#reader struggles

[writerstruggle]

me whenever something happens

[thelastsentencesblog]

the worst feeling is wanting to read but you wanna read so many different books and you can not decide so you end up reading nothing at all.

[mouthtapedguy]

I once said "colonel" like "co-lo-nel" and the silence was deafening

[heldbybarnes]

hi could i get a angst/comfort fic between Bucky and reader where readers having a hard time lately..? thanks

of course; hope ur doing okay🫶

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The apartment felt too quiet. Too heavy.

You sat curled up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, staring blankly at the muted TV that had been playing the same paused commercial for an hour. The weight in your chest hadn’t let up in days, that ache that whispered you weren’t enough, that you were falling behind, that maybe the world would be better off if you just disappeared into the wallpaper.

Lately, it felt like the smallest tasks had become mountains. Dishes piled up in the sink. Laundry sat in a heap on the bedroom floor. Even showering felt like too much. You hated yourself for it, for the way you couldn’t keep up, couldn’t stay light or easy the way you thought you should.

You heard the front door click. Heavy boots on the hardwood. A sigh, tired but soft.

“Doll?”

Bucky’s voice. The only thing lately that didn’t make your stomach twist.

You swallowed hard and managed a faint, “Hey.”

He came into view, tugging off his gloves, hair messy from the wind outside. His blue eyes found you on the couch immediately. They always did. And you knew from the way his expression softened—like glass cracking under heat—that you looked how you felt. Small. Worn thin.

Bucky didn’t tease. Didn’t demand. He just set his things down and crossed the room, sinking onto the couch beside you with that deliberate gentleness that always undid you.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?” he asked quietly, brushing his knuckles along your arm.

You tried to laugh it off. “Nothing. Just… tired.”

But Bucky had lived through too many wars, too many nights staring at ceilings wondering if it was worth it, too many mornings when getting out of bed felt impossible. He recognized it instantly.

His hand found yours, warm and steady. “You’ve been sayin’ ‘tired’ for a while now.”

You blinked hard, willing the tears not to come, but they pooled anyway. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t keep up with anything. I feel like I’m dragging everyone down, like I’m—”

“Hey.” His voice sharpened, just slightly, enough to cut through your spiral. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

The tears broke free then, sliding hot and fast down your cheeks. “But it’s true. I can’t do anything right. I can’t even—God, I can’t even get out of bed some days. And you—you deserve better than me falling apart all the time.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. He didn’t argue right away, didn’t rush to plaster over your pain with easy words. Instead, he pulled you into his chest, tucking you against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His metal hand pressed firmly at your back, grounding, the faint whir of servos a strange comfort.

“You listen to me,” he murmured against your hair. “You’re not broken. You’re not too much. You’re not dragging me down.” He pulled back just enough to tip your chin up, eyes fierce and wet at the corners. “You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. And I don’t care if the dishes aren’t done, or if you have a bad day, or a bad week, or a bad month. I care about you. About you breathing, about you knowing you’re not alone in this.”

Something in your chest cracked open then, a sob tearing free before you could stop it. He gathered you tighter, rocking you a little like you were something precious, fragile but worth protecting with every ounce of his strength.

“I hate feeling like this,” you whispered into his shirt.

“I know, doll. I know.” His hand stroked your back in slow circles. “I used to wake up every day and wonder if it was worth stickin’ around. Wonder if anyone’d even notice if I just… stopped. But you—you remind me it is. You remind me I’m worth something. So let me do that for you. Let me remind you, every damn day if I have to, that you’re worth everything.”

You clutched at him like a lifeline, chest shaking with the release of holding it all in too long.

“I feel so weak,” you admitted.

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again, his own glassy but unwavering. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. Strength isn’t pretending everything’s fine. It’s being here, right now, lettin’ me hold you when you’re fallin’ apart. That’s brave as hell, sweetheart.”

The words sank into you slowly, like sunlight on cold skin. You wanted to believe them. Wanted to believe him. And the way he looked at you—like you were his whole damn world—made it easier.

He pressed a kiss to your damp cheek, then another to your temple. “Tell you what,” he said gently. “Tonight, we forget about the mess. We order in, we put on that dumb show you like, and we just… exist. Tomorrow, maybe we do one thing. Just one. Doesn’t matter how small. And we build from there, okay?”

You sniffled, managing the tiniest smile. “Like training wheels?”

His lips curved. “Exactly. Training wheels. And I’ll be right there, holdin’ the bike steady.”

A watery laugh escaped you, and the sound made his whole face soften. He kissed your forehead, lingering, like he could press reassurance straight into your bones.

The rest of the night unfolded just like he promised. Takeout containers spread across the coffee table. Bucky’s arm around you, his thumb brushing absentminded circles on your hip while the TV droned on. No expectations. No judgment. Just him, solid and steady beside you.

And when you drifted off against his shoulder, exhausted but lighter somehow, Bucky tucked a blanket around you and whispered into your hair, “You’re not alone, doll. Not ever.”

You didn’t hear it, not fully. But you felt it—the promise stitched into every touch, every word. The kind of love that wouldn’t let you drown, no matter how heavy the tide.

[writers-bane]

[katygorl]

I had this as a meme idea earlier this week, thought I would finally make it lol. This is about me and my current situation, but hopefully this is relatable for other people, too!

[an0neemouse]

Am I the only one who finds it a little rude when Ao3 tells you how many times you've visited a story you have marked for later? Like yes, I know I have visited 8 times since Tuesday. I'm trying to work up the courage to read something new. Quit judging me!

[bittersweetlyblue]

holy fuck the actual loss of reading literal fanfic gold and then refreshing the fucking page