the point where you know how the other is. And while Bucky sticks to himself more often than not, you're the bubbly ray of sunshine that bursts in uninvited when you least expect it.

"I thought I made myself clear."

Okay, maybe he's a tiny bit mad.

"You did," you say cautiously as you close the door quietly behind you. He's on his chair near the window basking in the sunlight that comes through, glass in one hand and decanter in the other. Seeing the bed free, you walk up to it and sit cross-legged upon the disturbed comforter.

"But it really sounded like you needed some company."

"What about 'don't bother me' could've possibly given you that idea?"

"It wasn't exactly what you said."

You grimace at how cheesy that sounded. At least it isn't as corny as the real reason as to why you felt like he needed company. What he felt often went unsaid unless heavily prodded. You had learned over time that when Bucky's feeling down, he won't say much if anything at all, but one will be able to see it quite easily if they know where to look for it.

And those steel-blue eyes are the biggest snitch you've ever seen.

Bucky huffs, clearly not buying your shtick but it's not really something you need him to buy. It's the truth—your truth—and there's nothing that can deter you from it. Regrettably, he doesn't seem to see it that way.

"I'm not in the mood for your pep talks," he instantly retorts, taking a long swig of the decanter and forgetting the glass altogether.

Instantly, you shut your mouth at his words. He's really in a sour mood. Anybody would be with the kind of record he's had with girls. Quite a wringer when his past record was that of a lady killer. Then again that was shy of 70 years ago and, well, things changed.

Not to mention that so has he.

"You know, maybe you just need a crash course."

Bucky heaves the longest sigh you've heard today, his fingers massaging the bridge of his nose as he exhales through it with eyes scrunched tightly closed.

"No thanks."

"No, wait. Hear me out, Buck. Maybe the whole losing streak you've been on isn't so much a 'you' thing as it is an 'it's-no-longer-the-40s' thing. Lots of things have changed since our time."

He scoffs and speaks before taking another swig. "No kidding."

Tired of his self-deprecation, you jump off of his bed and snatch the glass decanter from his metal hand. Frowning down at him doesn't do much even when you try mimicking that sourpuss scowl of his. It doesn't even faze him. Instead, all Bucky does is lean forward in an attempt to retrieve the stolen bottle but you're steadfast at keeping it out of arms reach unless he gets up. Something you're also keeping him from doing by pushing him down onto his chair with your other hand.

"Now, listen to me here, Barnes. Enough of this pity party. If you want to get out there and find someone, you're gonna have to put in the effort."

"Don't you think I do?" he points out, furious.

"I'm not talking about using what you did 70 years ago, buddy. I'm talking about learning a new set of skills and using them."

"Oh, yeah?" His voice rose a bit, obviously incredulous about what you're insinuating. "And who's going to teach me? You?"

"Yes."

It's incredible how quickly his brow rises with utter disbelief and even more so how he lets out a quick laugh. One that dies within the second when he sees you're not backing off.

"You're joking."

“Do you trust me?” you ask.

"What's that gotta do with this?" he fires back.

Getting annoyed fast, you slap his arm to get him back on the topic. "Answer the question."

His brow scrunched down, eyes narrow on the arm you just hit, before turning to you. You refuse to back down though and instead play his game, staring him down without blinking. It takes a whole thirty seconds before you've got him rolling his eyes and shaking his head out of frustration. Seeing him backing down, you ask again.

"Do you trust me?"

“You know I do.” 

Your expression takes a full 180 turn at that as you smile brightly at him with a playful glint in your eye. “Then you can trust me to take you on the best practice date you'll ever have.”

"Practice—no. Absolutely not."

"C'mon, Bucky!" You stomp your foot down wanting to make a point that seems to be getting away from him. "I've been out here longer than you have. I've gotten used to being out here and I've gotten myself a date or two."

He shakes his head while wagging his finger back at you. "One-night stands don't count."

"I've had more than just one-night stands, thank you very much." Waving dismissively back at him, you pout, "And don't change the subject. The point is, I know what I'm doing. I know what girls want nowadays. And with a quick faux outing, I can let you in on all the juicy little secrets that'll have any girl wrapped around your finger."

"Just because I trust you with my back in a fight, it doesn't mean I trust you with giving me dating advice!"

"Just this once, Bucky! I'm asking you to trust me this once on this specific thing. Can you give me the benefit of the doubt? For the sake of our friendship."

Bucky immediately scowls back at you when you say that. "Don't you play that card with me."

"Then give this a chance. And if it doesn't work..." With a quick glance at the decanter in your hands, you purse your lips before passing it back. "You can drown yourself in liquor even when we both know it does jack shit to either of us, and I'll drop the subject for good."

You're selling a hot bargain with that last chip and you both know it. It's obvious by the way his steel-blue eyes focus on the decanter you flaunt in front of him that he's at least taking the time to consider it.

Maybe for half a second but it's still better than outright being rejected.

And then another full second afterward is when he groans into his hand before snatching the decanter from your small grip.

"Fine, but when this doesn't work you leave me alone, got it?"

"Yes!" Spinning on your heels, you skip away to the door and grin back at him. "I promise you won't regret it! I'm gonna teach you all you'll need and you're gonna have the ladies flocking to you in no time!"

Slamming the door behind you, you're making your way to your room when you run into Sam in the hallway.

"How'd it go?" he asks as he passes you, drink of his own in hand as he heads to his room.

"I have a date with Bucky!"

The spit-take is instant. Thank god your reflexes are fast. Forgetting about something, you run back to Bucky's room and open the door without knocking to only poke your head in.

"Meet me at the pier in two hours, okay?"

"We're doing this right now?" he shouts back.

"Of course, we are!" you reciprocate, leaving just as quickly as you came.

Skipping through the hallway once more, you're confused to find Sam choking still and come behind him to pat his back.

"Don't croak on me, old man."

"You—don't—no!" He's slapping away at you, a rather hilarious thing when he's obviously still baffled with what you dropped at him. "What do you mean date!?"

"Oh, did I say date?" you ask with a mischievous glint in your eye and a half-grin that belies your innocent tone. "I meant practice date. I'm gonna teach grampa how to get the ladies tonight!"

Gleefully, you smack the back of Sam's back a little too forcefully and have him hacking up a storm yet again. Grimacing, you chuckle nervously back at him and with a quick 'sorry' and scurry out of the hallway into your room.

Eagerly, you take full advantage of the two hours you gave yourself to get ready and scour every inch of your wardrobe. This is much too exhilarating to not go full out and you fully intend on making this the best practice date Bucky will ever wish for.

Two hours later, you found yourself waiting by the entrance of the nearby pier just as the sun began setting along the horizon. Decked out in your best summer dress, you stand around watching all types of people passing you by and heading towards the same place you plan on visiting.

Bucky wasn't the kind of guy to leave you waiting long, thank god, and you turn to him giddily while balancing on the small heels of your sandals when he calls out to you. Fake date or not, at least he came which is already a win in your book.

"Punctual as always, sergeant," you cajole as you turn to point out towards the pier where the crowd had been going. "Shall we?"

"This is your idea of a good date?" he asks with a mocking scoff.

Pouting, you smack his arm, hurting yourself a bit in the process when it's the metal one that you hit by accident.

"Fairgrounds and amusement parks are always a safe bet for a first date, soldier. Big crowds make someone feel less intimidated when out as a pair."

"I'd believe that if I didn't know you've been wanting to come here since it opened a couple of weeks ago."

You clear your throat along with the suspicion he has and instead grab him by the arm to drag him along. Bucky's reluctant at first saying you're a handful when excited and need to calm down a bit, but it's not something you can control at this point.

After some walking around and much sightseeing, you end at the fair games where a bunch of kids and teens are going around spending their parents' money to attempt unwinnable games.

It's then however that you suddenly force Bucky to stop in his tracks and drag him along to a game yourself. It's one of those usually rigged ones with the milk bottles stacked into a pyramid. But that's not what caught your attention.

The massive stuffed otter that's half your size did.

"Five bucks, ladies and gents! 5 bucks for two balls! Topple the bottles and you get a big one!"

"Aren't these rigged?" Bucky whispers close to your ear but you're much too busy fishing through your wallet and handing the attendant a crumpled 5 dollar bill to pay him any mind. "Really?"

"Did you see the otter?" you hiss back, gesturing at said plush toy with the softballs the guy gave you in hand already. "It's massive and I want it."

Bucky rolls his eyes but the hint of a smirk pulls at the corner of his lips all the same. He stands back languidly, leaning on one foot as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

"Alright, go for it then. Just don't break anything."

"No promises," you mumble under your breath. You take a moment to aim and throw but strikeout when the softball lands short of the bottles. Shock strikes you instantly, but you brush it off and try again...only to fall short yet again, striking to the side instead of hitting bottles this time.

Now you know you didn't imagine it.

"The ball moved midair."

The attendant doesn't mind you and is instead busy picking up your missed balls. "Better luck next time, lady."

Scowling, you pay up another five, deadset on that otter, and this time take the time to do it properly. Holding back your strength is something you've gotten used to after this long, so gauging it just right to get through whatever's getting it to stray away takes a moment.

You shoot—

And it veers off in a way that tells you it's impossible for something else not to be happening.

Just as you're about to throw the second softball, another hand takes it from yours. Glancing over your shoulder, Bucky holds it in his left weighing the ball before leaning into your ear.

"It's a magnet."

"What?"

He nods before gesturing towards the booth. "Must be hiding around the bottles. There's metal in these and whatever magnet there is keeps the balls from hitting them."

"The kids won prices," you remind him.

"Must be turning it on for the older crowd then." This time when he tries it, you can tell he's not using that much force but his aim is much better than yours. Despite that, the ball still veers away from its target almost at the last second.

"Tough luck. Want another try, miss?"

You want to punch the guy in his ugly mug so bad, but you know better. Not everything can be solved with violence. It'd surely make you feel a ton better though. Dejected, you turn to tell Bucky that you're better off leaving it be. Before you can though, Bucky's already handing another five-dollar bill to the guy who gives him another pair of softballs.

Clinging to his arm to buy some time, you hiss back at him. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you that otter."

He gives you a boyish smirk, tossing up one of the balls in the air before playfully throwing it at the bottles. With the force he puts behind it, whatever's pulling the balls doesn't do as well of a job of veering its trajectory. The softball actually tags the edge of the milk containers.

And that was with you hanging onto his dominant arm. Releasing it instantly, Bucky takes the second softball and throws it with more than enough force to not only topple all three in no time flat but bust a hole through the board behind the bottles as well.

Your cheers erupt as you clap giddily to his triumph while Bucky graciously thanks the attendant for the stuffed animal and comes to hand it to you.

"There you go," he says with a more than satisfied grin.

"That was awesome, Buck! Thank you!" Accepting the toy into your arms, you squeeze it tightly, loving how soft and squishy it is. Giggling, you tuck the otter under one arm and take him away yet again to enjoy the rest of the fair.

Your time together eases after that as you two readily enjoy the outing. You almost forget why you're here.

Almost.

The small sting you feel in your chest, however, doesn't let you forget that easily.

Despite what you said before about this being nothing but practice to help out a friend, you honestly can't help but imagine this as an actual date. Honestly, it's what little solace you'll get knowing that someone like him would never look at you in that sort of way.

It's torture and bliss all wrapped in one. And regrettably, the more you spend time with him and the more you're forced to talk about how he should be with other girls when he takes them out, the more it digs deeper into your chest and leaves it hollow.

You hate to admit it but Sam was right to warn you.

Sure, you may be another tough super soldier that Hydra created and that the Avengers liberated, but the world didn't always go your way just because you're tough enough to take a punch or give it. Where this is hitting you is somewhere you can't protect with a good punch.

What's worse is that you would never even try defending yourself against Bucky.

Besides, the only reason this is starting to hurt is because of how much fun you're having, and imagining him enjoying his time with someone else just as much isn't making it any better.

Better call it quits now while I'm still okay.

"It's getting late."

The evening had turned dark a while ago, but you both had stuck around as the crowds grew, even sneaking away under the pier near the shore to enjoy some quiet time. You'd long abandoned your sandals, carrying them in your hands as your stuffed otter laid pressed between your arms and stomach.

The water that brushes against your bare feet is chilly but you don't mind it. It's helping clear out your mind of this fairytale of a night.

"Yeah, we should probably head back already."

Nodding at Bucky's suggestion, you bend over and put your sandals back on only to be met by warmth around your shoulders when you stand back up straight. His leather jacket feels huge over your small frame but it envelopes you wholly in the heat of his body as the musky scent so uniquely his reaches your nose.

"Come on," he says while offering his arm. "We can get some pizza on the way back and watch a movie. How's that sound?"

It pains you to see that look in his eyes. The same look that you know means nothing to him but the world to you.

Smiling back, you nod and take his offer. You'll take what you can while you can get it. In the end, you can say with certainty that it was the best date you've ever had.

Because it was as real to you as it was fake to him.

The next morning, you're sitting on the common room couch snuggling the stuffed otter in your arms and scrolling through news channels while Sam bickers by the kitchen for you to just make up your mind with one and stick with it.

"Chill, Cap. I'm not stopping at the news."

"Why not just search the guide then?" he asks, peeved.

"The what?" Before he can bicker some more about how you could possibly not know about it, you both watch as Bucky jogs out of the hallway leading to the rooms with a skip to his step.

"Are you in a good mood?" you ask unable to believe what your eyes are seeing.

"Not particularly."

He grabs an apple from the array of fruits set aside in the fridge, leaving his phone unattended on the countertop when it suddenly lights up and rings with a message. Sam appears to only get a quick glimpse but it's enough to have him smirking to himself and playfully shoving at Bucky with his arm.

"Man, is that what I think it is? Did you call her?"

Your heart sinks at the chuckle Bucky lets out before snatching his phone away from the countertop.

"Texted her," he clarified. He takes a quick bite of the apple and you mistake the loud crunch for something else breaking as your chest tightens. "Asked her out to lunch and she said yes."

"That's great to hear. Don't screw it up now."

Bucky scoffs as he rounds the kitchen countertop and heads into the common room towards the front door.

"Doubt I can after the lesson I got." As he passes you by, you freeze at the way his hand lands on your shoulder with a small squeeze. "I'll see you guys later."

The door shuts so definitively after him that you can't do much else aside from sink your face against the soft fur of your stuffed toy. Behind you, you hear Sam groan and some shuffling as he makes his way behind the couch and lays his hand on your head.

"I'm sorry, kid."

You shake your head against the soft fur, knowing all that's doing is wiping tears you don't want him or anybody to see.

Sam heaves a long sigh before patting your shoulder. "I'm going to go help Sarah do some errands around town. You should tag along. It'll help get your mind out of it."

Nodding, you rush into your room without letting him see you and hurriedly change. As you take your phone to leave, you stare at the stuffed otter that's now laying on your bed. Carefully, you pick it up and look into its beady eyes for a moment. As tears start to prick at your eyes again, you startle as a knock comes on your door.

Through it, Sam calls your name as he says, "You ready?"

"Yeah!"

Hurriedly, you do what you mean to do before opening the door to find Sam waiting on the other side for you. Wearing a bright smile, you bounce on your feet and salute him.

"Ready to go, Captain!"

Sam chuckles and gestures away towards the common room with a nod of his head. "Alright then. Let's go."

Before you close the door behind your room, you take one last peek inside, watching from afar how the stuffed animal's tail barely juts out from the door of your closed closet. Without much more of a glance, you close the door behind you and follow after Sam.

Strange how now of all times you're thankful that your memory never recovered as well as Bucky's did. Stranger still that you find comforting the fact that anything not recurrent in your day-to-day life ceases to exist in your memory before long.

Out of sight, out of mind.

[goldenbuckyyy]

At least I'll have me

Summary: Someone from your past shows up at your doorstep at 3AM.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader (past)

Word Count: 2,197

Warnings: Swearing, crying, angst, ambiguous ending (maybeeee part 2?), hitting, shoving, anything else? let me know if I missed something!!

A/N: I had been wanting to write something like this for a while now and I got this idea randomly last night at 2 AM and thus this was written last night! I like finding songs that fit my fics and it was pretty hard to find one for this one. But I found “I’ll Still Have Me” by CYN. Give it a listen and get in your feels.

All mistakes are my own. Please do not repost or translate my fics on any other site nor this one.

I appreciate any likes, reblogs, messages, and interactions!

“No,” you muttered. Your voice sounded so broken and hurt. You couldn’t believe this. You shake your head as you sniff and feel your lips start to tremble.

“Please stop. Don’t do this to me,” you begged.

Bucky is standing in front of you with his face filled with guilt and sorrow. His blue eyes filled with unshed tears. The same blue eyes that used to stare into your soul and communicate with you with only the emotions behind them.

The same blue eyes that you could read, still could, without speaking.

You didn’t want to be able to still read him like this, but you can. You can see the deep emotions swirling behind his eyes and it kills you that he is feeling this way.

But he deserves this and you know it.

But you?

You don’t deserve this.

You don’t deserve to feel this way because of him.

You’ve shoved down every single feeling Bucky Barnes made you feel and now it’s breaking to the surface.

You shouldn’t be feeling guilty, but your heart feels so heavy that all you want to do is run into Bucky’s arms and sob into them while he holds you. You feel so torn at this moment because you want to let your walls down, but these are the walls you spend years building up because of him.

You placed yourself so high on these walls to avoid the pain that he had left you with all those years ago.

You didn’t deserve this.

Bucky tries to reach out to you to pull you towards him. One warm flesh hand and one cold metal hand. You shove him away as soon as you feel his touch by pushing at his chest. He stumbles towards the wall.

The loud sound of his back hitting the wall makes you curse underneath you breathe as you look over your shoulder slightly to see the dark hallway. You sigh in relief and look back at Bucky as you run a hand through your messy bed hair.

You didn’t expect your morning to go like this.

It was three am when you woke up to the rapid knocks on your front door and you rushed down the hall, rubbing your tired sleep-deprived eyes, and tugged your rube closed as you opened the door hastily.

You had frozen in your spot when you had seen the ghost of your past.

The man who had broken your heart in more ways than one. He hurt you in ways that you had never dreamed you could have been hurt.

But he did it. He absolutely ruined you and you had to build yourself up all over again.

That’s why when he rushed in, mouth running rapidly with apologies and almost getting on his knees to beg for your forgiveness. You were already rushing him to get out of here.

You didn’t want to hear his pleas for forgiveness and you didn’t want to hear about how badly he felt for what he had done to you. He knew what he was doing when he did it.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was small and broken. Oh so broken and pathetic.

“Fuck you,” you spat out. Your own voice filled with venom and hatred. Everything you felt at this moment was rage and you hated the man in front of you.

“You don’t get to come here and apologize to me after being gone for so long!”

You start pacing around in front of him as you look at him as if he is crazy.

“You left!”

“You walked out that door and never looked back! It was easy for you!”

You want to claw your heart out of your chest from how heavy it feels at this moment. Your eyes are watering with unshed tears as you feel yourself getting heated after finally letting out all the resentment and hate you had for him. Bucky was leaning against the wall with his head in his hands as you noticed he was crying.

Bucky Barnes was crying in your living room.

You never thought you’d see the day.

You almost wanted to laugh when you heard his sniffling, and you did.

You let out a giggle as you felt your emotions going crazy, his eyes snapped to you as if he couldn’t believe you were laughing at him, and you felt your heartbeat racing as your breathing started to become quicker.

Your unshed tears started falling fast as your giggles turned into quiet sobs as you reached for the countertop next to you to grip it. You gripped it to ground yourself to the situation.

You bit the skin on your knuckles to choke back the sobs in your throat.

You shut your eyes as you try to stop the tears from falling. Your lips are still quivering as you take in a shaky inhale as you try to calm yourself.

You can’t let them see you like this.

You wipe away the tears on your cheeks, your hands moving furiously, as you open your eyes to see Bucky doing the same and inching his way towards you.

“Don’t come any closer,” you whisper. You look down at your hands and notice the tiny specks on your fingertips.

You grip your hands into fists and look up to keep breathing calmly.

“Y/N,” he says as his voice breaks, and you turn away from him as you wrap your arms around yourself.

Your final shot at keeping yourself together.

“I miss you,” he says and something in your snaps.

In an instant, you are twirling around, palm up, and you meet his cheek with a loud smack.

He tumbles from the impact, his face twisted, cheek red, and he manages to catch himself with his metal hand on the kitchen chair.

The loud scrapping the legs make on the wooden floors when he stumbles to his feet, eyes meeting yours, his lip is bleeding, and you don’t allow yourself to feel guilty for making him bleed.

You hold your ground as you swallow hard to push down the incoming sobs. You set your hand down as you shuffle on your feet. You keep eye contact with him as he wipes away the blood with the sleeve of his navy-colored shirt.

You raise a shaky hand and point a finger at him. You let out a shaky breath, “Don’t do that to me!”

“You left me,” you hiss out.

You grip the roots of your hair and let out an exasperated scoff as Bucky fish mouths for words at you.

You hear the flick of a switch from behind you as you turn around to look at the hallway.

This is exactly what you didn’t want to happen.

You didn’t need them to see a strange man crying in their home with their mother crying as well.

But there they were.

Your twins stood in the hallway, rubbing their tired eyes, and they look around the room until both of their eyes landed on you.

“Mommy?” The softness of your little girl's voice makes your heart stop as she grips her big brother's hand into hers when she notices Bucky.

Her big curious blue eyes are staring at him in wonder as she looks at her brother in confusion. He only looks at her back with the same look as his eyes wander to bucky as well, but his eyes are yours.

Bucky lets out a choked sob as he sees the kids staring at him. He realizes that they’re looking at him like a complete stranger.

And that’s because he is. They don’t know him. He’s never met them before.

And they’re his kids, for god’s sake!

“You left us!” You finally let it out.

Bucky’s crying gets harder as he covers his mouth with his hands to keep his sobbing at bay as the twins start slowly moving closer to you.

You look at them and shake your head.

“Mommy is okay, babies. Go back to bed, go to mommy’s room, and lay there with the dogs, okay? Mommy will be right here,” you tell them as you try to keep your voice calm and soft.

They watch you carefully, their curious eyes still on you as they both watch the tears slowly fall down your cheeks.

You can tell they both want to run into your arms and ask you what’s wrong. They were both fiercely protective over you as much as two little five-year old’s could be.

You watch them as they both slowly turn around and walk down the hallway into your bedroom, but not before they both turn in sync to have one last look at the man crying.

They enter the room and shut the door gently behind them.

You turn back to Bucky as you sniffle some more and cross your arms.

“You don’t get to miss us when you left us! You’ve made your bed!” You cry out in a low voice as you grab his frame and start shoving him out of your house.

He is trying to stop you as he cries and tries his best to choke out some words, but he only cries more when you keep shoving him more and more until you reach the door.

You pull the door open and shove him off into your porch.

The soft rays of the sun already filling the morning sky around you.

That’s when you notice someone, no two someone’s, on your lawn.

They immediately stand when they notice you and Bucky.

Steve’s face is filled with worry as Sam only looks hurt. They both look devastated when they hear you and Bucky both crying.

“You have to audacity to be out here waiting for him?!” You exclaim as you shove Bucky one last time off your porch and he tumbles down the steps with no chance at catching himself on anything.

You know he could have outpowered you with his strength, but he didn’t even try to stop you. He let you shove him and push him all the way until he landed on his ass on your lawn.

Steve and Sam fumbled to his side as they helped him up. You scoffed as you rolled your eyes at the scene in front of you.

When you had lost Bucky, you had never thought you’d lose Sam. Especially Steve.

But here you were.

With nobody, but yourself and your twins.

“Get the fuck off my property before I make you,” you snarl at them as your eyes turned red with your powers wanting to come out and play. You clenched your hands to keep them at bay.

You stand on the porch as you watch them basically drag Bucky to his motorcycle, but of course... He stops and pulls his arms away from them as he turns to see you again.

“Please,” he pleads as he falls onto his knees as your breathing hitches.

“They’re my kids,” his voice is filled with begging. His face is red, his lips are shaking, and tears still running down his face.

“They’re not yours! They don’t even know you!” You don’t know how, but his face breaks even more.

“They’re mine and they’re only mine because you did this to us,” you cry out as your heart feels as if it’s breaking all over again like it did six years ago when you found out you were pregnant, and Bucky didn’t choose you.

He chose them.

You clamped your eyes shut as you tried to swallow the lump in your throat as you felt your hands start flowing with your powers.

“Leave.”

It’s the last thing you say as you turn on your heels and stomp back into your home.

You quickly shut the door and lock it. You lean against the wood as you let yourself calm down as you don’t want your kids seeing you like this. They’re already going to be so confused and asking a million questions about the man crying.

You let out a couple of deep shaky breathes as you hear the rumble of the motorcycles drive away.

“Thank god,” you mutter as you slowly look out the window to make sure they’re gone.

You sigh in relief once you don’t see them anymore. You slowly turn off the lights that were on and make your way down the hallway, your hand flicking the light off there too.

You find your bedroom door and open it slowly. Your broken heart feels full again when you see your babies in your bed, laying down facing each other, holding hands as your two fur babies lay down by their feet. They both lazily look up at you as they feel your presence. Little guard dogs.

They both relax when they notice it’s just you.

You shove off your robe and climb into the middle of the bed. You slowly maneuver yourself in the middle of your kids as you place one arm underneath their small frames. They both only melt into your embrace as they both reach over you to wrap their arms around you.

You let yourself cry silently as you let yourself think about what just happened the past couple of hours.

What the fuck just happened?

[pellucid-constellations]

For the Love of the Game

Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader 

Summary: Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYU’s top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldn’t figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore off—and his feelings for you began to grow—he made it his mission to fix it. 

Warnings (ongoing): Mentions of alcohol/drinking, Mild language, Enemies to lovers trope!

a/n: Hi!! This series is mostly completed, and I’ll be updating every week on Wednesdays! Let me know what you guys think, I’m super excited to share my first series! :) 

✶ Part One ✶ 

✶ Part Two ✶ 

✶ Part Three ✶ (09/01/2021)

✶ Part Four ✶ (09/08/2021)

✶ Part Five ✶ (09/15/2021)

✶ Part Six ✶ (09/22/2021)

[timelesseternity]

[wkemeup]

Behind the Storm

summary: On a mission, you're hit with a spell that takes away your ability to see. Bucky does what he can to make you feel safe. pairing: Bucky x reader word count: 7.7k warnings: canon level violence, blind!reader, nightmares, bucky is protective af, a/n: I hope the anon who requested the blind!reader fic months ago sees this, so sorry it took so long! ✨

Blood trails down the back of Bucky’s neck; thick and oozing from the rusted pipe now discarded to the corner of the room. His assailant lays face-down in the concrete, unconscious. Steve’s outline sways in double vision a few feet away as Bucky gently taps his fingertips to the source of the bleeding. He winces at the touch and vibranium onyx comes back coated in red.

“Where is she?” Bucky murmurs through the pulsing in his head. He doesn’t have to specify who he’s referring to as Steve calls for you to check in on the coms. It’s a silent agreement they shared— the knowledge that it will always be you he’s asking for. Bucky leans against the wall, half holding himself up as he waits for your voice to come through the coms. Instead, all he hears is crumbling static.

Suddenly, traces of faded purple burst into the hallway—remnants of an exposition of light and energy and power from several hundred feet away. A strangled scream follows and Bucky is sprinting towards the epicenter before Steve can warn him otherwise.

There’s no mistaking that sound. The break in the voice, the panic, the fear. Bucky runs until the room is coated in blinding light, until the purple energy touches over every surface and seeps through the cracks of the concrete. Until it’s consuming everything around him.

He knows that sound because he’s heard it in the dead of night. It’s familiar and agonizing and his stomach plunges deep below the surface, buried under the foundation and dirt and burning through the center of the earth. You cry out again and it echoes through the halls—chasing him, mocking him. He can’t get there fast enough.

Bucky doesn’t spare the time to check whether the witch still occupies the room as he races inside. Darkness tunnels around his vision, his heart pounding so violently in his chest he’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or the concussion threatening to pull him under. None of it matters as he filters through the purple light in search of you.

When he finally spots you huddled in the corner of the room, desperately clenching your hands around a rusted wrench, Bucky can’t find it in himself to feel even an ounce of relief. Your back is pressed to the wall, protecting yourself. You’re trembling, panicked, and Bucky’s not sure his heart will ease for even a moment until you’re safe on the jet and that terrible ringing has left his ears.

“Y/n,” he says your name gently, but you flinch violently enough you nearly knock your head against the wall.

“Bucky? Is that you?” you call, nearly shouting into the purple haze. Bucky is only standing a few feet ahead of you and while you’re clouded by the remnants of magic, he can see your outline perfectly clear. Still, he notices that you’re looking beyond his shoulder as you call for him. Vacant stare, unfocused eyes.

“Yeah,” he replies gingerly, stepping closer. “I’m right here. Can you see me?”

You shake your head rapidly, your grip flexing against the wrench as if you might be afraid of what else laid within the purple mist. The remnants have faded since whatever the witch did to cause such an explosion of power and Bucky turns his head to find Steve standing at the back of the room. They share a concerned look.

“It’s too dark in here,” you tell him, trying to inch closer to him though each step is apprehensive, like you don’t see him at all. “She must have cut the power. Harkness was right there but then she... I don’t know... it’s too dark, Bucky. I can’t... I can’t see anything.”

Bucky’s heart stills. It freezes cold within his rib cage and blood stops flowing entirely. Daylight seeps in through the broken window to your left and the sunlight touches gently against your skin. Do you not see the stream of light? Can you not feel the warmth on your skin?

You move forward in search of him and you collide against his chest. Startled, you raise the wrench out of instinct and Bucky manages to wrestles it from your grip and toss it to the floor before you could land a swing. You start to panic again, screaming out for him because you don’t realize it’s his arms that wrap around you, his arms trying to ease your fear.

“Hey! Hey! It’s me!” Bucky warns as he blocks an uppercut you attempt to swing at his jawline.

You still, brows furrow in confusion. “Bucky?”

But Bucky doesn’t respond. He can’t. Now that he’s close enough and the magic has faded from the room entirely, he can see what’s become of your eyes and it renders him speechless. Stone molds through his body, tension coursing like mud in his veins, and still—his damn heart won’t stop beating so violently it might crack through his ribs and spill to the floor by your feet.

In place of the vibrant shades he’s grown to adore is a paralyzing storm of dark grey clouds. Swirling through the whites of your eyes, sinking into your irises. Deep and heavy as if lightening might strike within their storm. Thunder rolling just over the hills. They consume every inch.

Bucky reaches forward and grabs the sides of your face. It’s harsher than he ever intended, but he needs you to be still, needs to understand how this could have possibly happened, how the light and color could have been drained from you completely. The suddenness of the touch startles you, but he can’t focus on anything beside the darkness that has consumed your eyes. It terrifies him straight to his bones.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?” you ask him even though he knows you can’t see the hardwired clench in his jaw or the way his eyes screw shut to stop the tears from building. He doesn’t know how to respond or what to say to you. He doesn’t know how to not make you as scared as he is.

“What is it?” Steve calls from the edge of the room, his voice taunt.

You flinch at the sound of Steve’s voice, your gaze turning in his direction and though you’re looking straight at him you still ask, “Steve? Was that you?”

“It’s him,” Bucky replies defeatedly.

You shake your head and his hands fall from the side of your face. “How can you be sure? Harkness has pulled tricks on us before and with the power cut—”

“The power’s not out, Y/n.”

You freeze.

Bucky swallows back what he’s sure is a pool of blood from the inside of his cheek. It’s bitter on his tongue. “The lights are working fine. The sun is shining through the windows. I—I can see him. I can see you, sweetheart.”

“What? No. That’s not...” you step back a few paces, oblivious to the wrench Bucky had cast aside. He lunges for you before you trip over it and still, your heel catches on the edge and you lose your balance. There’s barely time to yelp before you’re back in his arms. He stabilizes you the best he can and then, you glide your shoe against the floor, touching the wrench with a startling realization.

The panic starts to distort your features. Your chest starts rising too quickly, your hands begin to shake. Suddenly, you’re uneasy in your stance, knees falling weak as you try to look at Bucky’s face, but all you can see is an unforgiving darkness. It swallows him whole. It swallows you, too.

“I can’t... I can't see...” you start to murmur between shallowed breaths. “Why can’t I... Why can’t I see?”

“You're going to be okay. I swear it on my life that I’ll fix this,” Bucky tells you because he can see the panic attack coming on. He knows the signs. He’s seen them before in the mirror and he gathers you within his arms. You’re shaking against him and all he can do is hold you tighter. “Just focus on me, okay? Just on me. I’ll fix this, sweetheart. I promise I will.”

It takes twenty minutes before he gets you to calm down enough to make it to the jet. He carries you through the ruins of the warehouse and across the vacant lot because your legs are too weak to walk. The hyperventilation has worn you thin and as you curl against his chest, he can feel the unease buzzing under your skin.

With every step, your hands clench around the straps on his suit like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

***

The only reason you sleep at all is because of the sedative Banner gave you. You had clung so desperately to Bucky’s arm on the jet home, fused yourself like an extension of his own body when you landed back at the compound. You screamed until your voice gave out as the medical team attempted to separate you. You didn’t know they were SHIELD. You couldn’t see the familiar faces. All you knew was someone was trying to pull you away from Bucky and you fought against it with everything you had left.

Bucky tried to tell you who they were. He tried to get you to listen over the noise but you couldn’t see the way he reached for you, couldn’t see the desperation in his eyes or the desolation dragging him under. You were still screaming when Banner put the syringe in your arm; that same ringing returning to his ears, the awful sound of your screams he couldn’t erase from his memory.

The moment your body fell slack, heavy limbs sinking into the gurney as they carted you away, Bucky sank down to his knees. At the center of the landing bay, the Winter Soldier's helplessness was on display for anyone to witness. He couldn't find the strength to move until Steve came in search of him an hour later.

***

“Buck?” Steve stands at the frame of Bucky’s room, leaning into the open doorway. His arms fold over his chest as a short, tight smile pressed at his lips. “Did you even try to sleep?”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. He knows better than to lie. He’s seen the dark marks under his own eyes.

“You’re listening for her,” Steve says. It’s not a question.

“You know how bad her nightmares use to be, Steve,” Bucky replies slowly. He glances over his shoulder to the wall behind him. You’re separated by a few feet worth of drywall and foundation and still, it’s as if he can hear every breath you take. He can hear the rustle of your sheets as you toss and turn. The squeak of the floorboards when you pace at night. It’s the only barrier between you.

Your screams used to carry through the entire floor. Steve and Sam would be hovering outside your room by the time Bucky got you to calm down enough to close your eyes again without fear of the demons you’d find. He never had the courage to stay and you never dared to ask, so he reluctantly pulled away each time your breathing fell back to an even pace. He’d slip his body out from under your hold and he’d pass Steve and Sam lingering in the hall, talking quietly amongst themselves as if they too hadn’t been awoken by the monsters lurking in your dreams.

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know when the spell will wear off. If it ever will. Wanda is doing everything she can to track down Harkness but—”

A scream rips through the walls and it pulls the breath straight from Bucky’s lungs. He knows that scream. He’s committed that awful, agonizing sound to memory and on instinct, Bucky sprints into the hall. He slams his shoulder on the doorframe on his way out and a sliver of wood breaks off.

“Get Banner!” Bucky shouts to Steve, pointing back to the med wing. Steve disappears down the end of the hallway without an ounce hesitancy.

Your nightmares have never sounded this real; as if the demons might actually be crawling from under your bed and through the shadows to devour you whole. Your voice breaks as if they’re consuming you alive. Like a small child afraid of the monsters in her closet, sheets pulled tight above her head— with only the slight shift of a t-shirt from the window’s draft, you scream as if you've seen bared teeth and scales.

Bucky breaks the hinges on your door as he shoves his way inside. He barely has a second to adjust to the darkness of the room before he registers you fumbling for the gun on your nightstand. There’s no hesitation as you unlatch the safety and aim in his direction. Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Y/n, wait!”

You fire.

Bucky blocks the bullet on his left forearm as he advances on you—the sharp click of metal to vibranium and sparks burst from the contact. He doesn’t let himself look at the tears streaming down your face, the sweat beaded into your hair, or the bullet now lodged into your dresser as he wraps his hand around the gun and yanks it viciously from your grasp before you can manage to pull the trigger again.

“No! Stop!” You scream as if he’s one of the villains in your dreams. Vile and evil and ruthless in his pursuit. There’s such fear in your voice that it nearly paralyzes Bucky on the spot.

It’s only then that he realizes that the lines have blurred between nightmare and reality. You can't open your eyes and see the comfort of your bedroom, the safety of the compound. You can't prove to yourself that the demons are only trapped within your head. Because you’re trapped there, too.

“Y/n! Y/n, listen to me!” Bucky shouts. He fights his way to crawl on top of you, pinning your body to the mattress just to keep you from hurting yourself. You whimper and he molds his palms to the sides of your face. Even as you scratch at him and break blood on his cheek, he’s unyielding. He barely feels the sting of it when you’re this afraid.

He tries to remind himself it’s not him. It’s not him you’re scared of, not him you think you’re fighting. But it’s hard not to when you’re begging him to stop, to let you live, to not hurt you.

“You’re awake!” Bucky tries again, growing desperate and he hears his voice crack. He holds his hands firm on the sides of your face; the solid metal of his left in contrast to the warmth of his right. “Feel me! I’m right here, okay? I’ve got you. Hear me, sweetheart. Feel me. It’s Bucky.”

You freeze, you gaze unfocused up at him though you’re not able to meet his eye. You look directly at him and still—you see straight through.

Suddenly, your features begin to contort and then, you’re sobbing and Bucky’s heart cleaves down the center. He quickly climbs off of you, curling in against your side and wrapping his arms around your trembling frame. You come to him easily, face pressed tight into the crook of his neck, your hands bunched into the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, soothing a hand down your spine. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t... I don’t know what’s real,” you murmur against his collar and he’s certain that if he didn’t have the serum in his veins, he wouldn’t have heard it at all.

“This is real,” Bucky affirms, holding you as tight as he can manage. “You and me. Right now. This is real, okay? No one is going to hurt you. I’ve got you, honey.”

It’s only then that Bruce slowly emerges from the doorway. He’s holding another syringe in his hand, a solemn look upon his features. He exchanges a short glance with Bucky as he begins to approach.

“Do you trust me?” Bucky asks slowly. He slides the long sleeve of your t-shirt up your arm to give Bruce better leverage. You don’t say anything, but you nod against his chest. Bucky sighed. “You’ll feel a little prick on your arm, okay? It’s going to help you sleep. No dreams this time.”

You don’t respond and Bruce looks to Bucky for guidance. Bucky swallows and give him a short nod. The needle is only inches away when you squeeze Bucky’s waist.

“Promise you’ll stay,” you whisper. “Please.”

Whatever remained of Bucky’s heart shatters completely. Its shards and glass and broken pieces left within his chest and still, he finds the strength to tell you, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t even flinch when Bruce pricks the needle to your vein. Your body becomes so slack that Bucky has to remind himself you’re only sleeping. He still finds himself checking for your pulse, focusing on the gentle breaths against his skin. He doesn’t sleep at all.

***

Bucky spends every night in your room. Even if he starts in the chair by your windowsill, he feels better knowing he’s close enough to notice the nightmares before they start. The slightest variation in your breathing and Bucky crawls into the bed beside you. His arms snake around your waist and gently tug you to lay over his chest. A hand soothes down your spine until your breaths flow evenly again and he listens for the sound of your heartbeat until morning.

You haven’t woken up screaming since.

“Bucky?”

Bucky pulls himself from his trance. He’d barely slept in the week since your sight was taken and the exhaustion is evident in the dark circles under his eyes and the gaunt look on his face. He’s just thankful you’re not able to see it. Still, his lids are heavy as he pushes himself to his feet and follows your voice to the bedroom.

He’s learned to retrain his steps so that you can hear him as he approaches. Intentional placement of his steps over the squeaking floorboards and a heaviness in his heels. It feels almost unnatural given his decades training to be invisible, but it puts you at ease. He can see the tension fade from your shoulders when you recognize his gait.

Slowly, you reach for Bucky but you extend your arm too far to the right and you miss him entirely. Your hand hovers through the air until you find his shoulder and only then do you start to relax as you touch the cold surface of the vibranium.

“Nat usually helps me but she’s out on a run,” you say as your fingers gently tap against his shoulder, light pressure in tender rhythm as if playing the keys on a piano. “Would you mind?”

Bucky nods, but quickly adds, “of course. What do you need?”

“Just something that matches. I can put it on myself, I just... I already feel out of place so I don’t want to be walking around with two different socks on.”

“Lang does that all the time, you know,” Bucky chuckles, desperate to see you smile again. It seems to take most of your energy, but your lips curve just slightly in the edges. It lasts only a moment and it fades quicker than it arrived, but it’s something.

Bucky riffles through your drawers in search of something comfortable for you to wear. Eventually, he settles on a pair of leggings and a loose fitted t-shirt you wore often enough for the color to have faded a few shades lighter in the wash. The fabric is soft against his fingertips as he pulls it from the drawer and sets it on the bed. He doesn’t know much about twenty-first century fashion, but he hopes you won’t mind. Your fingers graze over the clothes and your smile returns.

Then, you reach out for his hand and Bucky hesitates for a moment before he places his right hand in yours. A frown pouts over your lip and you extend your free hand in search of his left. He’s not sure what to make of it, how you noticeably sigh at the touch of cold metal to your skin. It’s not the first time you’ve sought out his left arm since Harkness stole your sight and Bucky simply can't wrap his head around it.

“Why do you do that?” A shiver passes through his spine as your fingers graze along the gold detailing in his palm.

“So I know it’s really you.”

You say it so casually, as if you might see his arm as something other than the embodiment of violence he’d committed under Hydra’s orders. You touch the lines of the plates and trace over what would be his lifeline marked by a river of golden embellishment; feather light grace at the tips of your fingers. It’s almost as if you’re committing the details to memory; preserving him. He realizes then that the arm he’s grown to despise has become a comfort to you – a reminder that when doubt creeps in and threatens to drag you deep into the shadows, that he’s still there with you.

"I’ll be out in a minute, okay?” you tell him, reluctantly letting go of his hand. Bucky lingers a moment longer as you feel around for the tag at the nape of the t-shirt to make sure it’s facing the right way. You smile in his direction and he tries not to let his stomach drop when you look too far to your right and miss him entirely.

“I’ll be outside the door.” Bucky’s voice is raw as it slips out—a byproduct of the shock. Then, he closes the door behind him, careful of the broken hinges he’s yet to replace.

When he looks up, he spots Wanda and Steve huddled around the kitchen table. Wanda’s vibrant red hair is tossed up in a bun, strands falling out of place, and she wears dark circles under her eyes that mirror the discoloration on Bucky’s face. She’s been tracking Harkness since she disappeared but she hasn’t had a single new lead in days. The frustration wears on Steve’s face, too, as he clenches his jaw at something she said.

“Have you heard anything?” Bucky can’t help but ask as he approaches. He feels like a child as he wrings his hands in his lap, looking between Wanda and Steve with what he knows is misguided hope. It's been too long now for the spell to have faded on its own.

“Not yet,” Wanda says slowly. “I’m doing everything I can to track her down but...”

“We need to prepare her, Buck,” Steve cuts in. A frown is etched deep into his features and it looks as though it physically pains him. “Even if we find Harkness, there’s no guaranteeing she’ll reverse the spell. If she even can.”

Bucky falters in his stance, physically taking a step back. His breath suddenly feels tight inside his chest. “What are you saying? You’re just giving up?”

“No, of course not,” Wanda implores. She stands and reaches a hand for Bucky but he flinches before she can touch him. Her lips press to a thin line as she steps away to give him space. “I just... I don’t think we should give her false hope.”

“This doesn’t have to be debilitating, Buck,” Steve tries, but Bucky is barely able to hear him through the ringing in his ears. It echoes as badly as it did in the halls amongst the purple haze, as bad as it so often carried through the foundation into his bedroom as he sprinted to chase the demons from your dreams.

“People lose their sight all the time and they learn how to reacclimate,” Steve continues, cautious with every word. “It's a difficult road, but Y/n--”

“--is an Avenger, Steve!” Bucky slams his hands on the table. The coffee mugs shatter onto the kitchen floor; shards of broken ceramic on the floor by Wanda’s feet, mocha sinking into the cracks in the tile.

“Buck--” Steve reaches out for Bucky’s arm to put him at ease, but Bucky yanks himself out of Steve’s grasp.

He feels like his entire body is on fire. He can’t stand still, can't breathe. He’s been hanging on by a thread, desperate to portray the strength he doesn’t have so you could hold onto hope, so you didn’t have to feel this paralyzing fear the way that he does.

He tries to stop himself, to stop the fears from slipping out, but they’re like fire on his tongue and he can’t swallow them back.

“How the hell is she supposed to be an Avenger if she can’t fucking see!? She’ll never be in the field again. Do you get that!? The one goddamn thing she’s worked her whole life to do—to help people—and she’ll never go on another mission again!”

Wanda lowers her head, eyes averting to the floor. A blush of red coats her cheeks and Steve slowly sinks in his chair, an agonizing look on his face. Bucky is breathing so heavy it starts to feel numb in the back of his head, in his teeth, in his fingertips. His hands tighten to fists and he nearly lashes out again when he notices Wanda’s eyes flicker over his shoulder.

Bucky’s heart drops as he turns to find you standing in the frame of the door, gripping tight to the handle. Tears well through the cloudy grey skies in your eyes and Bucky is certain the floor must have given way from under him because he’s falling through hundreds of feet of abyss. His stomach is somewhere else, his chest caved in. A tear slips over your cheekbone and Bucky’s knees nearly give out.

“Y/n, I—”

“I know,” you say, your voice absent of emotion though it’s laced with such heaviness, it sounds as if it might pull you under the surface to meet him at the bottom of the void. “I know the chances of finding Harkness and reversing this. I know.”

Bucky crosses the room to you— slowly, because he wants you to know he’s coming, to give you the chance to retreat into your room and slam the door in his face. But you don’t. You stand firm and your gaze lays on the ground as he approaches.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers heavily. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You’re were right, though.” You shrug and there’s a painful sort of emptiness in your expression that fractures a piece from Bucky’s heart. You brush a hand over your eyes and catch tears on your wrist; the reflective streak against florescent lights shine bright over your skin. “Without Harkness, there’s no reversing this. And we both know I’m useless in the field if I can't see the guy with a gun standing a few feet ahead of me.”

Bucky swallows back bile. “You’re not useless—”

“Even if I learned how to adjust to civilian life, I could never be in the field again. I’d be a liability,” you argue, a lump burning in the back of your throat. “And you—you would end up getting hurt because you’d devote all of your attention to making sure I don’t get myself killed.”

“We can talk to that guy in Hell’s Kitchen,” Bucky offers desperately. “He’s blind, right? I’m sure he could help figure out a way for you to—”

“He’s got powers, Bucky. Superhuman senses and I don’t know—sonar or something,” you scoff. The grey storm clouds in your eyes seem to rumble; not in anger or rage, but something darker, something worse, something like acceptance. You exhale a breath so heavy it could have held the weight of an anvil over your chest. “We’re not going to fix this, okay?”

“You don’t know that.”

Bucky’s not sure why he says it. Wanda’s warning about false hope echoes in his ears but maybe he needs it, too. He needs something to cling onto because if he confronts the fact that he may never get to watch the way the afterglow flickers within the colors of your eyes again, or catch your gaze from across the room as a smile lifts at your cheeks made only for him, or see you sprinting towards him in the middle of a battlefield and leap into his arms, he might crumble completely.

He knows it’s selfish. He knows that this isn’t his burden to bear, that this isn’t his reality to accept. But if you're not a part of the Avengers anymore, you’ll inevitably learn how to be okay without them. You’ll learn how to find normalcy again in your own way – he knows you will because you’re stronger than anyone he’s ever known.

But—

What if you no longer find purpose living in a tower with a team you’re no longer a part of? What if you decide you don’t need him anymore? What if you leave? What if you break his heart beyond what he can repair? He won’t survive it and that, he knows most of all.

Bucky doesn’t say a word of his own fears as he slowly reaches towards you, his hand gingerly laid upon the side of your cheek. You gasp at first, startled by the sensation, but you relax as the onyx of his vibranium thumb brushes along your cheekbone. He knows then that if you could see his face, you’d realize how painfully he loves you – so whole and heavy that his entire world rests simply in the palms of your hands.

“I’m not giving up,” Wanda says softly from the edge of the room. “I promise, Y/n. I won’t stop until I find her.”

“I know,” you tell her and to anyone else, they might have assumed the smile you forced was genuine. But Bucky can see how it aches, how desperately you wished for it to be sincere. It doesn’t reach your eyes, not with the oncoming storm in its wake, and it fades the moment Wanda’s footsteps disappear from the room.

***

Bucky wakes when he hears you scream. He jolts out of bed, the sunlight streaming in through the cracks between your curtains, and he’s disoriented for a moment as he finds he way to his feet. He slept in your room again last night as he had for the two weeks since Harkness disappeared, and he stares blankly at the empty bed. Sheets are thrown to the side, crumpled in use, and you’re nowhere to be found.

Then, he recognizes the bitter smell of coffee filtering into the bedroom. Bucky narrows his eyes, certain that the rest of the team was out in search of Harkness. No one else should be on this floor. His heart is still pounding as he makes his way into the kitchen, cautious of the broken hinges on your door.

He finds you running your hand under the sink, grumbling under your breath, and the coffeepot sitting half empty on the counter top. Beside it sits two mugs amongst a pool of spilled coffee over the marble surface. Bucky sighs.

Without word on Harkness, you’ve been trying to find your routine again. Determined to get back to a normalcy you weren’t convinced you’d ever find, but stubborn enough to try. The couch is slightly shifted out of place, the edge of the carpet turned up. He can practically envision your path to the kitchen and clumsy attempts to avoid the furniture in your way.

“Are you alright?” Bucky calls gently, soft enough to not startle you to his presence.

You glance up in his direction and quickly turn off the faucet, nursing your left hand. It’s only then that he sees the burn mark running over your skin; red and beginning to blister. You hold your wrist delicately against your ribs and you make no attempts to hide it from him. You know better than to try.

“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” you murmur, embarrassed. “Thought I could at least make you coffee after you spent these last two weeks taking care of me and I—I still fucked it up.”

Bucky gently takes your injured hand in his own and covers the burn with the cool palm of his left hand. You sigh at the touch, eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment Bucky can pretend like this is any other day. He could imagine that when you open your eyes again, it will be to the vibrant shades he sees in his dreams

“Looks like perfectly good coffee to me,” he says sweetly, eyeing the coffee as it drips over the edge of the counter into a puddle on the floor. “You just missed the cup is all.”

He’s surprised when he hears your muffled laugh against his t-shirt. Your lips curve to a smile and you lean your head against his shoulder, content in the security of his frame beside you. Slowly, as if to give you the chance to pull away, Bucky brings your hand to his lips and presses a feather light kiss to the burn. The feeling surprises you as you pull in a shaken inhale and you turn your head up to him.

Bucky’s gaze flickers to your lips.

“Y/n!” Natasha’s voice suddenly echoes through the hall. It startles you enough that you flinch against Bucky’s hold, pressing your face tight into the crook of his neck. Footsteps carry in from the elevator, Natasha panting as she sprints towards you. She pauses at the edge of the kitchen. “We found Harkness.”

You stiffen in Bucky’s arms, though you don’t say a word.

“You’re sure?” Bucky says instead.

Natasha nods. “She’s in interrogation now.”

“Can she reverse it?”

“Wanda’s working on it,” Nat admits, the hesitancy reading in her tone. She tries to get a better look at you, hoping to see relief on your features, but you’re too afraid for that. You’re too afraid to give yourself even an ounce of hope in the fear it might be ripped away from you again. So instead, you press your ear to Bucky’s chest and try to steady your breathing. His arm wraps tighter at your shoulders and the compression seems to alleviate some of the tension in your body.

“I’ll bring her down in a minute,” Bucky says and you squeeze your arms around his waist. Natasha gives him a short nod and he waits until the sound of the elevator dings and the doors have closed behind her to exhale.

“Bucky?”

He swallows. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Will you—” You pause, taking in a shaking breath. Your gaze fixated beyond where he could see, dark grey clouds fading near to black. “Will you promise me... if this doesn’t work... Promise you won’t leave me behind?”

Bucky’s heart lurches and suddenly, his throat is so dry it might start bleeding from the cracks.

“I’m scared this might not ever go away, Bucky, but I’m... I’m terrified that I’ll lose you because of it,” you cry, your voice muffled by the collar of his shirt and it fractures Bucky completely. Your fingers curl into the fabric as you gather fistfuls in your hands. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, either, and I know it’s been such a burden to take care of me the way you have but—”

“No,” Bucky manages to choke out, his voice breaking in the effort. “Never, sweetheart. I’m right here. I’m here with you. Always. As long as you want, okay? Forever, if you ask.”

He’s not sure how else he can say it—that he loves you. The very idea of you being anything but the brightest light at the end of tunnel was unimaginable to him. To even consider you as a burden, as a weight upon his shoulders he could not carry, was inconceivable. Every moment he had with you before Harkness – while hidden amongst stolen moments and safe within the shadows – was all that kept him going for a long time. And now—now he has you in his arms and you cling to him as if he could ease each of the worry lines on your face with the touch of his fingers.

There is no doubt, no hesitancy, in his voice when he says, “you have me, sweetheart. No matter what happens. You have me.”

Bucky doesn’t dare allow himself to consider the weight of how easily you relax into his arms as he says it. You only give him a short nod, a tight smile, and he begins to guide you to the elevator. He doesn't know what to expect, when he reaches the interrogation room, but there’s something lighter in his chest – as if a boulder had been lifted from his shoulders – because you’re holding his hand.

Natasha’s eyes flicker to your intertwined fingers as the two of you approach. She does well enough to hide the smirk that pushes at her cheeks, but Bucky can still see the vague twitch in the muscle. She folds her arms over her chest.

“Ah! And here’s the guest of honor herself!” Agatha Harkness’ voice rings through the room. She wears an unsettling smile that sits wide against her features but does little to reach her eyes. She fixates on you as you step inside the room, admiring the storm clouds blocking your line of sight. Bucky can’t register touch in his left hand the way he can in his right, but he can still feel the pressure as you squeeze it tighter, flexing your grip to remind yourself he’s there with you.

“Just do as you promised, Agatha,” Wanda warns.

“As long as our deal still stands,” Agatha taunts back. She tugs at the bindings securing her hands—and her powers—at bay and still, a flicker of purple light dances in the tips of her fingers. She winks in Bucky’s direction and he finds himself inching in front of you. It only seems to make her smile wider.

“Reverse the spell, Agatha,” Wanda orders flatly. Bucky doesn’t dare ask what she agreed to do in exchange for Harkness’ cooperation, but whatever it is, he’s grateful.

Agatha rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. Bring her to me.”

Bucky doesn’t move. He can practically feel your pulse raging from your palm as you keep your hand latched against his. Natasha bends down and slowly releases the cuffs on Harkness’ wrists, though she’s cautious to remind the witch that there were several Avengers still present in the room should she try anything foolish.

“Can’t exactly perform a miracle if the metal man is standing in my way,” Agatha groans. She kicks her legs up onto the interrogation table, lounging back into the thin metal chair as if it could recline.

Bucky feels a growl burning in his chest as he stares down the witch and a dangerous thought crosses his mind of whether ending her pathetic life would simply reverse the spell on its own. She must read the contemplation upon his face because her smile falls and she sits up straighter in her position.

“It’s okay, Bucky,” your voice says gently from behind him. Your hand slips from his hold and suddenly, he feels cold. He’s not sure what to do with the emptiness there, so he curls his fingers to a fist as you feel for the back of the chair and slowly sit opposite Harkness.

“Wow,” she preens, “I really did a number on you.”

Your expression remains unchanged. Only Bucky notices when your jaw flexes, the muscle twitching as you struggle to maintain the steel to your features. He nearly reaches out for your hand again before he stops himself.

“Do it, Agatha. Now,” Wanda presses. Red magic filters at her fingertips, traveling between the spaces in-between as if she were rolling a coin. Effortless and beautiful and terrifying all the same. Agatha swallows as she watches the magic curl to a ball at the center of Wanda’s palm.

“Alright, alright. Geesh.” Agatha leans forward against the table, her hands coming up to her eye line as a purple light begins to emerge in the middle of the room. It begins as nothing, pulling pieces of magic from the air or from the florescence or from the very matter of space itself until it winds and winds like spooling a ball of yarn until it’s the size of a small ball.

Agatha licks her lips in concentration as she lowers the ball of magic to your eye line. Then, the very edge of her mouth curves up at the corner and Bucky doesn’t have even a moment to react before Agatha’s arms extend and the light warps into a purple so dark, it’s nearly black, and the entirety of it is drawn into your eyes.

“What did you do!?” Wanda yells, slamming Harkness against the wall with the invisible strength of her power. Natasha is on her in an instant, cuffing her wrists and dampening the witch's power.

But Bucky doesn’t notice any of it happening around him. Not as you start screaming. He skids onto his knees in front of you as your hands press into your eyes.

“Y/n!” Bucky shouts, his hands gripping at your thighs. “Y/n! Answer me!”

But you can’t. He doesn’t even know if you can hear him over the sounds of your own screams. It echoes so painfully within the room that Natasha winces as she dares a glance in your direction. You start shaking then, tremors so violent that Bucky doesn’t even have a moment to think before he’s scooped you into his arms and takes off running.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. The med wing, maybe. But he can barely think. Barely breathe. He nearly slams the two of you into the stairwell doors in an effort to race you between floors. He should have known better than to trust the word of that witch. She’d blinded you to make a quick escape. She had no reason to reverse the spell and every reason to destroy the lives of the people intent on tracking her down.

He never considered that it could get worse. He never stopped for even a second to wonder.

He should have. If anyone understood the cruelty of the fates, it was Bucky Barnes. He should have protected you from it. He should have kept you safe. He should have—

“Bucky?”

He stills on the third floor, his pulse pounding so violently in his chest he’s scared to look down into your lap, scared he’s going to find his blood coating your clothes, his heart raw and exposed in your hands. Your voice echoes through the stairwell as you call his name again and slowly, he lowers you to the steps.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, almost painfully so as Bucky kneels down on the steps ahead of you. You keep your hands clenched into his shirt, your fingertips grazing over the comfort of solid metal on his left arm.

"I should get you to Banner,” Bucky tries, throwing a cautious glance to the door a few steps above. He can see the agents in lab coats passing by the small window in the door and he wonders if maybe he can grab their attention and bring someone to you.

When he turns back to you, he finds you staring at him. Lips parted, hands shaking.

It takes a moment before he realizes.

But when he does—the air gasps from his lungs.

The wash of storm clouds in your eyes has faded, cast out beyond the horizon and exposing the rush of color in its wake. You don’t blink. You don’t look away from him for even a second and your eyes start to water as you stare at him, trying to find the strength to speak. But words aren’t enough. They can't be. Not with the way you’re looking at him.

“Y/n?” Bucky gapes, unable to tear his gaze away from the crystal-clear sky in your eyes.

The smile that presses into your cheeks makes Bucky’s stomach weak. It brightens across your face, touches your eyes, and Bucky chokes back a sob before it can consume him whole. Your hands are on his face then, holding his cheeks, thumbs brushing sweetly over unshaven stubble. You look at him like he’s the most wonderful thing you’d ever seen and it renders him speechless.

“Hi,” you manage to say through the tears and the laugh and the smile so wide on your face it might even touch your ears.

Bucky laughs and it tastes so beautifully of relief. “Hi.”

“You're so beautiful,” you whisper, your fingertips pressing delicately along his jawline as if you’re memorizing him all over again. There’s no teasing in your voice as you say it, no playful smile. It’s the sincerity of it that scares him the most, that tugs the lightness from his features and made his heart pound so loudly he’s sure you can hear it.

He doesn’t mistake it for a moment when your gaze flickers to his lips. It happens quickly and the anticipation that follows feels thick in the air between you. His chest rises quicker with every breath, his hands shaking in anticipation. He doesn’t realize how close he is to you until your breath touches his cheeks. And then – you pull him to your lips.

There’s a new vulnerability in closing his eyes but as your lips meet and he’s consumed entirely in the feel of your mouth against his, the fear slips away. Your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him closer and he crawls up the stairs to hover over you. He feels you smile against him, your tongue flicking over his upper lip, and he swears he’ll never know what it is to be afraid again.

When you finally pull away, it’s only when your breathless and Bucky’s cheeks are pink, his lips swollen.

You laugh, brushing your hand down the side of his face. Your eyes trace over his features, taking your time, before you meet his eye again. “You said if I asked for forever...”

There is no hesitancy when Bucky replies. He pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheekbones, your nose, feather light over your eyes.

“I’m yours.”

---

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

[noctumbra-deactivated20240920]

                        𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

       ✧ summary ─ bucky barnes, finally being able to live freely in 21st century, accidentally gets a fuck buddy and starts to rediscover himself. the only weird thing about this situation is that you have to make an appointment to get railed by him. 

       ✧ pairing ─ tfatws!bucky barnes x reader

       ✧ series warnings ─ smut, +18, rediscovery of sex (for bucky), oral sex, rough sex, desperate sex, dry humping, dumbass!bucky is a thing now, strangers to fuck buddies to lovers, idiots in love trope is strong in this one, kissing, making out, soft times, fluff, light angst [more tags will be added with each update]

       ✧ parts:

    1. ALLEY [sunday, may 16th, 7:34PM]

    2. KITCHEN [friday, may 28th, 9:49PM]

     3. WALL [thursday, june 10th, 6:02PM]

     4. NEW [sunday, june 19th, 1:32AM]

     5. BITTER [tuesday, june 25th, 5:34PM]

     6. UNFAMILIAR [wednesday, july 5th, 8:01PM]

     7. FORGOTTEN [tuesday, july 18-19th, 11:45PM-1:09AM]

[more parts will be added as posted]

[noctumbra-deactivated20240920]

𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦

summary ─ they were very young; a little shy from being fourteen at that time, but both of them knew they were it. soulmates.

pairing ─ tfatws!bucky barnes x reader

warnings ─ fluff, angst, major character death, soulmates au, flashbacks, tws makes an apperance, angst, like a bit too much angst sprinkled with some fluff, i’m not sorry lol, suicidal thoughts, mentions of suicide attemps

a/n ─ this idea had been sitting in my notebook, and i started writing it a while ago but didn’t know how to end it. @xxshelbsxx​ told me to do my worst for angst, and i had a lightbulb going off :) hope you like it. enjoy this 5.7k words of tear jerker fic, i have made myself cry writing it lmao. please leave comments and tell me what you think! thank youu <33

Bucky Barnes remembered so clearly the very first time he saw his soulmate. It wasn’t a huge, exaggerated event like how people described it now. There weren’t any fireworks or world literally stopping or some similar shit like that.

Weiterlesen

[bxckybxrnxs]

Melted Hearts (Bucky x Reader)

Summary: On a mission to Siberia in Winter, you, Bucky, Steve and Sam are stuck overnight at a dingy hotel. Luckily for you, the hotel has a bar. Unluckily for you, each time you get drunk you find yourself kissing Bucky like there’s no tomorrow, but the ‘friends with benefits’ type arrangement the two of you appear to have, isn’t really working out anymore. And what a surprise: it turns out there’s only one bed!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, fwb!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 12k (whoops)

Warnings: Knife/gun violence mentioned as well as injury.

A/n: And on the last day of my isolation I present you all with this! Reader is a form of super soldier like Steve and Bucky, but to a lesser degree so can get briefly drunk on mass quantities of alcohol :) This was my favourite thing in the world to write, despite working on it for a very long time, it’s my baby :’) all my original ideas and work

A thick blanket of snow covered the ground. The trees, lightly dusted, spiralled upwards darkly, contrasting with the stark whiteness. The scene would have been eerily beautiful if it wasn’t for the gunshots you could hear in the not too far off distance. 

Your radio crackled into life, ‘Come in. Twenty one hostiles heading north west.’

“Copy that Cap’n.” You replied, before hooking the radio back onto your belt. 

Running through the woods, your footsteps were entirely muffled by the cotton covering of snow. A stealthy shadow came into view, as Bucky fell into step with you.

“On your left,” He muttered, throwing you a grin.

‘Hey, that’s mine and Steve’s thing,’ Sam complained over comms. 

“You’re a big boy now Sam, you can share your toys.” 

‘Fuck you, Y/n.’

 “Love you Sam. Have they taken the bait yet?”

‘Hell yeah they have, they’re heading back South East.’

You both finally slowed, breath visibly curling in short puffs into the freezing air, the tips of your fingers numb.

“Fuck, this is just too easy.”

Bucky smirked at you as he swiftly loaded a rifle he’d pulled from his jacket.

You glared at him, “Shut up Barnes. I don’t run a body temperature of a thousand degrees like you do, I’m literally freezing to death.” 

Pulling your favourite handgun from your winter boots you loaded it quickly, then whipped four knives from your sleeves, sheathing them on your belt.

Bucky raised his eyebrows at you, “Where the hell are you keeping all of those?” 

You watched his eyes rove across your figure hugging tactical suit.

“You can’t use searching me for weapons as an excuse to check me out, Barnes,” You sassed, lips turning up mischievously. Reaching behind you, you pulled another concealed handgun from your suit, chucking it to Bucky, who easily caught it, a guilty smile plastered across his face.

“Doll, do I ever need an excuse to check you out?” He flirted, loading the gun and handing it back to you.

Weiterlesen

[bucksfucks]

 • 𝗯𝘂𝗰𝗸𝘆 𝗯𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 •

Weiterlesen

[bucksfucks]

     PLAYLIST | MOODBOARD

    summary • when bucky needs a date to sam’s wedding, he makes a deal with you. when it starts to turn into something a little more real, you realize how deep you’re in.

    word count — 15,402 words [on going]

    chapters — in progress

1. PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

2. I’M LONELY, COME OVER

3. IN THE CLOUDS

4. I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU FUCKED

5. MR. & THE MRS.

6. THE WORLD’S WORST HANGOVER

7. OLD WOUNDS

8. WHAT ARE WE

9. WEDDING BELLS

10. NOTHING CAN TEAR US APART

11. EPILOGUE

[sandersstudies]

My husband’s job primarily employs adult men but there is one (1) teenage girl and my husband said originally he worried she might be a bit of an outcast but instead every man on the crew was like “huh guess I am a dad/older brother now.”

[sandersstudies]

She was in a car crash on the way to work one morning and called my husband to let him know she’d be late and he was like wtf guess I’m gonna be late too because I’m coming to pick you up and then he told his team and they were like I think you mean WE are coming.

[hoonkus-deactivated20230701]

Imagine you are a teenage girl probably rushing to get to work and you crash your probably new car and feel absolutely miserable and now you’ll be late to work but then suddenly in the distance a car full of all the adult men you work with just pulls up and is like “we came all the way here to pick you up” the mental image right now is fr.

[sandersstudies]

Apparently she tried to call her dad but it was 3am and he was obviously sleeping so she called my husband and he not only came to find her but fished her glasses out of the hood of the car (she’d dropped them while looking inside), drove her to the hospital, and told her to take the day off. She insisted on coming back to work so he used his lunch break to watch TV with her to make sure she didn’t doze off (concussion risk).

You’ve heard of the Mom friend but my husband is very much the Dad friend. He said when he answered the phone she said “hey please don’t be mad” and he’s never felt such powerful Fatherhood energy in his life.

[deliciouspaintthinner]

Girl: *calls for aid*

Every single dad packed into the car:

[sandersstudies]

This is possibly my favorite response to this post

[i-like-to-think-that-im-cool]

This girls father: Thanks for helping my daughter out guys

Your husband and all his coworkers:

[goawfma]

to think 1957 was only a little over 60 years ago..

[tezz0027]

1st my mind was blown because I thought those had been around way longer

2nd this needed to be shared Black History month or not!!

[snarky-bee]

I think another problem with the mindset of kudos/comments on AO3 is part of the “stalking” culture on instagram. If you like a picture that is months old on instagram, its “insta-stalking” because you had to scroll through that person’s profile in order to find those months-old pictures. That is NOT how AO3 works. It’s not cringe or embarrassing to find a fic that was posted in 2012 and like it. It is there to read. 

Same for works on AO3. Sure, maybe some of us have some old works that aren’t up to our current standards of writing. But I, personally, am never going to look at a kudos email and think “ew omg I can’t believe someone found this fic from 2016 why are they liking it”. In fact, I am entirely going to go “nice! people are still reading some of my older works too, I’m glad they enjoyed it”. It’s an archive, it is meant to be a collection of transformative works, old and new, and you are meant to find them. 

In fact, if you find a work that is from five years ago and you really liked it? I bet the author would love a comment even then.

Stories are written to be read. 

Show some appreciation.

[barbex]

Writers write to be read!

Older stories need love just as new ones. Please don’t let stories and chapters die of neglect after one fucking week!

[kxtharina]

Today is the day. I made the impossible happen.

I finished my conditioner and shampoo at the same time.