First of all, who doesn’t enjoy a little alliteration? (I know Jim Halpert does!)
I’m getting close to my 1,500 follower milestone and for my follower celebration I want to celebrate YOU-- the badass humans and writers of Tumblr! I know a lot of you guys write your own fanfiction, and that’s honestly a huge part of why I get on Tumblr! (and, you know, why I joined in the first place) So I’m using it as a thank you for reading my work or just tolerating my ridiculous hype and sexy man posts.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve read some fics that I’ve saved so I can selfishly reread them over and over again, some that have changed my life, and some that have made me sit here like
So with that being said...all you really have to do is TAG ME in your favorite work you’ve created so far. And then, you know, there’s a few other guidelines. haha. I’m a liar.
I’ll be petty and go first. Why? BECAUSE IT’S MY CHALLENGE AND I CAN! Muahahahahaha. Also, if someone else was doing this for their challenge, I’d want to know what their favorite works are.
Fav things I’ve written so far:
Fav. One Shot: Magnolias in the Country (Supernatural; Dean x reader angst)
Fav. Series: I’m No Hero (Marvel; Bucky x reader)
You don’t have to be following me but
Here are the rules:
This is OPEN TO ANYONE! TAG YOUR WRITING FRIENDS! Tag me in your absolute fav fic you’ve ever written or try your hand at writing for the first time!
I would prefer it be your favorite one shot, BUT I can’t help what your wonderful heart is proud of. It can be a series, but try to point out a specific part that was your fav. Like “part 7”. If you choose to shoot me a series, keep in mind it’ll take me a while to get to it because I’m forever behind on notifications.
It can be any genre-- fluff, smut, angst-- just tag the warnings accordingly.
Please, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, use the “Keep Reading” function if it’s over 500 words. It’s a beautiful tool :) And, unfortunately, I might not reblog if you don’t use it because I hate to clog my followers’ dashes.
It can be ANY FANDOM. Yep. I’m into SPN and Marvel, but I would never hold it against you if you wrote something for another fandom. Everyone has their favs, and who knows? Maybe someone will see your story on this masterlist (or vice versa), and you’ll find new friends to follow!
TELL ME WHY it’s your favorite or why you’re especially proud of it. Because I’m nosy and love hearing about why things matter to you. You can be as detailed or vague as possible. If it’s cool with you, I might even include a snippet of your explanation in the masterlist. Idk friends, I’m making this up as I go.
Haven’t written anything, but always thought about it?? Now’s your chance to give it a shot!! Writing has been such a wonderful outlet for me, and some of my friends that hesitated to share their stuff at first have really taken off with it. There’ll be no judgement from any of us, and this is a great chance for you to get your feet wet! Don’t ever let your fear of it “being bad” hold you back-- I promise whatever you create will strike a chord with someone and they’ll love it.
Try to send me an ask to let me know you’re wanting to participate! This will help me be a little more organized, keep an eye out for your tag, and make sure I include everyone that wants to participate. But definitely make sure you tag me in the A/N and use the tag #CapsFollowerFav1500
Make sure you tag me/send your submission by August 31.
YOU GUYS are the reason I’m almost to 1500, so I want to celebrate you, spread good vibes, and give you a never-ending list of kick ass stuff to read. You’re always here to cheer me on or build me up, and I want to help spread your work/HYPE you up in any way I can. So thank you for being you.
And, most importantly, sometimes it’s cool to go back and sift through old things we’ve written so we can fall in love with the story and the characters all over again. <3
Summary: A girl meets Bucky at a bar in Brooklyn and finds that they’re both pretty far from home.
Pairing: Bucky x Unnamed Character
Warnings: Mild violence, Angst
Wordcount: 5.5k
A/N: I’m reposting this for @carryonmywaywardcaptain ‘s 1500 Follower Fav Fics challenge. Congrats! Short commentary on why I love this fic at the bottom.
New York isn’t her kind of city, though she’s sure she can be persuaded to…appreciate it. With time. There’s a claustrophobia to it, a manic sort of pressing closeness, without order. The buildings loom, huddled together, roads cutting tightly between them; there’s no true structure to it, no symmetry. And not nearly enough trees. But she’s here with a purpose; there’s work to be done and she can tolerate the teeming masses and the disorder. For now.
It’s just a drink, just one tumbler of South African whiskey that swims silkily between thick blocks of ice and goes down smooth. She revels in the glow for a moment, caramel and earthy vanilla that tastes faintly like home. She sees him across the bar over a sip. It’s a dark place, classic, or so she would believe, all dark oak wood everywhere and low, round tables, and the scent of tobacco and wood smoke. Traditional, like a speakeasy or a place where soldiers would gather to swap stories of their lady loves in the old Hollywood movies. She sees him through the haze of cigar smoke that’s drifting through the air and it’s almost like viewing an old picture of him from 1942, grainy and hazy around the edges.
He’s propped up on a bar stool staring down into his drink, a lager by the looks of it, but she thinks he looks like he could use something a lot stronger. She doesn’t want to take her eyes off him, doesn’t want to lose him through the haze and the throng of people slipping through the tables. The baseball cap on his head is pulled down low, but she can tell he has a strong brow, can see the lack of sleep pooling in the shadows beneath his tired eyes and she sympathizes with him. Without knowing him, without ever having spoken to him, impossibly, she sympathizes with him.
He looks up now, feeling eyes on him, hyper-aware that he’s being watched, practiced eyes picking over the crowd subtly before they land on her. She’s rewarded with a gentle thrill, excitement running down her spine when his gaze meets hers, and she feels like he’s studying her - eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he tries to place her. Classify her. She sees him relax ever so slightly; she’s obviously not the kind of threat he should be worried about. So she raises her glass to him in acknowledgment, nearly empty, before lowering it again to her lips and taking down another mouthful. She sees a reluctant smile tip up the edges of his lips as he raises the bottle to them and swigs.
She takes it as an invitation, rising from her chair, picking up her empty tumbler, ice clinking gently against the glass. She makes her way over to the bar and settles onto a stool near to him, one seat in between them, no need to be too forward. It’s a safe distance, distance enough to chat casually, leaving room for more. More conversation, more familiarity, more intimacy.
She notes the layers of clothes - the long sleeves beneath a jacket despite the increasingly warm weather, the black gloves over large hands, and she says nothing. He takes her outstretched hand in his right one apprehensively (after taking a moment to assess it suspiciously) but shakes it firmly. She offers her name, listening to him repeat it back to her like he’s testing it, considering the weight of it on his tongue and she appreciates the sound. He offers his and she tilts her head at him because he very well could be a James, but he doesn’t look like one to her. She accepts it anyway.
He’s standoffish, and to begin with she can’t tell if it’s because he’s impolite or just unsure. It’s the latter, but it takes some time to work that out. They start off slow, testing the waters with polite small talk. Boring. Safe. But eventually she draws him out; he’s a lot lonelier than he’ll let on and she could use some company in this brimming, primitive city too. He’s an old soul, she finds, nostalgic for the old days and the old ways. A world that he could’ve made sense of, one that he could belong in. She feels that familiar sensation rising in her chest but this time it’s empathy because she too is a stranger adrift in a strange land, longing for the comforts of home.
He warms to her slowly, gradually, like winter snow caps running off the mountains, but she has the persistence to wait. She warms to him too, liking his old-fashioned manners, liking the way he speaks like an actor from the golden age of radio. By the time she’s finally rewarded with his laugh, they’re so deep into conversation that they feel like old friends. He feels like he recognizes her, he says, feels as though he’s seen her before. Something about the roundness of her face, the depth of her brown skin and eyes feels familiar, reminds him of someone he’s met. She laughs. She’s not from around here, she says, not even close. He buys her another whiskey - on the rocks - just like the first.
The hour’s not too late when he rises, ready to leave. She’s long since finished her second drink and he’s just finished nursing the beer, the last drops of it going down flat and frothy. He pushes her stool back in for her when she stands, and she smiles at the politeness of it - what a man. She follows him outside, smiles again when he holds the door open for her, the bell still tingling quietly overhead as she passes. They stop on the sidewalk, the sky gray with night and the thick smoggy haze of the city, the streetlights haloed in smoke. He tries to say goodbye to her, his voice low and, she thinks, tinged with regret. Regret to go back to a world of unfamiliarity and solitude. Her heart aches for him.
“Let me walk you home.” She says it meekly - no need to be presumptuous - not wanting to scare him off.
He pauses, taken aback for a second. Smiles wryly at her. “I think I should be offering to walk you home.”
She shrugs. “I’m in a hotel just up the street.” His eyes follow the path indicated by her back-turned thumb over her shoulder. “You have a longer walk than me.” She grins. “And I didn’t think we were done talking yet.”
So they walk, her boot-clad feet scuffing lazily against the cement. He’s not a great talker, not like he used to be, but he’s found himself rather animated with her. And she’s found herself enthralled with him. She likes to hear him speak, the rise and fall of his voice, the cadence lost to time. She likes to listen to his stories. Stories of a friend and of travel and a lifetime long past. She can see the far-off look he gets when he reminisces, hear the wistful lilt in his voice and she wants to make it better. To dust off the relics of a life he used to know and restore him to his former glory, but she doesn’t think she can.
She stops at the steps leading into his flat to say goodbye, looking up at him from the sidewalk, and he’s looking down at her and she doesn’t want to go but she has to.
“Have a good night, James. It was nice to meet you.” She offers her left hand to shake and for a moment he looks as though he’ll raise his, but he doesn’t. He’s staring down at her hand like it will bite him - like her touch will set him ablaze, so she switches to her right. He takes it, an air of relief settling around him as his large hand surrounds hers and holds.
“Do you want to come inside?” There’s apprehension in his voice when he asks and an unsure fidget in his posture and she wants to end his unease so she accepts with a smile.
He leads her inside and up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall toward the last door on the left. She stands behind him as he unlocks it, gloved hand reaching into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sparsely populated key ring. He unlocks the door and holds it open, shuffling out of the way so she can step inside and for a moment she’s cloaked in darkness before she hears him follow after her and the door closes softly and the deadbolt slides home and he flips the switch and the front hallway is flooded with light.
It’s a minimal apartment - bare walls, no pictures, little furniture. No plants, she notes. She can see a low, grey couch in the living room across from a humble television set sitting atop a small TV stand. It’s not much but at least the colors tie together, she thinks, and it almost feels like a home. She follows him to the living room and perches upon the love seat when he offers. It’s stilted at first, he’s not used to having anyone in his space, not in a long time. Certainly not in Romania. In Bucharest, he was just beginning to taste freedom again, but it was false. Freedom that required that he always look over his shoulder, that he hide himself away; there was no room for another person. No space on the mattress on the floor or in the small kitchen. A guest would’ve meant one too many obstacles between himself and his mode of escape. Too many contingencies.
But now she’s in his living room in New York and she feels huge. It’s as if she’s taking up all the space in the room, sucking up all the air, the crown of her head brushing the ceiling. But he doesn’t hate the feeling. He offers her a beer because he doesn’t know what else to do, and she happily accepts. The re-formed ice is weak; they break it easily, conversation beginning to flow again. Picking up where they left off. They talk for hours, her asking questions and him answering them. He’d forgotten how good it felt, to converse, to laugh. To feel…normal again. Human again.
He is a perfect gentleman, maintaining a respectful distance on the couch, careful not to brush his hand against hers as he hands her the bottle, eyes forever on her face, and she’s glad for it, but she hates the waiting and guessing. So she has to make a move.
She catches him in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, leaning against the frame as he bends to retrieve her second beer from the fridge. He kicks the door shut as he backs away and when he turns he’s inches from her. Stock still. He wants to say something, but the words die on his lips and all he can do it stare down at her, her big brown eyes staring up at him. He thinks he stops breathing when she places a hand on his bicep and leans in, rocking up onto her toes so she can press her lips to his. Her forehead tipping the bill of his cap back until it topples off of his head and tumbles down his back and hits the floor.
For a moment he does nothing, just stares in wide-eyed shock at her face so close to his, eyes closed, and then he feels it, and his eyes close too and he’s kissing her back. Her arms snake around his neck and she sighs, ever so slightly, and sags into him. He’d almost forgotten what it was like, to be held. To be kissed. He remembers that he likes it. His right hand finds the small of her back and pulls her closer, the left still at his side, unsure. Unused. So she reaches out, never taking her lips off his and takes a hold of the strong wrist, guiding it to her waist. He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering over her, before giving in, his hand forming to the dip of her waist. She stifles a shiver; his fingers are cold through the fabric of the glove. Cold on the strip of skin where her shirt has lifted away from the waistband of her jeans.
She’s smiling when she pulls back and he can’t quite place the warmth in his chest, but he’s pretty sure he’s smiling too. He resists the urge to pull her in again; that would be forward. She presses a cheek to his chest and listens to his even breath rush in and out and waits as his arms surround her, halting, but inevitable. He lowers his chin to the top of her head. Her hair smells like cocoa and amber.
It’s late now, late or early, and he’d rather if she didn’t walk home, and his conscience won’t let him put her in a cab alone at this hour so he takes a chance. He asks her to stay. She’s not scandalized like he feared she might be and relief washes over him when she accepts. She laughs when he offers to sleep on the couch, knowing that its length won’t accommodate his height. But she’s touched by his traditional sensibilities and his concern for her comfort.
“We’re both adults here. I think we can share a bed responsibly.” He looks unconvinced, an expression creeping onto his face that suggests that she might scandalize him instead. She grins. “I’ll stay on my side if you’ll stay on yours.”
In the bedroom, he offers her a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She accepts and watches him leave the room so she can change. She breathes deeply as she pulls the tee over her head, pressing the fabric to her face. Leather and a subtle, powdery floral. The scent is intoxicating and overwhelming and for a second, maybe longer, she’s lost in it until he knocks, the door opening just a crack he sticks his head in, eyes down-turned modestly. He asks if she’s ok and she wrestles the shirt over her head quickly, thankful that her deep brown skin hides the evidence of her embarrassment.
She picks at the cotton hem and calls him in. He gives her a quick once over as he shuts the door behind himself, noting how the shorts fall past her knees and the shirt hangs to her hips. She perches on the edge of the bed as he rummages through a drawer, watching the muscles of his back move beneath the fabric of his shirt. The door shuts quietly as he retreats to the bathroom to change and she listens as she piles her braids into a bun the top of her head to the sounds of cabinets opening and closing and water running and after a while she slips under the covers and lies back.
The room is just as minimal as the rest of the house but the bed is comfortable. There’s not a lot identifying it as someone’s place of dwelling, somewhere safe they can return to at the end of the day, but there’s room for improvement. Room to grow into it. He emerges from the bathroom in a pair of shorts and a long sleeve dri-fit, the thin material hugging the slope of his shoulders and the curves of his arms, that same black glove on his left hand.
His clothes are discarded in a simple hamper and then he lowers himself into the bed, slowly. Deliberately. She imagines that she can hear his bones creaking like old wood and she laughs.
“You’re such an old man.”
He peers back at her over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at his lips. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
He reaches over and flicks off the lamp on the crate that serves as a nightstand and they’re plunged into darkness. She can hear the mattress whine as he lowers himself all the way down and fidgets to get comfortable, sighing when he finds just the right position.
For a moment they lie in silence, side by side, their breathing falling in time. Once again there’s a respectful amount of space between them and once again she makes the first move, reaching out in the darkness, her hand searching blindly for his until her reaching fingers meet the fabric of a glove and she intertwines them. He stiffens beneath her touch, silence stretching taut between them before he breaks it.
“That’s…my bad hand. It won’t be comfortable.”
She waits for a moment, considering, before turning onto her side to face him. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
And he doesn’t. He tightens his grip, glad for the first time in a long time to have a hand to hold. His hand is hard in hers and she doesn’t say anything but before he turned the light out she could see the faintest metallic glint beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
He sleeps fitfully beside her, tossing and tangling himself in the thin sheets well into the night. Anguished murmurs punctuate his unconscious panting, words too low and unintelligible to decipher. Occasionally she wakes, places a hand on his arm and listens to his labored mutters until his breathing evens again. In the faint glow of a streetlight that filters in through the curtain she can see the curve of his brow and how it furrows, deep lines of worry and despair working their way into his face when he dreams, and she watches until they disappear fading into nothingness when he stills and peace returns to him. She keeps her hand on him and after a while he stills, slipping into more restful sleep.
She wakes in the morning before the light has even had a chance to slant through the shuddered blinds. Her back is to him but she can hear his easy, whistling breath coming in the rhythm of sleep. She turns toward him, curling in until her face is only millimeters from his. He doesn’t stir. So she leans in closer, tucking a tendril of brown hair behind his ear so she can whisper into it.
“Kulala ngokujulile, ingcuka emhlophe.” The xhosa is familiar on her tongue as she chants the practiced words, low and soothing like a lullaby. He sighs, the shroud of sleep tightening around his well-conditioned brain.
She goes to work, sitting up on the edge of the bed, every movement silent and careful so as not to wake him. She brings her foot up onto the mattress, pulling off the bracelet that hangs snugly around her ankle, the magnetic force that holds it together responding to her ministrations. A small bead comes off the end, only a few millimeters in diameter, and then the bracelet goes around her wrist as she slips from the room.
In the hall, she presses on the bead and it gives a mechanical click, collapsing and separating into a series of translucent, faintly iridescent disks. Thin. Nearly invisible. Absolutely untraceable. She presses a disk to the wall just outside his door, right above the baseboard, where it blends into the paint as though it had never even been there. Then she stretches up on her toes, using the door frame for leverage, as she pushes one into the wall where it meets the ceiling. A blue grid of light tracks down the wall as the disks sync before blinking out - armed. She continues.
She places disks in the kitchen and living room, presses them to the corners of the glass of the windows, each perfectly hidden and immediately functional. She’s quick, efficient and careful, mindful not to step on the sections of floor that she noticed prone to creak the night before and light on her bare feet.
It’s in the front hall, as she’s stretched up onto her toes again to place a disk near the ceiling that a metal fist goes flying past, mere inches from her face. She feels the rush of air as it rockets by and buries itself in the wall by her head in an explosion of dust and drywall. She throws herself away from it, reflexes rebounding quickly from the shock of being ambushed. Her back collides with the wall and he’s on her immediately, crowding her, the tight sleeve of his dri-fit shirt ripped away from his bionic arm. His human hand is on her shoulder, gripping like a vice and she could probably fight her way out of this, could probably get away alive, but she didn’t come here to fight.
There’s rage in his blue eyes, pure and unadulterated, nostrils flaring, his chest heaving with it. She ignores that, turning her head to look at the hole in the wall where he buried his arm up to the elbow yawning wide.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that.”
He practically growls, rage mounting at her flippant tone, at the audacity, and his metal hand flies to her neck, fingers clasping around her throat and shoving. Her head contacts the wall with a little too much force and probably leaves a dent in the drywall. Her vision swims, only for a moment, but she already feels annoyance rising in her spine when she touches back down again. She has to hold back.
“Who are you? Who do you work for?”
She can hear the rising panic in his voice, mingled with the anger and she knows it’s a dangerous combination. So she tries to calm him.
“Bucky-”
His brows knit together at the sound of his nickname, a name he never told her. He pulls her forward by her throat, bringing her face only millimeters from his and she can feel the heat radiating off of him before he shoves her back, her tall frame leaving an imprint in the wall with the force of it and it hurts this time. His grip tightens on her throat and he lifts, her whole body coming off the ground, feet flexing as her toes search for purchase on the floorboards where there is none.
“Who. Are. You.”
His hold on her is starting to hurt now and she raises her hands to the cool metal of his arm, for the first time alarm beginning to rise in the back of her constricted throat.
“Bucky, pleas-”
She chokes the words out, hisses them, all the while his hold tightens, the metal slats of his arm working together to constrict with every exhalation. Like some mechanical python, the pieces ratcheting to squeeze every last breath out of her as she speaks. Her eyes are going to roll back into her head, she can see darkness beginning to creep in around the edges of her vision but she forces herself to keep her gaze steady on him.
“I can’t…talk with your…hand around my throat.”
He releases her, her body dropping back to the ground, feet contacting the hardwood like coming home and she gulps lungfuls of sweet air. She almost wants to be sick. But she won’t.
He says a name, the one she had told him, the false one. He spits it back at her like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. She doesn’t blame him. So she straightens and tells him her real name, all pretense falling away, the syllables rolling off her tongue naturally, her accent thick as she crosses her arms over her chest in the Wakandan salute, right over left. He turns away from her, angry and relieved and unsure how to feel.
“I am a member of the Dora Milage,” she calls after him.
The pieces are falling into place in his head; he’s seen her before. The memory is sparse. Full of holes and whirling wildly with color and light but he remembers. He sees himself pinned to the ground in a Wakandan field, the tall grass waving around him like the sea. An outrider sits on his chest, three of its clawed hands grasping his arm, his bad arm. Its snarling maw leering in his face, rank breath washing over him. There’s pain from where the metal meets his skin, rending pain like being torn apart and he just knows he’s going to lose his arm again. But then there’s a flash of red and the alien chokes on a shriek as a spear pierces its thick hide. It tumbles off of him and he looks up to see his savior. A Wakandan warrior, nameless, nearly faceless but for a moment before she’s gone and he’s fighting again too.
He turns back to her as the memory falls away from him, eyes searching out her face and registering the familiar features. The roundness of her face, the fullness of her mouth. The braids are new but, then again, it has been months. Then anger pushes out his gratitude and she sees it passing over his face like a storm cloud, leaving gloom in its wake.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is low and tight and she knows better than to set him off again. He paces away from her as he speaks, anger bubbling up in his voice. “Who sent you? T’Challa?”
“Shuri.”
He turns at the name, remembering the girl, the princess. A scientist smarter and more capable than anyone he’d ever known. The woman who’d silenced the echoes of Hydra’s programming rattling around in his head.
“The princess. Why?”
“To check on you.”
He bristles, remembering the night spent laughing and the cold empty bed that followed.
“To spy on me!” He grabs her hand, raises it so they can both see the remainder of the disassembled bead, the disks fanned out in between her forefinger and thumb. “What are these?”
She looks down when he lets go, hand falling back to her side. Feels as though she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“They’re biometric scanners.”
He looks confused so she explains.
“They pick up vocal patterns, heart rate, brain waves. Body chemistry. To make sure-”
“That I’m in my right mind.” He glares at her from beneath a heavy brow, blue eyes full of hurt.
“They just test for triggers. To keep you safe!”
He scoffs. “And everyone else. Can’t have me killing another world leader can we?” He turns away, pushing past her to stalk out of the hallway and into the living room and she follows.
“I know you didn’t kill T’Chaka.” He stops in the middle of the room, some of the defensiveness leaving his posture. A good sign. “In any case, we both know how dangerous you could be in the event of a relapse.”
“Gotta keep me contained.” He keeps his back to her, hiding the hurt. Holding it compactly in his center.
“No.” She can’t help the frustration that’s beginning to color her tone; his refusal to trust her is expected, but no less disappointing. “The entire point - the only point - of this is to protect you!”
“Then why not just talk to me?”
“Shuri didn’t think you would like the idea of being surveilled, even for your own protection.”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
She clasps her hands together to keep her temper at bay. “Well, what were we supposed to do? We lost contact with you months ago! You left Wakanda before you had a chance to fully complete your rehabilitation.”
He sighs, tired of the arguing and the going in circles. He runs a hand over his face. Tries to calm himself down. There’s no use in fighting when help is being offered. “You could’ve just said something last night.”
She moves into the room finally, coming to a stop beside him. “That wasn’t part of the mission.”
His mood dips again at the word ‘mission.’ It’s clinical, a dehumanizing distance to it and if there’s anything he hates, it’s feeling like a thing. A test subject. An objective. A mission.
“A what exactly is the mission?”
For a moment she debates whether or not she should tell him. But by now she’s well past the point of discretion so she does anyway.
“Confirm visual contact, infiltrate, place the biometric scanners and confirm operation.”
He scowls. “So all of that small talk and the flirting was just a nice touch. You could’ve just climbed in through the window, done your business and left when I wasn’t home so why the act?”
For the second time she’s grateful that her deep complexion hides her self-conscious blush. She reaches out to him, her palm contacting the cool metal of his arm. “It wasn’t an act.”
He scoffs again, jerking away from her but she follows.
“I mean it.” She can see him building up a wall again - putting space between them again - distrust pushing her back beyond his defenses once more. “I saw you…In Wakanda. You were the first person I ever saw from the outside. Face to face. And even then it was indirect. I only caught glimpses of you. Only ever heard stories. And then we fought side by side against Thanos and I just –“
She stops herself, feeling too many things at once, wanting too badly to explain herself. Ashamed at having been reduced to a scrambling girl by a virtual stranger.
“Everyone at home knows the stories of the white wolf. I just wanted to meet you.”
“So I’m just another story for you to tell.”
“Bucky. I’ve never left Wakanda before. I didn’t just volunteer for this mission for a cheap story. I wanted to see the world.” She takes a chance, reaching out to cup his cheek, raising his head so that the shoulder length brown hair falls away from his face and he’s looking at her. “And I wanted to see you.”
He doesn’t pull away from her touch and she strokes his stubbled cheek with her thumb. He sighs, softening ever so slightly in her hand. She knows he doesn’t trust her but perhaps there are more important things to worry about.
“So I’m not fixed yet?” There’s no hiding the disappointment, thick in his tone, apparent on his face.
“You’re not broken.” She taps the tip of her index finger against his temple gently. “We just want to ensure that you’re the only one banging around in there.”
He drops himself onto the couch, all of the fight leaving him, defeat taking its place. It’s moments like this when he can feel just how long his life has been, can feel all 101 years clinging to his bones and he just wants to give up. He barely remembers his life before anymore, the fragments of it, just the good ones, hazy in his muddled brain like some childhood home that one barely recalls but remembers fondly. Romanticizes. It’s been so long since he’s lived without fear of Hydra’s conditioning knocking around in his head. He’d just begun to hope he could be free of it, hope that in Wakanda the last vestiges of the rusted machinery Hydra had implanted in his brain had been extracted with thorough care. But now… Now, who knows? From the corner of his eye, the shape of a hand can already be seen purpling around her throat and the sight terrifies him. He can almost feel the Winter Soldier breathing down his neck again, feel the invasive presence working its way back into the spokes and cogs and circuits of his metal arm. His fist clenches almost of its own accord.
She’s watching him and she can see the worry and despair festering behind his eyes. She reads them on his face as he thinks and blanches and grits his teeth; he’s warring within himself, fledgling optimism no match for years of crushing hopelessness. She hates herself for hurting him. Curses herself for not being more alert, for feeling the need to meet him and speak to him. To kiss him. It’s her fault. She’s managed to revive decades of fear and oppression - dumped all of his nearly forgotten problems at his feet - and now he’s drowning in them. The Bucky she drew out last night, the one who laughs and kisses like he’s been waiting for years, is losing the battle to the Bucky who hides and locks himself away behind stone and she doesn’t know if she can shift the tide.
She kneels between his knees and takes his face in her hands. “Look at me.” She says it with a lot more authority than she feels but he complies, anguished eyes meeting hers through the fray of conflicting emotions. “You’re not a prisoner anymore; this body is yours. This,” she takes his clenched bionic hand in both of hers, “is yours. No one owns you. Not anymore.”
Eyes shut. His metal fist unfurls, just a bit, and he can breathe again. A deep intake of air and when he lets it out he exhales a demon, one of many.
“You’re going to be who you want to be again, white wolf.”
When he opens his eyes, when those blue eyes meet hers, he looks like he wants to believe her. And it’s enough.
She doesn’t know what she’ll do when it’s time to go back to Wakanda. She doesn’t know how she’ll explain away her stupid fumbling of the mission objectives, but she knows she wants to help him. There’s still hurt in his eyes - pain at having been lied to and she can still feel the suspicion radiating off of him. She’s painfully aware of the space her actions have put between them - so many steps taken back in this new friendship - and she doesn’t know if she can bridge the gap this time.
But she’ll try.
This was the first piece of fanfic that I ever wrote. I just really enjoyed briefly exploring the idea of Bucky being flung or ripped out of time and homesick for a life he didn’t get to live for, relatively, very long. After seeing Black Panther I was really taken with the Idea of Bucky having found peace in Wakanda for the first time in decades, but I felt like - at the time that I wrote The Gap - there weren’t as many Bucky x Wakandan character/reader fics floating around as I would’ve liked to see so I decided to contribute.
Summery: It was just a grocery run, you've done hundreds of them, but this one may change your life
Tags: @carryonmywaywardcaptain
A/N: this is for Cap's #capsfollowerfav1500 I believe that's the tag? Lol
You didn't know how it happened, or what happened.
"Hey kiddo, it's going to be okay, you'll be okay." Slowly turning your head, you saw Dean; panic spread across his face.
Turning your head the other way, you saw a man in a blue shirt scrambling around in the small space you were in.
With every passing second, the sirens above you became louder but more distant, the guy in the blue shirt became more worried and, was Dean crying?
Before closing your eyes, you looked down at what ever was causing you pain, that was a mistake on your part; your hands and arms were covered in cuts and bruises, your leg was elevated and covered in a cast. And was that a shard of glass in your other leg?
Earlier that day..
"Yo kiddo, it's your turn to take the grocery run!" Dean called out as he tossed you the keys to Baby. You groan before catching the keys and standing up.
"List is,"
"On the counter, I know." you interrupt Dean as you grab the list and head for the garage.
Upon pulling out out of the garage, you cranked the radio and your favorite song happened to be on.
You were mid lyric when your head snapped to the side and you heard the sound of glass shatter and the crunching of metal.
Once the ringing in your ears stopped, you looked around to try and find your phone to call someone, anyone. Leaning over as far as you could, you barely could reach your phone, which was thrown across the car.
"Kid? You okay?" Dean's voice on the other side of the line brought you some comfort.
"Hit. I got hit. Call ambulance." your voice was barely a whisper. Sighing once, you dropped your head down as the lose of blood became too high.
My wild year officially starts tomorrow (3 internship sites, 3 in person classes, work, homework, AHHHH), so here’s a few updates before things get crazy and my posts become even more erratic.
Follower’s Fav. Fics for 1500-
I’ve been reading your wonderful submissions for my follower celebration, but haven’t reblogged because of the Tumblr glitches. I think we’re all clear now, so I’ll start reblogging with comments again so you know I’ve gotten to yours! Also, I pushed the deadline to August 31 so all my new followers have one last chance to submit something if they want!
I’m No Hero- Part 14 will be ready this week!
Bring it on, Star-Spangled Douchebag- I have several parts written, but I’m a bit hung up on Part 4. Hopefully I’ll have the next part ready by next weekend :)
I also started another Dean series, another Bucky series, and a possible one shot because I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL. Oops. Love y’all and thanks for being patient with me!
In honor of her 1500 milestone, @carryonmywaywardcaptain is asking followers what their favorite fics are that they have written. I didn't have to think about it too much. Although I try to put a lot into all of the things I share with you guys, there are a few that stand out to me. The only problem was choosing between the three....so, I'll let you choose.
Memories - series
This was the first thing I ever shared with people. It has a lot of little bits of personal things mixed in, and a whole lot of heart went into writing it. Because of that, I think it will always be my favorite series - no matter how many more I write over the years.
Love is a Polaroid - Fluff
If I absolutely had to pick one, this one might be it. It still makes me "awww" inside when I re-read it, even though I know exactly how it goes. It came together exactly the way I wanted it to, and it also has a personal meaning for me.
Leather, Whiskey, & Heartache - Angst
I was given this title as part of a challenge and I still think it is the most angsty thing I've ever written. I just started typing and this is what came out....its a little bit of a surprise (which is what makes me love it even more)
So, that's it. I will let you choose what you are in the mood for (and if you get the urge to read all 3, that's awesome too).
No matter what, I am so grateful to each and every person that has read, liked, commented, shared, etc my writing. It still amazes me every day!
Since I love @carryonmywaywardcaptain so much I’m stepping up my game for her challenge. Below the cut are my favorite fanfics I have written:
Series
Writing Your Story - Dean x OFC-Raelyn (Fluff/Angst)
Why It’s My Fave: This was my first series and I literally put my heart and soul into it. My favorite part is the last three chapters because emotionally it was hard for me to write them but I knew it was best for the story.
One Shot
Ginger Beard of Sex - Jensen x Reader (Fluff/SMUT)
Why It’s My Fave: Did you not read the title... Ginger. Beard. Of. Sex. That is all.
Drabble
Cap, I Love You - Dean x Reader (Fluff)
Why It’s My Fave: I wrote it for the amazing Cap, so I of course I had to pick this one for her challenge!
GIF Drabble
Appreciation - Jensen x Reader (Fluff/Slight Angst)
Why It’s My Fave: I liked that I came up with the idea of showing how I think Jensen reacts to emotional stories and moment with fans.
AU
Winchesters the College Years - Dean x Reader (Fluff/Angst) Why It’s My Fave: My first AU and I like the little twists I planted in it. I good at throwing curve balls into my writing.
Hey, congratulations there sweet cheeks! I'll be participating in your celebration. And I want to write a new fic, but since I'll write it for you, I want you to tell me one character, any one, from supernatural or marvel and I'll write a fic based on them. I have a storyline, quite close to my heart and I've wanted to write it since ever but I can't decide on a character. So I am gonna ask you. And congratulations again!!!
Oh goodness, lady– it’s totally your call! You write whoever seems to fit your story and vibes. :) I’m personally a Steve, Dean, and Seb girl– they’re my babes. Who are your favs?
I can’t wait to read your story and I love that it’s already so close to your heart! Glad you’re participating, and thank you again!
Cap, this is an amazing challenge!!! You know I’m going to participate 😊 I’ll To think about which one is my favorite though 🤔
I’m so happy to hear you’re excited! I was going to comment back the other day and let you know it’s not exactly a “challenge,” but I thought it’d be easier to just post lol. Can’t wait to see what you pick! (I know I said that already, but really, I can’t!)
