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About Me
You can call me Lena. I’m bisexual, self-diagnosed with ADHD and on the Autism spectrum. I’m still figuring out a lot about those conditions and how it affects my daily life. I ask for your patience if this comes up. I consider myself fairly easy going and welcome any interaction with my work.
Pet names I’m ok with: baby (and all variants), doll, sweetheart, honey, love, angel, bug (still discovering myself so may add more as I figure it out)
The only thing I truly ask is that you don’t send a DM or ask with the grinning teeth emoji (😁). I have my reasons, please don’t press the issue. If I have to repeatedly ask you to stop using it, I will not hesitate to block you.
This is my blog, my space. Please respect my boundaries or see yourself out.
My Writing
I currently write for various Sebastian Stan characters, primarily Bucky Barnes, but I’ve dabbled in Jefferson, Mickey Henry, and Steve Kemp (soon). Though I do have a real-person fiction story going with my Sebastian Stan x OC story, I do not write reader-inserts with him.
I have a library here for my own works as well as my favs. Follow my writing blog, link in my description, for new fics and updates as I no longer do tag lists.
I welcome any and all thots. I tend to go deep with my fics so writing little drabbles based on a gif or idea is a nice break. Even about my OCs.
Learn about my OCs. These characters are very near and dear to me and I love receiving questions about them. They will make my day.
In this house we worship many fandoms including Marvel (mainly Bucky), Star Wars, Supernatural, LOTR, and frankly anything else that strikes my fancy.
if you have a problem with any of the fictional pairings that i enjoy on the internet, for the low cost of $9,000 you can pay me to care about what you think
Normally I like shopping at Sam’s for clothes, but today was an infuriating disappointment.
Why are we making sweatshirts and pullovers crop tops???!!!!! If the sleeves are shorter than the torso, it’s too damn short. Sweatshirts and pullovers are meant to be warm and cozy!!! Not clothing I have to double layer under it to stay warm and cover my waist! It’s the warm layer!
pairing: inexperienced!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, praise kink (sorta), slow first time, unprotected sex, creampie, a tinge of angst if you squint, the fluff makes up for it
summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesn’t know how to let himself have you. but you’ll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.
word count: 4.5k
author's note: hi my sweethearts! i'd like to think that after bucky returns, he would need a lot of reassurance and tlc, especially after all he has went through. i feel that he would love to be guided and to know he is loved. so i hope this fic encapsulates that 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there!
requests are open!
so in love with soft!bucky
It starts with his hands. Or rather, what they don’t do.
They hold yours when you’re walking down quiet halls in the compound, fingers interlocked, the brush of calloused skin a comfort more than anything else.
They linger at the small of your back when no one’s looking—firm, steady, grounding you when the world gets too loud.
They cradle your face when you’re scared, trembling, coming down from the edge of something violent. Missions gone wrong, intel turned sour, blood on your skin. In those moments, his hands are everything you ever needed. Steady and safe.
But when your lips are on his?
When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?
That’s when they stop.
Always.
Just… stop.
Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.
And it’s not like you haven’t tried.
You have, god you tried.
More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.
Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch.
Not with disgust, not with rejection. There’s no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.
But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.
The first time it happened, you brushed it off.
He’d had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.
Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.
So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.
You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.
And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.
The second time, you wondered.
It was a few nights later. He wasn’t tense then, he wasn’t distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didn’t always get from him.
You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.
He’d watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, to deserve you.
And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.
So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.
He flinched.
Not much. But enough.
And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”
You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.
And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.
“Yeah. Okay.”
You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.
Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.
His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.
You didn’t say a word.
But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.
The third time, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.
It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.
You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Bucky’s lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.
You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.
And maybe that was what made it worse.
Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.
It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.
So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasn’t with expectation. It wasn’t about sex, or hunger, or even want.
It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.
He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.
But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.
Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.
And still, he tensed.
You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasn’t a rejection. Like it didn’t mean something.
But it did.
He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasn’t the third time in a row.
But you didn’t follow.
Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.
You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.
“Hey,” he said softly, already sensing the change. “What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer right away.
The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.
When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.
“Do you want me?”
He didn’t move.
You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.
“Because I want you,” you continued, quieter now. “And every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I can’t help wondering if maybe I’m wrong about all of it.”
He went very, very still.
Then, “Stop.”
His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.
You turned, startled.
He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadn’t meant to expose.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—just. I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Ever.”
You stared at him.
“Then talk to me,” you said softly. “Because it’s getting harder not to take it personally.”
He didn’t look at you.
His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.
You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.
Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” you asked. “Like you’re in love with me?”
You swallowed hard.
“Because you do. Every day.”
He still didn’t say anything.
“And then I touch you, and you freeze. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I’ve done something wrong.”
There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.
His hands stayed clenched.
You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.
“Bucky,” you whispered. “What is it? You can tell me.”
He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.
For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before — with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.
“I haven’t…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “I haven’t done anything since before the war.”
The breath caught in your chest.
He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.
“Not just sex,” he said. “Anything. After HYDRA… after everything. I didn’t—I couldn’t.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than he’d expected.
“It’s been over eighty years.”
You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him.
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re here, and you’re kind, and you’ve never pushed. But I get so far and then it’s like—like my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks I’m not allowed to want things.”
Your heart twisted.
Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.
Then, more quietly:
“You think I don’t want you?” His voice dropped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.”
His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.
“But I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m scared.”
You moved then.
Not away. But forward.
You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.
“Scared of what?” you asked, softer now.
He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.
“That I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I won’t know what I’m doing. That you’ll want someone who’s not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.”
Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid you’d spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.
“You’re already everything I want and more,” you said, steady and sure. “But I need you to believe that.”
His breath hitched.
“And if you let me,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “I’ll show you everything. I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”
He didn’t answer right away.
His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.
But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.
You don’t rush him.
After everything he’s said, every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.
So you just breathe for a moment.
You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.
His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he doesn’t quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.
So you start small.
You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.
His breath stutters. His lips part.
You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like he’s something sacred.
His hands twitch in his lap. He doesn’t lift them yet, but he doesn’t pull away either.
You murmur against his mouth, “Can I touch you?”
He swallows thickly. Nods.
You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.
The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.
You pause. You meet his eyes.
“I’ll stop any time you need me to,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.
He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. “I want you to.”
You offer a gentle smile. “Okay.”
You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You don’t rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.
You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like you’re memorising every inch with intention.
When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.
He’s bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The room’s low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.
You let your gaze roam.
He doesn’t meet your eyes.
He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.
You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.
He flinches.
Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.
But he doesn’t pull away.
You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.
“Is this okay?”
His voice is low and rough. “Yeah. Feels nice.”
You smile against his skin, then keep going.
Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.
“Still beating,” you whisper, a soft marvel.
You feel it stutter beneath your lips.
Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.
He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.
“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want to touch,” you murmur, kissing along his ribs.
He turns his face, like he’s trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.
“Hey,” you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me say it. Let me mean it.”
His lips part like he might argue, but he doesn’t.
You rest your forehead against his.
“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So strong, You’ve been through hell and still came of it.”
His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.
Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.
And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesn’t flinch.
You look up at him. “Can I take these off?”
His voice is strained. “Yeah.”
You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.
By the time you’ve got them off, he’s flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.
His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.
He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.
But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.
“You’re doing so good,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”
His nod is jerky. “Just—don’t look too long.”
You blink. “Why not?”
He swallows hard. “’Cause you’ll know I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”
You smile, warm, never mocking.
“Baby,” you say gently, “I already know.”
You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..
“But it’s not a problem,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. “It’s a privilege.”
His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.
He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.
“Fuck—” His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like he’s trying to say something and can’t find the words.
You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.
He’s flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.
“Nobody’s ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.
You look up. “Ever?”
He nods, barely. “Not like this.”
You smile. “Good.”
You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.
Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like he’s trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.
You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.
“Holy shit—sweetheart, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”
You press a kiss to his hip. “That’s okay. That’s why we’ll take our time.”
You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.
“Can I ride you?” you whisper.
His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. “Please,” he breathes. “I want you to. So bad.”
You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch — until he’s fully seated inside you.
Bucky’s head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.
“F-fuck, baby—” he gasps. “Too much. Feels too—”
You don’t move.
You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.
“You okay?” you whisper.
He nods, frantic. “Yeah. I—just give me a second.”
You wait.
When his eyes open again, they’re soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.
“You okay?” you ask.
“I think you’re killing me,” he says hoarsely. “But I don’t wanna stop.”
You smile.
Then you start to move.
Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.
His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.
“Feels too good,” he pants. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not gonna—”
You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
And he does.
With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.
He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.
And even after it’s over, even after he’s finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesn’t let go.
He just holds you.
And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.
He’s still trembling.
You don’t move. You don’t shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.
His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it all—it makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.
Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like you’re coaxing his body back into itself.
He clutches you tighter.
His arms are around your waist, strong and firm—not bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.
You don’t pull away.
You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.
His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s muffled—barely audible. Raw.
“I didn’t mean to finish so fast.”
Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.
You press a kiss to his temple—tender, grounding.
“I know.”
His voice is barely there. “I just—fuck, I couldn’t stop it. You felt so good. I couldn’t think."
You hum softly, stroking his hair again. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”
He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.
His cheeks are flushed. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.
He looks completely ruined.
Completely beautiful.
Yours.
“But you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. “You didn’t finish.”
You don’t stop smiling.
There’s no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.
“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Tonight was about you.”
His brows pull together, like he doesn’t quite know how to process that.
“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I want to make you feel good too.”
“You already do,” you murmur, your nose brushing his. “But if you really want to keep going…”
You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.
Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.
He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.
“…we can.”
His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like he’s trying to speak but can’t form a single thought.
“I’m still—,” he whispers, like it’s a warning. But there’s no hesitation in his tone. Only want.
“But I want it,” he adds. “I want you.”
You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.
He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.
You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. It’s slow, but unmistakable.
“Okay?” you whisper.
He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning in sensation. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just—shit. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
You smile against his jaw. “You wanna come again for me?”
His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes. Please—”
You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.
“Such good manners,” you whisper, kissing his throat. “So sweet for me.”
Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.
He watches you.
Like you’re made of stars, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.
“Touch me,” you murmur. “Please, Bucky. I want your hands on me.”
It’s the only encouragement he needs.
His hands move slowly, softly, trembling, sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.
The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby—can’t believe I get to have you like this.”
His voice breaks on the last word.
You’re slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.
His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.
“Feels so good,” he whines. “I don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.”
You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.
“You feel that?” you gasp. “How close I am?”
His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.
“Please—please come around me, sweetheart—need to feel it—need to feel you—”
You bury your face in his neck.
And let go.
Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
Your walls clamp down hard around him.
And that’s all it takes.
He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.
His arms wrap tight around you.
He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.
This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.
Not desperate.
Tender.
His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he can’t get close enough.
You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you don’t rush to move.
Not yet.
“Jesus,” he whispers eventually, voice raw. “What the fuck just happened?”
You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. “That was called good sex,.”
He groans into your neck. “That was more than good. That was—fuck. That was divine.”
You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.
You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.
Neither of you move for a long time.
There’s nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.
Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space you’ve made between the two of you.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.
And safe.
And home.
a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333
Don’t you just love when a small house project (literally small, stapling a sheet to cover hvac duct from my cats) that you’ve been putting off forever that took barely an hour and improved the health and life of your cat (she was hiding and self isolating to the point of damaging her mental health, yes she’s had all the vet work, she was being moody and is doing better already, and yes there is plenty of room and spots to seclude and decompress in a healthy way) sends you in a flare that’s resulted in pain and a migraine that won’t go away and it’s been 3 days…
This is so jumbled but I don’t care, I need a massage (Thursday can’t come soon enough) to get that muscle loose and quit compressing the nerve. My head still hurts, my arm is practically a dead limb (the only thing that relieves my shoulder pain right now is letting hang limp) I’m supposed to attend a training in a bright lit room later. I just want to hide in my office with my data tables and ride this out.
I might spit out a little rpf thing with my oc later (literally just about my oc, but a real person is involved sort of) about what today means to her. Would literally be a true word vomit.
But I want to kind of talk out to myself some here first (and you lovely people get to witness it too) about why I think today hits me so hard and why I do not like making fun of it (I get dark humor, but imo only certain people affected by such events have the privilege of making those jokes, ie a person who lost a dad is allowed to make dead dad jokes).
Putting a break here because this may get triggering for some.
I think it hit me this morning why, even though I was quite young (6 yrs old) and lived a couple of states away, today’s event left such a mark on my young soul. And it comes back to the state of the world today and the constant televised violence and hatred and just evil represented every day.
As an adult I can understand and rationalize some actions. Not saying it’s an excuse or right or wrong or justifying what someone did, but I can think about and put myself in someone’s mind to understand why they felt the need or want to do what they did, horrible as it may be.
At 6 yrs old, I had already been through a trauma even if I don’t fully remember it. I survived a brain disease at 2 yrs that made me restart certain milestones (I had to be potty-trained again, learn to walk again, needed help with words I knew before I was sick). In other words, I think my cognitive life started with an aptitude for absorbing information and taking it in and processing things because my brain was trying to catch up and learn what it had lost (I know that sounds counter intuitive but I’m rationalizing here).
So 6 yrs old I was in 1st grade when the planes hit the towers. I remember my mom picking me up from school (they didn’t dismiss as far as I know), I remember watching the footage on TV, watching people jump from the buildings, watching as the towers fell, and watching the aftermath throughout the day. I don’t think I had school the next day. I even remember that it was a Tuesday.
But most of all, I remember being terrified. And I internalized that. As much as I didn’t understand about the world, I knew my country was about to go to war. I knew that my life would never be the same and yet wouldn’t really change. Not right away. And I was absolutely irrevocably terrified that my dad was going to go to war and die (clearly I didn’t understand how drafting and the army worked yet).
But that’s what stuck. That fear that I was going to lose someone I loved, even if it was an irrational thought. And I think my little brain also understood that, if I was that scared over something that wasn’t going to happen, how scared was everyone else that was actually there. The people in the towers, the people on the ground, the people who had no idea what was happening until it was too late or already over.
I could not make sense of it. That’s the key.
It did not make sense.
Why someone would do this. Why someone would bring this feeling of fear and sadness and tragedy upon others just for the sake of doing it.
As an adult I know more about why those people did what they did. I know more about the heroics of the passengers of Flight 93, the firefighters and civilians who put themselves in harms way, even giving their own lives, to save others.
But that 6 year old little girl in me can still not make sense of why it happened.
From an outsiders perspective, someone might say I have a fascination of 9/11 and the events that took place that day. I’ve written it into a core piece of an original character. I’ve written essays about it, read books about it (both historical fictions and non).
I recently went on a trip with a group of friends to the Titanic museum a few hours away from where I live and one of them couldn’t help but sob as we walked through.
9/11 is my titanic. And if I ever get the privilege to go to the memorials and museums, I hope I’m either alone or with someone who truly understands the mark that day left behind on me and so so many others.
Don’t come here with your jokes, your memes, you can do that with others who are ok with it. I am not.
And don’t you dare! Come here with conspiracy theories about the towers. Don’t you dare disrespect those who lost their lives and those who lost their loved ones from the hatred of others!
Believe what you want, there is scientific, physics, and mechanical evidence and explanations behind the collapses. But if you insist that “oh the government lined it with C4” or anything along those lines, or bring up anything that takes away from the lives changed and the tragedy of today, fucking go away! Talk amongst others who agree with you, not with me.
Not going to promise anything (but part 4 is about 2/3 written), but something changed and my muse is back for someone. I’m going to try and get all of it out in case I get in another slump.
Here’s another one from the vaults of my notes app.
Again don’t like don’t read. No minors are allowed on my blog!
Memorial
Siobhan Dockery (my OC) X Sebastian Stan (yes he’s actually in this part)
Warnings: mention of death, 9/11, past trauma, idk what else I didn’t reread this and it’s been years
Quick summary: Siobhan is a cast member on Kings (2009) filming in NYC and everyone takes a day off together to watch a memorial for 9/11.
Ummm…yeah I think that’s all. Again, didn’t reread this before posting, any and all mistakes are mine. Also copy and pasted from my notes so formatting is probably shit.
Most of the cast and a good deal of the crew were scattered around the hotel lounge. Some people had taken advantage of the extended weekend to go home or take a quick vacation. The ones that stayed had gathered to watch the memorial this year. Siobhan decided last minute she should attend too. She wasn’t thrilled about it to say the least. It’s wasn’t that she thought this day shouldn’t be commemorated, quite the contrary. It just brought back a flood of memories she’d rather forget forever. Her cast mates weren’t aware of her feelings toward today, she hadn’t felt the need to share. Hell, hardly anyone knew just how close she was to this event, not even her best friend. She didn’t want their pity. Anytime it would come up in the two years after it happened, that’s all she could see. ‘Poor thing, how tragic.’ That was probably the most common. When she moved back to New York, keeping this under wraps was a priority.
But today…today was about facing the music, at least a little. Siobhan couldn’t run from this her whole life. If her career took off, it was bound to be brought up. She had to learn to accept it herself before the public forced it upon her. Today marked 7 years since her life quite literally went up in flames. September 11, 2008 marked seven years since her mom and step-dad were killed in a terrorist attack that claimed almost 3000 lives, and left her alone at the ripe age of 11.
Siobhan sat off center and close to the back of the room. A few friends she had made during filming were seated nearby, Sebastian among them. That knowledge comforted her a little. She couldn’t describe it, there was just something about his presence that calmed her.
The memorial started with the short video of the phone calls made by those trapped in the towers and the passengers who grounded Flight 93. Video footage of that day began to play, witnesses and survivors recounting their experience. Before long it switched to a live feed of a military man on a podium. He looked familiar but Siobhan couldn’t place him. He began to speak about the military lives lost, particularly the ones from the Pentagon.
“I know every life that was lost that day was a tragic loss and each one deserves to be remembered and celebrated forever. However, this year I want to talk about one specifically. George Gaylord…”
Siobhan flinched at the name. She couldn’t focus on the speaker’s next words for a few moments, too distracted by internal panic bubbling up. She didn’t even notice Sebastian next to her turn his head when he noticed her tense.
“…He was my friend for many years and a dedicated husband and father. His little girl may not have been of his own flesh and blood, but he loved and cared for no less. I don’t know if she ever knew this, but he often talked to me about officially adopting her.”
What? Siobhan gasped quietly, her lips parted in shock.
“He met her and her mother shortly after they landed in New York in search of a better life. Roxana Dockery, Roxie, never made a decision without considering the effect it would have on her daughter.”
Siobhan’s vision became blurry at the mention of Roxana. It was quickly becoming too much, too soon.
“From the handful of times I had the privilege to spend time with all three of them, I can tell you they were a very happy family. Roxie hardly talked about they’re time before New York, she said she’d rather focus on the good times to come than the bad ones that came before. George always admired her spirit and strength.”
Siobhan fiddled with her hands, trying desperately to stem the panic attack building. So far, other than Roxana’s surname, nothing was said that could indicate her place in this story. But if she were to leave or breakdown here in the lounge, there’s no doubt the dots could be connected.
Sebastian was sitting next to but slightly behind Siobhan. He had noticed her fidgety state, but didn’t want to draw attention, it was obvious to him she was trying very hard to contain whatever was swimming in her head.
The speaker paused for a bit to composed himself before he continued. “I wanted to tell you all how wonderful and brave George was, and how much he cared for his family.” His voice began to shake as he continued. “On September 11, 2001, Roxie was working in the North Tower when it was struck. She didn’t make it out.”
Her eyes started watering again. She willed them not to fall.
“George and their little girl were in the Pentagon. As soon as word was out about the towers, he made it his mission to protect little Siobhan.”
There it was. If the connection wasn’t made by her friends and coworkers, it soon would be. Not that it mattered. Siobhan could barely focus on anything but the flood of memories, words from the TV drowning in the background.
“…went to his office…”
The rush, the panic of a little girl who understood something bad was happening but confused why no one would say what.
“…same area as the plane…”
She could hear the roar getting closer and closer before a weight crushing her. The burning, acrid smell coming from everywhere, yet nowhere.
“…gave his life protecting her…”
The pain in her side and the fear made her want to scream. Scream until her voice was hoarse. But she couldn’t, no mattered how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her body to listen. Something was above her, blocking the heat from the flames and most of the ash falling in the air. She could only cry, weep until the darkness took hold.
A hand on her shoulder suddenly brought her back to the present. With tears silently falling down her face, she discreetly glanced at those around her, trying to gauge who else noticed. Before she could turn to the owner of the hand, it had to be Sebastian, he was the only one close enough, the speaker’s words caught her attention.
“In the aftermath of everything, I never had the opportunity to speak to Siobhan. To let her know how much her parents loved her. I lost track of her over the years, but I know she turned 18 this year. She was forced to grow up without her parents and I hope, that if she is watching this, she knows she’s never alone.”
Siobhan couldn’t listen anymore. As quietly as she could without drawing attention, she gently moved Sebastian’s hand and left the lounge. Her feet led her down the hotel hallways, out the front door, and through the streets of New York, oblivious to anyone else passing by or following. Without realizing it, she ended up on one of the sets for the show. It was the one used for banquets and parties. A room off to the side of the main one held the object of her desire. She sought it out unconsciously. Only a handful of things could help when her brain decides to go haywire like this.
She approached the piano swiftly. It was a beautiful instrument in any case, but this particular one was gorgeous beyond words. She sat at the bench and let her hands move across the keys of their own accord. The sounds of Bach, Mozart, and even Beethoven floated through the room. No piece in particular, just sections of her favorites, transitioning to and from with the waves of anxiety and calm that flowed through her mind.
As Siobhan felt her mind relax, she couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t alone. Turning, she saw Sebastian leaning in the doorframe.
“What are you doing here?” She asked him.
He pushed himself off and walked to the piano, standing on the opposite side. “I wanted to make sure you were ok.” He he put his elbows on the piano and leaned forward slightly. “Are you?”
Siobhan paused her fingers, “Figured it out then?” Sebastian nodded. “Think anyone else did?”
He shrugged. “Hard to tell. Don’t think they’ll say anything if they did. Not unless you say something.” She raised her eyebrows in question. He gave her an understanding smile. “You’re not exactly an open book, and any sane person is going to realize it’s a sensitive subject.”
“Good,” Siobhan huffed, “I don’t need their pity.” She started playing again, a slow melodic tune. Looking at her fingers dance over the keys, she missed Sebastian’s look of concern.
His attention turned to the music. “You’re good. Where’d you learn?” A change of subject was needed.
Siobhan brought her gaze to his, “My mom taught me the basics. Apparently one of her friends growing up was always playing and she tagged along to lessons. I taught myself the rest, helped keep my mind off things and keep her with me.” She teared up a bit. She didn’t remember much of her mother anymore, it was too painful. But the music and piano playing always stayed. “How much did you hear? Earlier?”
It was a double question. She wanted to know how long he had been there, observing her. “Long enough to know you’re talented.” He answered one while glazing over the unspoken second. “I don’t know many people who can change pieces, much less composers, so seamlessly.” She looked at him, a bit stunned at his musical knowledge and ability to identify the differences. “My mom’s a piano teacher. Actually how I got my name,” he smiled at the mention of his mother.
Siobhan couldn’t help but smile back, both at his own and the piece of personal information he shared. “Bach?”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, before indicating the piano. “Know any fun ones? Not that I’m complaining about the the classics.”
Siobhan stopped her hands, giving him a mischievous smirk, she jumped into The Entertainer by Scott Joplin. “This was the first one I taught and memorized myself.”
She became so caught up in the music, and frankly the beautiful man in front of her, she never noticed a few of her coworkers pop their heads in. Sebastian simply nodded his head at their silent questions, not wanting to draw Siobhans attention to them. He watched her face relax more and more with every note and every word of conversation. All too soon, the piece came to an end.
The silence between them was comfortable. Siobhan knew she needed to move and go about her day. Enjoy the time off work. But one, she didn’t want to go anywhere that could remind of what this day was. Going home alone was a bad idea. It would only lead to lots of ice cream, loathing, and depression. Two, she really wanted to stay in Sebastian’s company. It was selfish of her. Surely he had better things to do than to spend his time off with her. She wasn’t anything special. Honestly she had probably scared him off of anything to do with her, much less friendship.
“Want to hang out?”
His question cut off her internal rambling. “Huh?”
“Want to hang out today?” He repeated. “You seem like you could use a friend.”
“A friend?”
He chuckled. “Yes, a friend. You know, someone to spend time with, hang out, confide in, be yourself without judgement, someone who’s there for you when you need them…,” he paused for a moment, “We are friends, right?”
“Well I- I didn’t want to assume,” Siobhan sputtered. She wasn’t good with new people, and it’s not like she had a whole lot of people lining up to be friends growing up. Really she only had Rachael, and that’s probably just because they were roommates freshman year. Sebastian was still patiently waiting for her to answer. Taking a deep breath, “I consider you a friend, but I didn’t want to assume you thought of me as one. We’re coworkers and I’ll admit we work together well, at least from my-“
“So, I consider you a friend. You consider me a friend,” he interrupted, “Therefore we are friends, yes?”
She sighed through her nose before nodding, “Yes, Sebastian. I suppose we are friends.”
“Great! Then we can hang today and I can reacquaint you with the city.” Sebastian leaned back from the piano and moved to stand next to her.
Siobhan stood from the bench and the two started making their way out of the building. “That’s right, you’re from New York aren’t you?”
Sebastian held the door open for her. “Well sort of. I spent my teen years here, but I’m actually from Europe.” The door closed behind them as they started down the street, no destination in mind.
“Where is Europe?” Siobhan asked. She could tell Sebastian was hesitant to tell her. “Come on now. We’re friends, right?” she teased, “Friends tell each other things.” She poked his arm to emphasize her statement. “You’re words.”
He smiled and shook his head lightly at her antics before, somewhat reluctantly, saying he was from Romania.
Siobhan stopped in her tracks. He couldn’t be serious. It’s too freaky of a coincidence to be real. “Really?”
“Yeah. I was born in Constanta.” He was a bit nervous. Some people didn’t react well with that knowledge, given the country’s recent political history.
Siobhan smiled, “Acolo a crescut mama. M-am născut în București. (That’s where my mother was grew up. I was born in Bucharest.).”
Seb’s eyes lit up when he heard his native language. “Sunteți din România? (You are from Romania?)”
She nodded and switched back to English. “Yes. I was a baby when we moved, so I don’t remember much, but it was something my mom was very proud of. She even incorporated the language into my schooling, though I admit I’m very out of practice.”
The two started down the streets again. “It sounds like you remember it well enough,” Seb told her.
“I know enough to get by,” Siobhan blushed at his compliment, “but I’d struggle with full conversations. Not exactly a lot of people around here who know it. After…well, everything, I tried to keep teaching myself, but that really only gets you so far, you know?”
Sebastian gently bumped your shoulder. “You have me now.”
“That I do.”
They continued to walk in comfortable silence. There were people hustling along around them, but not as many as there could be. It seems the memorial service was enticing many of them to stay home or at least in proximity to a TV. Siobhan was thankful for it. She loved the city, she wouldn’t have fought tooth and nail to go to school here otherwise, but sometimes people were just too much to handle.
“You drink coffee?” Sebastian asked her.
She gave him a look of disbelief. “I’m a drama student at NYU juggling classes, work, and adult shit. Coffee is my life.”
Sebastian laughed full-heartedly. “Well there’s great a cafe not far from here I visited a lot growing up. Interested?” He offered his arm to her.
“One thing you will quickly learn about me, Sebastian,” she said, linking her arm through his, “I will never turn down the opportunity for coffee with a friend.”
He smiled and they started towards their destination. “I’ll make sure to remember that.”
Sooo… I haven’t written anything in a long time. But I got tagged in something recently by @karimac and it’s given me the courage to post some stuff in my notes. I really don’t care if no one reads it, this is more about getting my stories out there.
I wrote this almost 4 years ago, have not proofread it, honestly haven’t even read over it before posting. It is real-person fiction but the main character is my OC Siobhan. Still, if RPF is not your thing, scroll by.
Set of Kings
Siobhan Dockery x Sebastian Stan OC story (thought I don’t think Sebastian is in this part)
No clue on word count
Probably some cuss words, maybe some allusions to bad childhood.
Minors not allowed!!
With Mamma Mia under her belt and finally of legal age, Kings was to be her first real step into the industry. Not that Mamma Mia wasn’t a real experience. Hell, she got to work along side the great Meryl Streep, Christine Barinski, and Pierce Brosnan to name a few of the wonderful cast. But that film ended up benefiting her bastard of a father more than her. At least financially, though she couldn’t and wouldn’t trade the exposure and experience. But that film was meant to help her with her schooling. New York itself was an expensive city, not to mention the local university. But as she was not of legal age when filming took place, and she did not know any better at the time, her father had access to her bank account and when the paycheck came, it was promptly transferred to him. She couldn’t even hire anyone to fight and try and get it back. That cost money for which she was lacking of. Now that she was 18, the money left by her mom and stepdad was accessible, but she didn’t want to use it...not yet at least. She needed to prove to herself she could do this. Sure her father had offered her money for school as long as it was of his choosing, not to mention he would most likely hold it over her head and she would never be free of him.
So, another project it was. The film schedule would affect the first few weeks of the fall semester, but it was necessary if she wanted to keep attending. In all truth, she probably would have auditioned for this part either way. She made it the first few rounds, but initially lost it in the end. To her fortune, the original actress had to step away and she was asked to fill the spot. At the first rounds of auditions, Siobhan was merely trying her luck and hoping for, if nothing else, the knowledge that she gave it her best. Now though, it was a matter of financial need.
Her friend, Rachael, and herself had come up with a plan to help pay for their education, but that would not be put into play until next semester. Siobhan needed to to be able to put forth money now. At only 18, and unwilling to bring her only legal guardian into her troubles, a student loan was out of the question, not that she had met the deadline. She had a scholarship or two that would help with the tuition, but she had to take on the housing and supplies alone.
So here she was, on the set of Kings (thankfully filmed right in the city). It was daunting already. She was to play the daughter of Ian McShane’s character, King Silas. Today was mostly about meeting her cast mates and some last minute fittings. Shouldn’t be too stressful, if she wasn’t the youngest and most green of the cast.
I have a question for readers and/or writers out here in the void. I’m working on an original story and would like the opinion of those who are willing to give it. I’m going to hide the rest because I am hoping to publish it someday and may also post little snippets as I work through it so if you don’t want spoilers.
So quick set up. My FMC has/had two lovers. One died in her arms (happens prior to story) and she had a daughter with him who’s alive. This was her first love, soulmate, true love, all the things. The other dies in the story, somewhat early on, and their child as well, but the FMC doesn’t see this happen nor finds a body. This man helped her grieve her loss, help raise their kid, and became her person. So far I’ve played out the story so one of them does come back (big time fantasy magic story) but I won’t say which one haha. As a reader, which one would you want to see? It would literally be near end of the story, but each death plays a hand in the narrative in their own way.
I have a bit of inspiration for a short little thing with a librarian reader, domestic (sort of) Bucky, and his adopted child.
Probably going to put something together anyway, nothing serious. Trying not to over pressure myself because I’d still like to finish the stories I’ve started, but I need to start small and low-key to get back into it.
