I know I’ve been ridiculously absent as of late, and for that I am very sorry. I’ve had a lot of personal family things to deal with.
I’ve been writing here and there when I get a chance, and unfortunately I haven’t been able to come up with anything I’m really happy with for the Autopilot final. I won’t post anything that’s beneath what I think is just right, and I won’t settle for quantity over quality. I think it’s best to wait until I can write it and be really happy with it rather than just push something out that I don’t like.
On another note, I’ve been piecing together a little thing for Loki! I wish we got more jotun!loki content.. which is what this is! Jotun!loki is unbelievably underrated and we should’ve gotten a lot more of him. So here’s a little piece of the fic im working on for him, just under the cut :)
“Why would you hide this away? Loki, you’re stunning.” And you mean it. The cool tone of his cornflower skin and his sharp vermillion eyes paired with the intricate markings across his cheeks and forehead look like a painting– a piece of art, living and breathing and just beneath your hands. Brushstrokes leaving shades of blue and red and beauty in their wake, hidden beneath pale skin and green eyes and lies and lies and lies.
The conviction of your words stuns him. Honesty drips with each syllable, covering his heart in warm honey-coated sweetness that begins to fill the cracks that have long been set in his soul. The look on your face has his mind blank; affection and love and kindness, the way you gaze at him like you’re holding the world in your palms rather than some horrid beast.
Though to you, it is the world clasped in your hands. Loki is your love, your happiness, your home. He is your world.
“Are you not frightened?” he asks, sheepishness present in his tone. With a soft smile and a gentle caress of your thumbs on his cold cheeks, you shake your head.
He is precious, a rare gem that you cherish and keep nestled deep in your heart. Now, he simply looks the part. Lapis skin and ruby eyes, a wolfish grin reminiscent of pearls and a heart worth more than gold. “How could I ever be frightened by such beauty?”
Your words are simple, oozing warmth and altruism matching your benevolent soul that he selfishly tangled his own into– good and kind wrapped up with cunning and cruel and oddly enough it makes for a perfect pair.
summary | Being taken hostage by an age-old Nazi organization isn’t all its cracked up to be. Bucky needs to revisit some old demons to help out, and it’s far from easy. For you, though? He’ll do anything.
wordcount | 3.2k
warnings | kidnapping, not exactly graphic but still there mistreatment in a hostage situation, typical creepy bunkers, and cheesy ass one-liners.
notes | part one is here! you should read it first :) you can translate the russian if you want, but i kept it unintelligible for the reader’s perspective as she doesn’t know russian. (not beta read, all mistakes are my own)
edit: i am aware of the caller ID/flip phone mistake, i overlooked it without fully thinking about it. please try to ignore it, it really doesn’t change anything in the story, it’s just a little mistake. <3
navigation | masterlist
(gif from this gifset by charlie-hunnam)
…and two more shall take its place.
Cheesy as fuck, and yet it seems to still hold up. Unfortunately.
Honestly, for an organization that was notorious for decades of having evaded its own death far too many times to count, they were seriously getting sloppy. Maybe it was the lack of brains and over-excessive brawn that had it failing, but shit… if this was the famous Hydra, it was laughable how below kidnapping standard this was. If that was a standard, at least.
It must be. Right? Abductors and terrifying trafficking rings have to have a standard in their means of abduction, and whatever that was, this was clearly not up to par.
Zip-ties bounding your wrists, not too tight but not too loose, allowing you to shift your arms in front of you. First mistake — everyone knows you tie the hands behind the person’s back! Literally every movie shows that, it’s basically public knowledge. The canvas bag over your head was probably very old, and you hoped that it wasn’t used for similar activities in the sixties. That’s just… gross.
All in all, you were remarkably calm for being held captive in an unknown vehicle heading to an unknown location. It might’ve been due to your knowledge of exactly who your boyfriend was (see: super soldier, hundred year old ex-assassin for the very people who abducted you) but you weren’t really afraid, more so just irritated. You were catching up on some really good sleep with some very pleasant dreams of eating a delicious red velvet cake with the wonderful Mary Berry before you were so rudely awakened.
Chatter from the front of the van (you assumed it was a van, since people always kidnap people in vans) had you slumping back over, feigning unconsciousness as the wheels screeched to a halt.
For a few moments, things were silent as doors opened and shut before you heard the back door slide open (of course it was a van, boring, where’s the abduction Ferrari?) and your body be hauled up and slung over some random goon’s shoulder. Must not be very comfortable, with the way he’s groaning, but to be fair, you had just eaten some amazing leftover takeout and you may have been a teensy bit bloated. Good, keep them uncomfortable. Might as well have a bit of a laugh before Bucky showed up to kick them all in the dicks.
The man holding you, along with the some-odd number of men along with him, began walking… somewhere, before you felt continuous drops. Stairs. Oh joy, a creepy basement. Typical.
And just as typical, or maybe on purpose, a very hard, very solid cement wall came into sharp contact with your head. Bastard.
With a sigh, you slumped over more freely, distributing your weight a little more across the man’s shoulder. “I’m assuming we’re here then, gentlemen?” Your only response was an indignant huff along with a sharp slap on the back of your thigh. Way too close. “Hey, watch your hands, asshole. Only one person is allowed to smack me there and you’re not him. I’m sure he’s on his way, though, so just hold out a bit longer.”
“Shut up, tupaya devchonka,” one of the men sighed. You were about 99% certain he’d called you some sort of insult, but since you had absolutely no clue what on earth it was, you told yourself he said something nice. Maybe like ‘should we give Bucky directions’ or ‘do you want a drink?’
No, it was probably something awful, and telling yourself it wasn’t only caused your anxiety to spike. Damn, and you were doing so well at playing the unbothered kidnapee.
Suddenly you’re dropped into a chair; splintering wood and cold and… damp? Officially a creepy basement with creepy furniture. Extremely typical. What is this, a horror movie with 12% on Rotten Tomatoes?
A hand gripped at the canvas bag over your head, tearing it off along with a few precious strands of hair. “Ow! Come on, dude, you could’ve just taken it off me! Didn’t have to rip my hair out too.”
“Der'mo, ona razdrazhayet,” the man closest to you groans, rubbing a hand over his face. Of course, all large burly goons. “Do you know where the Soldat is?” he asks, a thick accent coating his words.
You shrug. “I don’t know any Soldats. Got a last name for me?”
“Zimniy Soldat! The Winter Soldier! You live with him!” he pinches his eyebrows. Clearly you’re getting under his skin, and while it’s quite enjoyable, seeing your kidnapper get so annoyed by your lack of compliance, it’s also pretty goddamn terrifying.
Making a show of nodding in understanding, you hum. “Bucky, yeah. He isn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, though.”
The men look at each other in confusion before the man standing by the door speaks up, his voice clearer than the other’s. “What do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”
“I mean, he had that all taken out of his head. I guess you’re just shit outta luck, pal.” The three seem to communicate with their eyes for a moment before you sigh heavily, leaning your head over. “You got any food? I was eating some pretty great fried rice before you decided to take me, and I didn’t get to finish it.”
The one with the thick accent, ginger, you’re resorting to calling him due to his unruly fiery orange hair, throws his hands up in exasperation before leaving the room. Upon his exit, the one with the godawful neck tattoo of a skull with tentacles (very apropos) smacks a sharp hand over your face, his ring (also a skull with tentacles, how cohesive) cuts into your skin, a droplet of warm blood slipping down your cheek. “Shut up, shlyukha, or we make you shut up.” His words are paired with a disgusting smirk, his lips curling around yellowed teeth. “We wait for the Soldier to come for you. He will come.”
Of course he will, that reproachful bastard.
Bucky paced around the apartment for a full five minutes, the letter clenched in his palm as he practiced his square breathing. Trying again with his phone, he glared at the screen for a moment. He honestly didn’t understand half the shit on it, and he sincerely regretted not listening to you when you’d tried to teach him. Maybe he would’ve been able to call Sam faster if he had.
Finally, by the grace of god, he opens his phone app and presses on Sam’s contact. The line rings twice before he picks up, and before the man can get a word in edgewise, Bucky frantically blurts it out. “She’s gone.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence on Sam’s part. “What do you mean she’s gone? Did she leave?”
“Of course she didn’t leave, Sam, they took her.”
“Who took her? Do we know?”
“Fucking Hydra — who else?” Bucky sighs, dropping onto the couch with a defeated huff. “They left a note. I know they’re in an old base but I have no idea where it is. I can’t remember locations.”
Sam hums, shifting some things around in the background. “Well they can’t have gone too far. We’ll find her, Bucky, don’t worry about that. Besides, you know she’s tough. She doesn’t take anyone’s shit.”
“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, glancing at the small slip of paper in his hand, his eyes darting over every word. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Once Sam gets to the apartment complex, Bucky’s been pacing so incessantly that he’s honestly surprised there aren’t any marks on the hardwood by now. Sam remains the calm one, talking through ideas and strategies of ways to locate the base you’re held in. Concluding that the best option would be to look at the security tapes of the building, Bucky tries to get his hands on them.
Being the ex-Winter Soldier seems to have a lot of bumps in the road, so to speak, when the security guard shakes his head adamantly, holding his taser up. Sam — Captain America — is his saving grace, and while Bucky isn’t particularly pleased at having to owe the man, he’ll do whatever it is he wants if it means he can get your location. The Nation’s Icon is able to persuade the security guy into letting them view the tapes, and Sam takes a seat on the man’s chair while Bucky leans against the desk beside him.
“What does that note say?” Sam asks with a hum as he scrolls through the files, looking for the present date just a little while earlier.
Bucky takes the paper out of his pocket, laying it on the table. Sam glances at it as he sweeps through everything, sighing and shaking his head at the content.
Зимнему солдату комфортно вдали от дома. Посмотрим, что тебе нужно, чтобы вернуться на станцию, Ассет. Вы знаете, где мы находимся — 1987.
Bucky wrote down an English translation to show Sam, scribbled messily along the bottom of the page.
The Winter Soldier is comfortable away from his home. Let's see what you need to get back to your station, Asset. You know where we are — 1987.
“So where were you in ‘87?” Sam asks, pulling up the video feed. “Just gotta backtrack. Wherever you were held in 1987, that’s where they’re at.”
Bucky rubs the heels of his palms over his eyes, a heavy exhale escaping his lips. “I don’t know, Sam. I can’t remember details like locations of bases.”
Sam shrugs, pausing the video and turning to him. “They seem to think you do. So maybe you do know, you just have to jog your memory a bit. Anyway, this was 11AM in the lobby,” the man nods towards the screen, allowing the video to play.
Seven minutes pass before finally four figures move through — three bulky men, and slumped over one shoulder is you, unconscious and limp. Hell, you look about dead, and Bucky forces himself not to avert his eyes.
Sam switches the camera to the alleyway view, and parked just outside the door is a black van which they promptly toss you into before sliding the door shut, an electrical company’s logo painted on the side.
As Bucky watches the video feed with Sam, he tries recounting his steps. 1987. In 1987, he began training other Winter Soldiers. In 1987 he was brought back to the Red Room to train young girls again. In 1987… in 1987 he broke out.
November 15, 1987 he heard a song playing while he was on a mission. An older woman eating dinner with her window open, a record playing loudly. Bunny Berigan, I Can’t Get Started. Dancing with a redhead, twirling her around to the song. Dot…? The Soldier had frozen at the rush of memories, failed his mission, and went MIA for six days before he was found again.
Henderson, New York. Jefferson County. A six hour drive from Brooklyn. The base by the lake.
“I know where they are,” Bucky blurts out, eyes wide and frantic.
Sam raises a brow, pausing the video and looking at him. He blinks at the silence. “Okay, so are you gonna tell me?”
The air in the bunker is stale and smells of sweat, mold, booze and gunpowder. The chair you’ve been stuck in for… an hour? Two, three, ten? Time feels a lot weirder when you’re spending time staring at a crumbling wall and tapping your fingers. You’ve even taken to belting out song lyrics to pass the time, promptly earning you a harsh slap on the cheek, making you roll your eyes and shut up.
You hate feeling like a damsel in distress but… your hands are tied at the moment. Quite literally, in fact, and you’re beginning to regret your earlier opinions on the terrible zip-tie cuffs. The plastic has started digging into your skin, and honestly rope burn would be preferable. But you’re not a master assassin or an agent or super-human spy person! You met Bucky when he knocked you flat on your ass on the street because he was in one of his brooding moods after a therapy session. You had no idea how to fight, the most you had as a defence was your sarcasm to maybe annoy your captors enough to just let you go. Save themselves the headache. Clearly that wasn’t working out too well for you.
Neck-tattoo enters the room again — is it a room, or is it a cell? Honestly what makes a cell a cell and not just another room? He sneers as you, stained teeth bared in your face as he leans in. “Where is our Soldier, zhalkaya devushka?”
You sigh dramatically, making a show of rolling your eyes. “I already told you, he’s gone. That part of Bucky’s been taken out.”
“You lie, malen'kaya veshch'. He is there, we need only bring him out. You will bring him out.”
Unfortunately, his words do speak to you. Is that true? Would you being taken cause Bucky to dissociate into the Soldier again? From a psychological perspective, it would make sense. From a girlfriend perspective… it’s terrifying that you could be such a determiner for something that big.
But still, you steel yourself and put on a teasing grin. “Oh really? Well, I don’t think you’ll be alive to find out, because once Bucky gets here, he’s gonna tear you apart from the inside out. You’ll pay for taking me, you know. I don’t mean to brag, but-- well, he kinda loves me. A lot. And you guys kidnapping me, and cutting my cheek open?” A sarcastic laugh bubbles from your throat, the sight of the huge burly man nearly cowering at your words is far too good. “Oh you’re so dead. He’s gonna beat you unrecognizable until you’re begging him to just kill you.”
The saccharine smile on your lips terrifies neck-tattoo, clearly, as he growls, his hand taking tight hold of your hair. “Glupaya shlyukha, watch your mouth! We will activate our Asset and bring him back, and we will order him to kill you first.”
“Ser,” ginger calls out from the doorway. “Lyubaya informatsiya?” His gun is hanging loosely at his side, finger resting lazily on the trigger.
Neck-tattoo snarls, slipping a blade out of a pocket in his jacket and swiftly slices your other cheek, a sharp sting quickly accompanying it. “Your precious Bucky will be gone, moya malen'kaya veshch', and only the Asset will be left. I change my mind. He will not kill you. He will beat you unrecognizable until you beg to die. Now,” he leans in closer, his chapped lips barely brushing against the shell of your ear and you shiver at the feeling of his warm breath on your skin. “You will tell us where the Soldier is or I can make this far worse for you, domashneye zhivotnoye.”
“I don’t know!” you shout, desperate to get the man far away from you. Personal space exists, and this guy has absolutely no respect for you personal bubble. “I don’t know if he even knows where this place is — I don’t even know where this place is!”
“Oh he will know. And now that he is taking so long, we will give him push.” Neck-tattoo reaches his arm behind him, and you catch ginger handing something to him. “You will call him to come,” he grins, holding up a small phone, much like Bucky’s old one — the one you replaced for him because ‘nobody could get by with a flip-phone now’.
“You want me to call him…?” you repeat him, your brows raised slightly. At neck-tattoo’s nod, he snips the zip-ties on your wrists, and automatically your hands go to soothe the skin that’s started bruising. He holds the phone out for you to take it, and you do with pinched brows. “How do you know I won’t just call the cops?” you huff a laugh. Hydra seriously got sloppy — handing a hostage a phone. Really?
“We will know. If you call police, we kill you faster. Call the boyfriend,” he demands, sneering down at you.
You relent, flipping the phone open and pressing in Bucky’s number. Neck-tattoo grabs the phone back, and you sort of hope Bucky doesn’t answer, if only for the guy in front of you to hear his stupid voicemail greeting.
Instead a wicked smile spreads across his cheeks.
Fuck.
Bucky’s stood stagnant outside the door of the gas station, just waiting. Watching. Assessing his surroundings — each exit and entrance logged in his mind like data in a machine.
He can’t help but revert back to the Soldier right now, not when you’re stuck with them and he isn’t there. Bucky Barnes might not be able to beat Hydra.
But the Winter Soldier can.
Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and Bucky nearly drops it with how quickly he fishes it out. Your name and photo show on the caller ID, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Sliding the green button over, he holds the phone up to his ear, and just as he’s about to greet you and tell you he’s glad to hear your voice, it isn’t your voice that comes though.
“Privet, Soldat,” the man says. “I hope you recall the mistakes you made in 1987. It will do you well to remember them.”
“I know exactly where you are. Jefferson County,” he spits. “Believe me, when I get there you’re not going to be breathing long enough to know I even found you,” Bucky snarls, his voice low and gravelly.
The man chuckles boisterously. “Such strong words! If you know where we are, then come.” A beat of silence passes as he hears the faintest whimper in the background.
“Put her on. I want to hear her voice,” Bucky says, gripping his phone tightly. He has to force himself to be gentle, as to not crush the device in his hand.
There’s some shifting on the other end before a heavy breath sounds in the receiver. “Buck?”
He heaves a sigh of relief. Saying your name in a gentle whisper, he leans against the brick wall behind him. “Baby. Thank god you’re alright. I know where you are. I’m coming to get you, okay?”
“I know you are,” you chuckle softly, and he can practically hear the grin on your face. “These guys have gotten kinda weak anyway, honestly. I’m okay, don’t worry about me so much, Barnes. I’m tougher than I look.”
Bucky sniffles slightly at your voice, making jokes and sounding surprisingly calm. “I know you are,” he repeats your words. “Did they hurt you?”
With a quiet hum, you speak. “Just a little banged up, I’ll be fine. Besides it’s an excuse to get you to cook for the week.”
“Baby, I’ll cook for a month after this, alright?” Bucky turns as the door chimes, Sam exiting the gas station while sliding his card into his wallet. “I promise I’ll see you soon, we’re on our way now.”
Before you get a chance to respond, the phone is snatched from your hand, your voice replaced by the man again who speaks with a purr. “Come collect your Missus Winter, Asset. Come home.”
“I’m not your asset, and that hellhole isn’t my home,” Bucky growls.
The man chuckles darkly. “We will always prevail, Soldat,” he says. A snap and a cry sound out in the background, and Bucky has to force himself to not slam his phone on the ground. “Hail Hydra,” he purrs, ending the call.
With a snarl, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket before grabbing Sam by the arm and dragging him to the car. “We’re leaving, now.”
Autopilot (n.)
Functioning in an unthinking or reflexive manner.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | tfatws!bucky barnes/fem!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and Bucky had been run ragged for months hunting down super soldiers and dealing with a farcical new Captain. Things began to finally calm down, boring routines and all. Until they’re not.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.3k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kidnapping, talk of therapy/nightmares (is that a warning?) The Great British Bake Off :)
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this’ll either be a two or three parter, honestly i have no idea yet so bear with me pls. (also note that this is not beta read, all mistakes are my own)
𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
(gif from this post by buckybarnesj)
The days just started to blend together.
Nothing new seemed to change, and living with your super soldier, ex-assassin, centenarian boyfriend, it was rather surprising that your days were so mundane.
it’s a long one too. i’m not sure if i should post it tomorrow or the day after, but it’ll be coming out soon. currently working on the final part right now as well
Autopilot (n.)
Functioning in an unthinking or reflexive manner.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | tfatws!bucky barnes/fem!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and Bucky had been run ragged for months hunting down super soldiers and dealing with a farcical new Captain. Things began to finally calm down, boring routines and all. Until they’re not.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.3k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | kidnapping, talk of therapy/nightmares (is that a warning?) The Great British Bake Off :)
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | this’ll either be a two or three parter, honestly i have no idea yet so bear with me pls. (also note that this is not beta read, all mistakes are my own)
𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
(gif from this post by buckybarnesj)
The days just started to blend together.
Nothing new seemed to change, and living with your super soldier, ex-assassin, centenarian boyfriend, it was rather surprising that your days were so mundane.
summary | You and Bucky had been run ragged for months hunting down super soldiers and dealing with a farcical new Captain. Things began to finally calm down, boring routines and all. Until they’re not.
wordcount | 1.3k
warnings | kidnapping, talk of therapy/nightmares (is that a warning?) The Great British Bake Off :)
notes | this’ll either be a two or three parter, honestly i have no idea yet so bear with me pls. (also note that this is not beta read, all mistakes are my own)
navigation | masterlist
(gif from this post by buckybarnesj)
The days just started to blend together.
Nothing new seemed to change, and living with your super soldier, ex-assassin, centenarian boyfriend, it was rather surprising that your days were so mundane.
But again, things just… happened as they always did. A shout jolted you awake (or, it used to jolt you awake, it’s more like an alarm at this point) and you found the space beside you in bed empty and cold, as per usual. Stretching and standing from the mattress, you opened the bedroom door to find Bucky laid on a blanket on the floor of the living room, thrashing and whimpering in his sleep while murmuring unintelligible words in Russian.
With a soft sigh, you sank down onto the hardwood beside him, gentle tapping of your fingers on his chest to ease him awake. And he did, sitting up in a colt sweat, panting and huffing as though he’d ran a marathon — minus the super serum, of course — sweeping his eyes across the room, assessing where he was before laying back with a heavy exhale.
It was typical. Standard. Your daily routine.
Neither of you spoke as Bucky wrapped his arms around you, tugging you close to his chest and holding back his tears, swallowing the lump in his throat.
The first time you’d found Bucky wearing his arm to bed again was four months ago. The sight had broken your heart, seeing him laid on the bed with sweat drenching his brow, his dog tags warm on his neck with his left arm laid perfectly straight down his side. He’d gotten so good with his nightmares, to the point that he flat-out refused to wear that ‘metal monstrosity’ to bed when he didn’t wake up at odd hours thinking he was about to kill someone again.
But then things became boring.
Business with Sam had concluded, a new well-suited Captain America was found in your friend, and no missions needed to be taken on. It was then that Bucky had the time to overthink, and with his overthinking, the nightmares came back full-force.
He hadn’t gone back to see Christina after dropping off his completed book of amends, and you had a sense that, while she may not have been great, she was better than no therapy at all. Which was why you’d begun looking at reviews for licensed therapists that dealt with PTSD and veterans.
As soon as Bucky had found your laptop sliding off your lap when you fell asleep on the couch, six tabs open of different doctors, he became a ball of rage and indignation. He didn’t need to see another therapist, he did what he had to do!
It became a huge fight that broke your routine for a week… before Bucky relented that, y’know what, maybe you were right. Maybe. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of hearing him say you were entirely correct, even though you already knew that’s what he thought.
Then, with his name placed on a waiting list and after dealing with a lot of difficulties and confusion over his past actions, things had taken on a new normal. Your updated routine, a schedule that was as dull as it could be.
Somehow, it seemed that the tedious way things had been was… comforting, to Bucky. He seemed calmer, and slowly his nightmares had started to wean. Taking no chances, he still kept his arm on at night, and slept on the floor of the living room, but he was trying. You’d even managed to get him into bed at night before he eventually moved out of the room.
Routine. Rinse and repeat. Both your mind and body ran entirely on autopilot.
That broke quickly.
The one time that routine had broken was a month later, when Bucky had gone to meet with his new therapist, one that you’d managed to snatch up for him with high ratings, proper degrees, a kind demeanour and was actually affordable. You offered to accompany Bucky to his appointment, but he insisted that doing it on his own would be good for him.
So, staying home alone for the first time in… two months? Maybe three, you couldn’t really tell anymore, you heated up the leftover Thai that you two had ordered the night before, and sat yourself on the couch wrapped snugly in a blanket with The Great British Bake Off on the TV, just waiting for Bucky to get back.
Mary Berry had tried an amazing cake, one that you really wanted to try, just before you fell asleep with the carton of rice still in your hand.
Chaos ensued after that.
The lock on the door was broken silently, three men careful and cautious as they tiptoe into the apartment. One sneaks into the bedroom and attached bathroom, the other scouring through the kitchen, while the last covers your mouth with a cloth. The scent immediately has your eyes snapping open, the sight of yellow stained teeth meeting your blurred vision instead of the delicious cake you’d been pleasantly dreaming about.
“He’s not here,” one of the men exits the bedroom, speaking with a thick Russian accent. “Take her instead. We leave note.” With a nod of affirmation, the man holds the cloth to your nose firmer, and you hold your breath until you’re no longer able, forcing you to inhale the sickeningly sweet scent of chloroform before your vision completely blackens.
Bucky grins widely as he enters the apartment complex, taking the stairs two at a time while he digs his keys out of his pocket. The appointment had gone better than he could’ve ever expected, his new therapist — Dr. Rosa, a kind older woman who just barely reached his shoulder when she stood to shake his hand — had already helped him in the span of a single introductory session. He seriously has to thank you for getting it all set up for him.
But his joy fades quickly at the sight of his apartment door. Cracked open slightly with the lock blown off, bits of drywall and concrete crumbling onto the floor.
His left fist clenches tightly, his mind automatically shifting back into the Soldier. He has one sole mission — you. Make sure you’re alive and safe and that the door is just a simple misunderstanding.
He knows it isn’t.
He knew something bad had happened before he even opened the door, but as soon as he does and takes in the state of his home — your home, he’s positively seething. The kitchen, the one you spent hours organizing for him when you first moved in, had been turned upside down, with dishes shattered on the floor, baking trays and pans laid haphazardly across the counter, cupboards left open.
And in the living room, The Great British Bake Off still plays on the TV, Mary Berry wearing a grin just as bright as his had been as she speaks. A box of now cold fried rice dropped onto the floor beside the fluffy blanket that you insisted on buying ‘for movie nights on the couch’.
On the coffee table, a single slip of paper taunts him. Words he wished he’d never have to read adorn the page, his mind unable to fathom that his worst nightmare had become a reality.
One thing he knows for certain; you’re gone, taken by an organization that he only hoped were finally dead.
notes | AHHH okay, i finally got the guts to actually post something. please be aware this is the first fic im posting for the mcu, so of course, constructive criticism is welcome! likes and/or reblogs are very much appreciated! (i also couldn’t come up with a title so i know it’s bad ok don’t yell at me pls)
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His eyes remind you of ice.
A frozen-over lake, like the one in Prospect Park where you’d skate together. Steely and grey and blue. A beautiful array of shades that mix together in a spectacle of brightness — full of life, joy, laughter, happiness. Love.
They’re like the Atlantic. You could stare into those gorgeous eyes for decades and never tire, never bore. You get lost in those oceanic eyes, stranded without a paddle.
Drowning in a sea of adoration and tenderness and love. It chokes you, suffocating you and filling your lungs with the sting of a painful loss.
Your heart no longer feels as though it beats anymore. You’ve succumbed to an ocean far more terrifying than the eyes of the man you love. One that swallows you whole, chews you up and spits you out like venom on its tongue.
It hurts.
You won’t ever admit that you can’t see the ocean without thinking of him.
The scent of salt in the air from the ocean is the worst, you’ve come to realize.
You smell it, close your eyes, and suddenly you’re back on the Ferris wheel in Coney Island, holding hands with a man whose smile is so wide it must be hurting his cheeks. His laugh is resonant, deep and bouncing off the walls of your skull until you finally cry yourself to sleep.
The view would be gorgeous — the shore, the silhouette of the Ferris wheel at dark, the bright oranges and lavenders that decorate the sky, painting the clouds with brushstrokes of serenity.
But the scent of saltwater comes from the bay, where you can only see a younger you, sat beside the man you love, younger and without torment and pain and tarnished by war. Young and in love, two halves of a whole.
Half remains, though nothing but a shell. The heart shared between you taken overseas and into battle, lost along with the breaths of the man who took it.
The saltiness you taste in your own tears, and it hurts. It only reminds you of happier days and moments of love long passed that are now far too fleeting.
The memories you hold are in your head, only because you can’t face those down as you’ve done with each photo in your home. You can’t see him in his dirtied white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hands covered in charcoal and grease from his job.
Much less can you see him pictured beside you, holding you in an endearing embrace, stood before the train that took him from you. His uniform an olive drab, tie perfected and tucked neatly inside his jacket, and his stupid hat still tilted on his head. You swear you can still hear his chuckle when you see it, when you reached up to adjust it, him only telling you that maybe he likes his hat crooked.
It’s too much. Too raw, too real, too painful to see them. To see him.
His letters that you used to read obsessively sit in a box, gathering dust.
You can’t bring yourself to read them, his last words to you, knowing that he won’t be coming home to hold you again.
But you don’t have to read them. You’d memorized them, each and every single one. From the first letter he sent, excited to be in Italy, talking about wanting to try traditional pizzas and pastas as though on vacation, laughing with his fellow soldiers... to his last letter. Dated two days before he’d fallen from that train. The confession. The ring you know is buried deep under snow in the Alps, along with his freezing corpse.
It’s a morbid image, but one you can’t bring yourself to stop thinking of.
The war had taken everything from you. Your best friend and the love of your life, and still it didn’t have the mercy to give you their bodies for a burial.
You can’t even pay your respects.
Fate must despise you.
This time, the salty breeze is comforting.
It wraps you in a warm embrace, the concrete railing of the Brooklyn bridge cold under the palms of your hands.
Your hair whips in the wind as a chill passes by. Fury seeps in your veins.
You know you should be happy. Your best friend has made such an impact to have his own museum exhibition. It should be wonderful.
It would be.
If the curators weren’t so selfish as to ask for ‘the letters that Sergeant Barnes sent to his woman back home.’ The amount of money offered for them was far too tempting, and you chastise yourself for even considering it for a moment.
You know that with the way you’re struggling that it would help immensely.
But those letters are the last you have of him, the only remnants of your Bucky — your Jamie, whilst he was overseas, fighting a war he never deserved to end up in, much less die to.
So instead, you’re here.
The saltwater scent that fills your nose is almost consoling, as though he’s beside you, holding your hand just as he did overlooking the bay when you were both younger and freer and happier. Together.
The box in your hands gets one single glance, and a smile spreads across your cheeks. It’s not bright, nor happy by any means, but it’s a start. Pressing your lips to the envelope that sits on top, a scribbled date in the corner and your name in familiar handwriting in the centre, you shove the box off the ledge.
Letters tumble out, papers slowly fluttering to the waters below. No museum will read the words your James wrote to you. Nobody but the intended audience will ever know what was said in those letters. Half is gone, an empty seat next to yours at the stage.
You don’t need to read them again anyway. You have them all memorized. Each and every one.
Water hits your upper lip, and you wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | AHHH okay, i finally got the guts to actually post something. please be aware this is the first fic im posting for the mcu, so of course, constructive criticism is welcome! likes and/or reblogs are very much appreciated! (i also couldn’t come up with a title so i know it’s bad ok don’t yell at me pls)
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
His eyes remind you of ice.
A frozen-over lake, like the one in Prospect Park where you’d skate together. Steely and grey and blue. A beautiful array of shades that mix together in a spectacle of brightness — full of life, joy, laughter, happiness. Love.
They’re like the Atlantic. You could stare into those gorgeous eyes for decades and never tire, never bore. You get lost in those oceanic eyes, stranded without a paddle.
Drowning in a sea of adoration and tenderness and love. It chokes you, suffocating you and filling your lungs with the sting of a painful loss.
Your heart no longer feels as though it beats anymore. You’ve succumbed to an ocean far more terrifying than the eyes of the man you love. One that swallows you whole, chews you up and spits you out like venom on its tongue.
It hurts.
You won’t ever admit that you can’t see the ocean without thinking of him.
The scent of salt in the air from the ocean is the worst, you’ve come to realize.
You smell it, close your eyes, and suddenly you’re back on the Ferris wheel in Coney Island, holding hands with a man whose smile is so wide it must be hurting his cheeks. His laugh is resonant, deep and bouncing off the walls of your skull until you finally cry yourself to sleep.
The view would be gorgeous — the shore, the silhouette of the Ferris wheel at dark, the bright oranges and lavenders that decorate the sky, painting the clouds with brushstrokes of serenity.
But the scent of saltwater comes from the bay, where you can only see a younger you, sat beside the man you love, younger and without torment and pain and tarnished by war. Young and in love, two halves of a whole.
Half remains, though nothing but a shell. The heart shared between you taken overseas and into battle, lost along with the breaths of the man who took it.
The saltiness you taste in your own tears, and it hurts. It only reminds you of happier days and moments of love long passed that are now far too fleeting.
The memories you hold are in your head, only because you can’t face those down as you’ve done with each photo in your home. You can’t see him in his dirtied white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hands covered in charcoal and grease from his job.
Much less can you see him pictured beside you, holding you in an endearing embrace, stood before the train that took him from you. His uniform an olive drab, tie perfected and tucked neatly inside his jacket, and his stupid hat still tilted on his head. You swear you can still hear his chuckle when you see it, when you reached up to adjust it, him only telling you that maybe he likes his hat crooked.
It’s too much. Too raw, too real, too painful to see them. To see him.
His letters that you used to read obsessively sit in a box, gathering dust.
You can’t bring yourself to read them, his last words to you, knowing that he won’t be coming home to hold you again.
But you don’t have to read them. You’d memorized them, each and every single one. From the first letter he sent, excited to be in Italy, talking about wanting to try traditional pizzas and pastas as though on vacation, laughing with his fellow soldiers... to his last letter. Dated two days before he’d fallen from that train. The confession. The ring you know is buried deep under snow in the Alps, along with his freezing corpse.
It’s a morbid image, but one you can’t bring yourself to stop thinking of.
The war had taken everything from you. Your best friend and the love of your life, and still it didn’t have the mercy to give you their bodies for a burial.
You can’t even pay your respects.
Fate must despise you.
This time, the salty breeze is comforting.
It wraps you in a warm embrace, the concrete railing of the Brooklyn bridge cold under the palms of your hands.
Your hair whips in the wind as a chill passes by. Fury seeps in your veins.
You know you should be happy. Your best friend has made such an impact to have his own museum exhibition. It should be wonderful.
It would be.
If the curators weren’t so selfish as to ask for ‘the letters that Sergeant Barnes sent to his woman back home.’ The amount of money offered for them was far too tempting, and you chastise yourself for even considering it for a moment.
You know that with the way you’re struggling that it would help immensely.
But those letters are the last you have of him, the only remnants of your Bucky — your James, whilst he was overseas, fighting a war he never deserved to end up in, much less die to.
So instead, you’re here.
The saltwater scent that fills your nose is almost consoling, as though he’s beside you, holding your hand just as he did overlooking the bay when you were both younger and freer and happier. Together.
The box in your hands gets one single glance, and a smile spreads across your cheeks. It’s not bright, nor happy by any means, but it’s a start. Pressing your lips to the envelope that sits on top, a scribbled date in the corner and your name in familiar handwriting in the centre, you shove the box off the ledge.
Letters tumble out, papers slowly fluttering to the waters below. No museum will read the words your James wrote to you. Nobody but the intended audience will ever know what was said in those letters. Half is gone, an empty seat next to yours at the stage.
You don’t need to read them again anyway. You have them all memorized. Each and every one.
Water hits your upper lip, and you wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater.
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
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