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imagines-hoarder · 8 months

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I’ve been pulled from the depths of my posting slumber to inform my followers that you MUST READ THIS SERIES.

i know it when i see it

series masterlist | ao3

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8k

warnings: sex work, masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, it’s literally porn, age gap (unspecified), oral sex, dirty talk, explicit p in v sex, praise, catholic guilt, cowboy puns

summary: it's the golden age of porn. sex and sin are the national pastime. you're paired with joel miller for your first scene.

You’re going to hell.

That’s what all the billboards say. The televangelists. Nixon and his whole committee.

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that sex is a sin. Every Sunday, pressed into a pew wearing your pretty dresses, you’d listen to the pastor praise those who kept themselves pure, chaste. You’d learned that a good girl kept her knees shut tight. That those led astray by lust would fall into the Devil’s clutches. That sex would ruin you. And it hadn’t once stopped you from wanting it.

Well, now you’re waiting in line to get your tits out for a room full of strangers. If sex is a sin, what you’re doing is downright blasphemy.

But there’s good money in dirty movies. And you figure if the Devil is already keeping a seat warm for you, then you might as well earn it.

When they call your name, you feel like you might be sick. Which is stupid, since you’ve been waiting in the goddamn hallway for half an hour, sitting on a sticky plastic chair in a whole line of girls who look a lot like you.

The casting office is cramped, almost cozy. A mustard-yellow carpet stretches between you and a small folding table, where a man and a woman sit. Another man stands a few paces back, fiddling with the view-finder on a film camera.

It’s the woman who speaks first.

“Go ahead and stand on the mark there,” she indicates a spot on the carpet. She’s got a harsh, angular kind of beauty. Her gaze is sharp as it meets yours. “My name’s Tess. What’s yours?”

You tell her, conscious of the way your accent softens the syllables, makes it all too obvious that you’re a long way from home.

“So,” Tess says, leaning forward and folding her hands under her chin, “You like sex?”

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks, but hope it isn’t too obvious.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It slips out without your permission. You’ve tried so hard to beat out that good-breeding, the debutante bullshit, but sometimes it sneaks up on you. You see the corner of Tess’s mouth quirk up at it, like she’s trying not to laugh.

“You any good at it?”

She’s testing — teasing. But you hold her gaze.

“Never had any complaints.”

Tess nods. Gives a slight flick of her pen.

“Can you take your top off for us?”

Your breath catches in your throat. And you knew this was coming, knew it was part of the whole deal. But still — it sends a nervous sort of thrill through you, and you have to suppress a shiver as you reach for the buttons of your blouse.

The air is cool against your bare skin, and you feel the way your nipples stiffen. The camera whirrs and you clench your teeth, painfully self conscious. You’re not sure where to set your gaze. It’s strange to be looked at just for the sake of looking, not as a prelude to anything else.

Then Tess let out a low whistle.

“Linda Lovelace who?” she smirks, “Where the hell have they been hiding you?”

You flush, the praise washing over you; that warm reassurance that you are worth looking at.

Tess tilts her head, “You know what you’re getting into here, right? This isn’t a business for nice girls.”

You think of your mother. Your tidy, Catholic upbringing. The chastity balls and purity rings. The housewives and the husbands that hated them. All the ways women were stripped of themselves in the name of being nice.

You meet her gaze.

“Never said I was a nice girl.”

Tess grins, and there’s something wolfish in her smile.

“Well, then. Welcome to the sexual revolution.”

x x x x x x x x

You’ve done three films for Tess since then. All solos — splayed out on silk sheets, touching yourself while she told you what to do from off-camera. Proof of concept, she’d called them, and paid you fifty dollars for each.

You were the concept. The idea that was only half-formed. A bit lip, a slip of pink. Girlish pieces waiting to be shaped into a sex symbol. She said she was still figuring out where to put you, finding the right role.

God, your mother would cry if she could see you like this. And your father would shout himself hoarse and try to scare you into behaving, like he has so many times before. But you’re too far away to hear them now. Besides, they haven’t answered any of your postcards. Maybe they knew you were a lost cause the second you stepped foot out their door.

But you don’t feel lost. Not when you’re sweaty and sated and smiling at the camera. Not when there’s a song playing on the radio, and the windows are rolled down, and it feels like the first time you’ve ever really breathed. Not in the tiny apartment you share with three other girls, where you never feel lonely.

You’re not some sob story, not a lost kid clinging to a last resort. You chose this, all of it. You’ve been a sinner since the day you found out what that thing between your legs was really for. And all the pearl-clutching in the world couldn’t have kept you shut up in that small town.

You want to be seen.

You want to shock, to disgust. To rip away all the ribbons and bows tying you to some expectation of decency. You’re so tired of being decent, being clean. You like being messy, like the sheen of sweat and sex that makes you feel like life is something that belongs to you.

Tess calls.

“I’ve got a scene for you.”

You coil the phone cord around your hand, trying to force down the little thrill of excitement that zips through you. You keep waiting for the shame to sink in, but it never does.

“It’s not a big part, but it could get you some attention,” Tess goes on, “You know anything about Joel Miller?”

You don’t. You’re still new to all of this, green in a way that Tess warns could get you in trouble if you’re not careful.

“Should I?” you ask.

“He’s an old friend,” Tess says, “Does a couple of films a year under the name Texas. The housewives love him, they eat his shit right up. Not a bad way to make a name for yourself.”

That was important too, the name. You were still trying to figure out yours. What would they call you when they watched your scenes? What name would they say when they came thinking of your face?

You take the bus downtown to the video rental store and slip through the beaded curtain at the back. The air inside is heavy with the smoke of someone’s joint, the tapes bathed in blue lighting. It turns out Texas occupies a whole shelf all to himself. The titles range, but they all convey a similar sense of rugged masculinity.

Cowboy Take Me Away

Lone Star

Fix Her, Up Her

Saddle Tramp

The Mechanic

Spur Me On

You rent three tapes and try not to blush when the cashier tells you which one is her favorite.

Your roommates go out for the night, but you stay in. Wedge the window open with the phone book. Pour a finger of vodka over a single, sweating ice cube. Turn the volume dial low and start up the first tape.

It’s all sort of silly at first. The sun-baked ranch. The farmer's daughter. The cowboy hat and coveralls. A soft, twanging guitar underscores the whole thing and it feels just shy of parody.

Then he enters the scene. Tall and broad. Sharp jaw, strong nose. Handsome in a way that’s solid, sure of itself. He looks like he belongs there, leaning against the barn door, his dark eyes taking in the scene.

And there’s no posturing with him, no clumsy performance. Suddenly the whole thing feels that much more real, and it’s like you can see the tension simmering on screen. You press your legs together at the low rasp of his voice, laced with suggestion, as he offers to teach her how to ride.

You watch, enraptured, as the scene unfolds. They move together in a way that doesn’t feel rehearsed, lacks any sort of pretension. You watch as he bends her over, tugs down her cotton panties, and fucks her with his fingers until she’s coming hard all over his hand.

You think it’s real. Fuck, it looks real, the way her fingers flex against his forearm, her stomach tenses, and her mouth falls open with a faint cry. No screaming or flailing, none of the overwrought drama. The camera catches the way her legs quake, the way she sucks in a breath before turning to face him.

There’s a close up on his crotch as he palms himself through the rough denim of his jeans. He undoes his belt to reveal a dark thatch of hair and then the long, thick shape of him. His heavy hand slides to the hilt, lining himself up against the gleam of her wet and waiting cunt. The tip of him presses against her entrance, parting her swollen lips as he pushes inside.

Your own hand is between your thighs before you realize what you’re doing. But you're aching — restless and unsettled as you stare at the screen.

You can’t take your eyes off of Joel. The way he moves, the way he fucks. All long, slow thrusts at the start, letting her feel every inch. Then the steady increase in speed until he’s fucking her in earnest, his massive hand holding her down as he drives in deep.

Your own fingers slide beneath your shorts, slipping through your slick to press against the hard nub of your clit. You try to relieve some of the pressure, the overwhelming arousal as you watch the farmer’s daughter whine and writhe on his cock.

Only, in your mind it’s you. Your hips he’s holding, your hair he’s tugging on as he drives deeper into your aching cunt. Your hands are the ones reaching back to feel him, to scratch along his forearms, searching for purchase as he pushes you closer to climax.

It’s his voice that undoes you. The low growl of it, the way he grits his teeth and tells her to just —

“Take it. Yeah, that it’s. Take this fucking cock.”

It pushes you over the edge and you’re coming, hard, drenching the sheets beneath you. You watch in a daze as the scene finishes, the farmer’s daughter smiling through her facial and giving the camera a cheeky wink. The credits roll over a cactus.

The tape whirrs and then clicks to a halt. The only sound in the apartment is the distant grind of traffic, your own heavy breathing. You stare up at the ceiling, still reeling from the force of your orgasm.

So. That’s Joel Miller.

x x x x x x x x

You tell Tess that you’ll take the part.

You run out the rental period on the first three tapes and return to the store for the rest of them. You’ve orgasmed more in this past week than you have in your entire life. All to thoughts of him. His hands, his voice— God, his fucking cock.

You feel untethered by your attraction to him, the raw want that he awakens inside of you. And even though you tell Tess yes, you feel a thread of panic rise as the shoot day approaches. Because watching him is one thing. Fucking him, actually fucking him, feels like another beast entirely.

The idea of it terrifies you. He terrifies you, if you’re being honest. There’s nothing warm or welcoming about his onscreen presence. He’s all stern silence and stoicism, only ever losing composure when he comes, and then just for a second. You’ve memorized the expression he makes. How his eyes fall shut and his jaw goes slack, the way he loses himself in that moment.

You want that. You want to be the reason.

The late summer heat washes over you as you step out of the cab; August in all her sweat and shine. You have the address Tess told you scrawled on a scrap of paper, held tight in your hand. You’re somewhere in the Arts District, but the area looks rough, rundown. The building in front of you seems abandoned, but the cab is pulling off the curb before you can question it. You check the paper in your hand, matching the numbers to the faded paint above the boarded front entrance.

There’s the screech of metal as a side door is kicked open, and Tess sticks her head out, squinting against the sunlight.

“Come on then,” she calls, waving you over. You hurry to catch up before the door closes on you.

Inside is dark, musty. Peeling wallpaper, yellowed posters clinging to bulletin boards. Dust catches the light as it filters in through dirty windows. None of the sleek, sexy style you’d come to associate with this line of work. You cast a sideways glance at Tess as she leads you down the hall.

“What is this place?”

“Not a real school, obviously. We’d all go to jail,” Tess says, “It used to be a rec center. We got it on the cheap.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, but she seems to sense what you’re thinking.

“It’s not all silk sheets, kid. Think you can handle that?”

That’s the thing you’ve liked about Tess from the beginning — the blunt edge of her honesty. She didn’t bullshit, it’s not in her nature. She calls it like it is, doesn't try to spin it into something else. It makes you feel safer, somehow. She’ll tell you if you get too close to the sun.

“I can handle it.”

You can. You didn’t come here to be coddled.

“You got your list?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah.” You dig in your pocket and pull out your hastily scribbled list of hard no’s. It had taken a while to come up with. The trouble was, there wasn’t much you didn’t want Joel to do to you. Even the most debased things made you feel all fluttery if you thought about him doing them.

Still. You had some limits.

Tess scans over the paper and she nods.

“Great, no issues here. Joel’s not really a piss-shit-puke kinda guy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What about knives?”

Tess gives you a wry smile. “No knives for the cheerleader movie. At least, not yet. We’ve still got three more scenes after yours, so who knows.”

She stops short in front of an open door and motions you inside.

“This is your dressing room.”

There’s a rack of flimsy cheerleader costumes up against the wall, bright blue with red accents. Cosmetic bags are spread across the counter, spilling out eyeshadow and tubes of lipgloss. It’s all a reminder that you’re not the first girl to come through here, not the star of anything. Not yet, anyways.

“You good to do your own makeup?” Tess asks

You nod, dropping your bag onto a chair. “Yeah, sure.”

“Try not to go too heavy. We’re playing the fresh-faced innocent thing here.”

You glance at the mirror, as if trying to catch a glimpse of exactly what she’s describing. It’s funny to think about yourself like that, the way Tess sees you. It feels like you straddle the line — too hard for your hometown, too soft for this city.

“And here’s the script.”

She slides a stapled stack of papers over to you.

From what you’ve gathered, there isn’t much to the premise: a coach fucking his way through a cheerleading squad. But it’s not like anyone would be watching for the plot. Each scene had a loose sort of set up — stretching, showering, showing up late to practice. And they all end with a cheerleader taking a load somewhere the camera likes looking at.

You flip through the pages, searching for your scene. It’s noticeably scant on both dialogue and direction. The words “they fuck” appear more than once.

When you reach the end, you look up at Tess. “This is the whole thing?”

“Were you expecting a monologue?”

And no. Not exactly. But you always sort of assumed these things were more structured. At least, you had hoped they might be.

“There's no dialogue.”

Tess shrugs, “Most of these girls will go cross-eyed if we try to get ‘em to memorize lines. And nobody gives a shit what you’re saying anyways.”

A nervous coil twists in your belly.

“What if I say something stupid?”

“You won’t,” Tess says firmly, “I’ve seen your stuff, you’re a natural. And Joel will take care of you.”

That did nothing to ease your anxiety. You look away to hide the heat rising in your cheeks.

A door opens in the hall, and Tess glances over her shoulder.

“Speak of the devil,” she waves someone over, “Come here a sec.”

There’s the head tread of boots down the hall, and then he’s there. Standing in the doorway.

Joel fucking Miller. In the flesh.

The subject of so many fantasies, so many wet dreams. How many times have you made yourself come to his videos? Hand between your legs, fingers drenched in your own slick, fucking yourself as he railed someone else on screen. You know the exact cadence of his voice, the way his breath hitches when he’s close. You could pick his dick out of a line-up.

And now he’s here, all broad shoulders and deep brown eyes. The tousled dark hair, the beard that is just starting to gray. The videos don’t do him justice. He’s painfully handsome, good-looking in a way that unmoors you, makes you feel small and sort of silly. Like a kid with a crush, girlish and inconsequential.

You’re in way over your head.

“Hell of a place you found,” he says to Tess, and the low timbre of his voice scrapes through you. That familiar rasp, the heavy Texan drawl.

“Yeah, well, you want big budget, you go work for Spielberg,” Tess tells him, “This is what we call in vérité, asshole.”

Joel scoffs at her.

“That a fancy way of saying asbestos?”

Tess flips him off, then jerks her head towards you.

“This is your girl, by the way,” she says, “Lucky cheerleader number seven.”

His gaze finds you for the first time and it feels like you’ve been struck by lightning. His eyes are dark, a deep brown that doesn’t catch the light, that seems to go on and on. You feel the weight of his gaze dragging over you, giving you a full-once over before it slides back to your face.

You feel a familiar, anxious unease. That ache for approval. Did he think you were pretty? Was he disappointed? Or had he become numb to things like that. Maybe for him, sex was narrowed to its essential parts — aesthetics were irrelevant.

Joel nods once, then turns back to Tess.

“You got a room for me or was that out of budget too?”

“Second door on the left,” she tells him, “Extra roaches, on the house.”

He gives a sort of unimpressed grumble and heads back down the hallway.

You look at Tess, hoping that the heat in your cheeks isn’t too obvious. You want her to think you can handle this, handle him.

“He always that friendly?”

“Pretty much,” she smirks, then pulls a tidy slip of paper from her back pocket, “Speaking of - here’s his rider.”

You look it over the list. Many of the same extremes you had included in your own. From everything you’ve seen, he isn’t much of a sadist. No biting, no scratching, no hickeys. Reasonable, assuming he has more scenes to shoot. Even if all you want is to sink your teeth into him.

You stop short on the last bullet point.

“No kissing?”

Tess rolls her eyes, “Don’t take it personally. He’s just like that.”

You try to think back, but you can’t recall seeing him kiss any of his co-stars. How had you missed that? All the hours you spent watching him fuck, and you hadn’t even noticed.

You ignore the slight sting of disappointment. You wanted that — the scrape of his beard, the slide of his tongue, the taste of him. But you’re a big girl. You don’t need it, really.

You’re going to get everything else.

x x x x x x x x

The stupid cheerleader costume clings to you, the fabric flimsy and coarse. It doesn’t make you feel particularly sexy. It’s like playing dress up. But your hair looks nice, high in its ponytail, and you’ve done your makeup just so.

You aren’t exactly some blushing virgin. But still — the idea of stripping down in a room full of strangers has you all riled up, anxiety thrumming through you as you hover at the edge of the set.

No one seems to pay you much mind. The crew moves easily around you, cracking jokes as they adjust the lighting and clear the cables from the shot. Your scene takes place in the hallway outside the gymnasium, where you catch the coach coming out after practice.

You try not to think too hard about the set up, the absurdity of it all. You feel the buzz of anxiety and excitement, the tangle of nerves, the taste of arousal already on your tongue. You stare down at the waxed linoleum, counting your breaths, waiting to get fucked in a room full of strangers.

“Well, look at you.” Tess’s voice jolts you out of your own head. You turn to find her giving you an approving smile. “You look like a wet dream.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yours?”

She laughs, “You wish, kiddo. But every man in America is going to be creaming his jeans seeing you like that.”

You’re not sure what to make of that, to think of the eyes of every man on you. You’re mostly worried about the one waiting down the hall.

“Your mark is over here,” she indicates, “Joel’s going to enter from that door down there. Give us a couple lines to set the scene, then get to the good stuff. Easy enough, right?”

“Sure. Easy.”

Tess settles into a chair to the right of the camera. Everyone else seems to have found their places, the set quieting around you. You find your mark, white sneakers squeaking against the tile. The set lights heat against your skin, and your heart hammers against your ribcage.

“Let Joel take the lead. He’ll get you where you need to go,” Tess says, then catches the look on your face and asks, “You ready?”

You must look nervous. Unsure, out of place. Wide-eyed, waiting to be told what to do. The good Christian girl, always minding your goddamn manners. Saying your prayers, your pleases and thank-yous.

But you’re not that girl anymore.

You straighten. Set your spine. Remind yourself that this is something you can do.

Sex is easy. It’s a skin you can slip into. You’ve been tying cherry stems with your tongue since you were eleven, and by now you’ve perfected the art. You like playing the part: wearing the gloss and glitter, getting all dolled up just to get stripped down. It makes you feel powerful, being watched. Being wanted. Like you’re more than some soft kid from a small town. Like you’re someone who could mean something.

“Ready,” you tell Tess.

She smiles and she sits back in her chair, giving the crew a once over before calling out —

“Action.”

The door at the ends of the hall slams open and you jump, turning around to face Joel.

He's wearing gray sweats and a t-shirt that stretches across the broad expanse of his chest. There’s a whistle around his neck. It should be ridiculous, but it is definitely not. You can’t think of anything less funny than the way he’s looking at you right now.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is rough, decidedly unfriendly. It’s the role, it’s exactly what was written in the script, but it still stirs a strange embarrassment in you. You shouldn’t be here. You’re going to get in trouble.

“I, um -“ you swallow and start over, “I was looking for you.”

“Is that right?”

Fuck, his voice. The low rasp of it seems to reverberate in your ribcage, stoking a flame that started burning from the first the second you saw him.

You nod, “I - I wanted to ask you something.”

You feel the scorch of his gaze against your skin, and when his eyes meet yours he looks pissed. You’re wasting his time. He doesn’t want you here.

“Practice is over. You got a question, you can ask me tomorrow.”

He starts to walk past you, like he’s going to leave, like he has better things to do. You speak before you know what you’re going to say.

“Some of the other girls were talking,” you say quickly, and he stops short. You have his attention, so you keep going, “They said you helped them. I was hoping you could help me too.”

He takes a step closer, and he towers over you. This is the closest he’s ever been. You can feel the heat of him, his skin sun-warmed and tan. You notice the flecks of amber in his dark eyes.

“Help you with what?” he asks.

You don’t know what to say. Everything you think of sounds too crass, too cringey. There’s nothing explicitly sexual about the scene so far; you can tell he’s waiting for you to take it there. To cross that boundary.

You take his hand in yours. His palm is rough, calluses catching against the soft pads of your fingertips. You draw his hand slowly down your body, his knuckles dragging across the thin fabric of your dress. When you reach the top of your thighs, you feel him tense. You hold him there, between your legs. Let him feel the heat of you. The want already burning in your core.

“Here?” he asks, and you nod.

He cups you, his hand covering your whole sex.

“Does that needy little pussy want some attention?”

You nod, and his hand moves against you, pressing hard against your clit. Even through the fabric, the feeling is intense. A whimper slips through your lips.

And oh, he likes that. You can see the way his gaze darkens, his pupils blown wide with arousal.

“Gonna have to ask nice,” Joel tells you.

You feel tense — taught. A bowstring about to snap. You’re not above begging.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

He grabs you by the hips, turning you, pulling you tight against his chest. You sink into the warmth of him, the scent of sweat and sun. You feel his hardness stiff against your lower back, already straining in his sweatpants.

Joel flips up your skirt, exposing the pretty lace of your panties to the cameras.

Oh right, the cameras.

You almost forgot, so caught up in his gaze, the furious heat of his attention. But his eyes aren’t the only ones on you. You’re being watched. Your gaze skims the edge of the scene, sees the eyes staring back. You wonder if they can see the way you tremble, taught in Joel’s grip.

“You already wet for me?” he murmurs against your ear.

You tense slightly as he pulls your panties aside and dips his finger into your slit. You’re wet. You’re so fucking wet. It’s almost embarrassing.

His finger drags through your slick, the heavy drip of your arousal. He groans against your neck, and his grip on you tightens.

“Fuck,” his teeth scrape along your jaw, “You’re soaking. All this for me?”

“Yes,” you pant, “All for you. Just for you.”

“Poor baby,” he coos, his finger ghosting over your clit. You flinch, the feeling almost overwhelming, “Sitting through practice with your panties soaked. You just wanted some attention, huh? Wanted me to play with you like all the other girls.”

He presses hard against your clit and you gasp, writhing in his grasp. You’re already so close, on the knife’s edge of it. You just need a little more, just the tiniest bit of friction —

But then he’s gone, stepping away. Palming himself through his sweats. His gaze is dark, burning, but he still looks so composed.

“You’re gonna have to earn it,” he tells you, “Get on your knees.”

You felt almost dizzy, overwhelmed with arousal. You know that you’re wrecked already, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and shining. You can barely catch your breath.

“You heard me. On your knees.”

You don’t wait to be told a third time. You drop to your knees, feel the cool linoleum against your bare calves. You position yourself beneath him, folding your hands in your lap. Waiting for instructions, waiting to worship at the altar of the man above you.

Joel rubs the outline of his cock through his sweatpants, his eyes tracking over you.

“You gonna be good for me?”

You take that as permission, reaching out and carefully tugging down the sweatpants to release him. The thick length of him slaps up against his belly, fully at attention. He’s big. You knew that already, had admired the size of him in so many of his tapes.

But it’s different now. Almost overwhelming. The tip of him flushed red and angry, already weeping. Your mouth waters.

You look up at him from under your lashes and he nods. Go ahead.

Your hand wraps around him, marveling at the way your fingertips barely touch. You stroke along his length, feeling the silky warmth of him, the heat. You squeeze softly at the tip and precum beads at the slit. You lead forward quickly, tongue darting out to taste him.

Joel groans above you, tangling his hand in your hair and tilting your head up.

“Mouth open.”

You open obediently, sticking your tongue out.

“You gonna let me fuck your pretty face?”

Pretty. The word stirs something low in your stomach. He thinks you’re pretty.

He slides inside your waiting mouth. He stays shallow at first, gliding across your tongue, wetting himself with your spit. His forehead is furrowed in concentration, dark eyes fixed on yours.

Fuck. Arousal burns in your core, heavy and molten. You know you’re soaking through your panties. You want so badly to touch yourself, but he hasn’t told you to. You want to be good. Want to impress him, show him how well you can play your role.

“This what you wanted?” Joel grunts, “Got jealous of me fucking all those other girls. Wanted some of me for yourself, huh?”

You moan around him. He’s just playing his part, but fuck if it doesn’t strike a nerve. You were jealous of all the other girls in his videos, had wanted so desperately to be in their place. But you hadn’t known it would be like this, the want so powerful, so overwhelming.

He pulls you back, holding your head away from his cock. It shines with your spit.

“I want to hear it.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. Barely able to catch your breath, to form words through the haze of arousal.

“Yes,” you pant, “I wanted you. Wanted to taste you. So bad.”

Joel makes a satisfied sound, tapping the head of his cock against your lips so you open again. He presses back inside, the salt and musk sliding heavy over your tongue.

He picks up his pace, his cock kissing the back of your throat with each stroke. He holds your head steady, ponytail wrapped around his fist, keeping your mouth in place as he begins to fuck your face.

Your eyes water, but you stay put. Letting him use you, chase his high, press deeper and deeper into your throat with each thrust. Spit pools at the corner of your mouth, dribbling over your lips and down your chin.

“Fuck, look at you. Being such a good girl, such a good hole for me.”

You whimper, his words going straight to the heat between your legs.

He presses you down until your lips are wrapped around the base of him, your nose buried in the dark curls there. You’re surrounded by his scent, struggling to breathe. You can feel him down your throat.

He groans, low and guttural. “Jesus, fuck.”

You gag and Joel pulls out, a strand of saliva trailing between the tip of his dick to your lips. You fight to catch your breath, blinking back tears as you stare up at him.

His jaw has gone slack, and there’s something new in the heat of his gaze. His hand cups your cheek, feeling the flushed heat of your skin. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, down to your mouth, running over your spit soaked lips.

“So good for me, baby. You feel so goddamn good.”

He slips back between your lips, pressing deep. You dig your nails into the flesh of your own thighs, fighting against your gag reflex. Tears spill down your cheeks, mixing with the spit dripping down your neck. You choke and he pulls out, letting you catch your breath.

“Taking it like a champ. One more time.”

Joel presses forward again, forcing himself further down. His hand moves down to your neck, and he gives it a careful squeeze, feeling himself in your throat. You gag, but he holds you there a second longer, letting your throat flex around him. He groans as he pulls out.

He uses his grip on your hair to pull you up, pressing your back to the lockers that line the hall. There’s a new sense of urgency in his touch, a kind of fervor. He grabs roughly at your breast, thumbing your nipple through the fabric. You arch into his hand, craving his touch.

“So desperate, baby. You like this? Like me using you?”

He runs his hand along your body, over the swell of your breasts, across your stomach. Feeling the way you tense and tremble for him. He reaches beneath the hem of your skirt, and his hand meets the sticky slick of your inner thighs. You’re fucking dripping for him.

“Jesus Christ,” his eyes move over your face, taking in the flushed cheeks and tear tracks, “Show me.”

You fumble for your skirt, but he’s already tugging the uniform up and over you, impatient. He balls up the cheap fabric and tosses it aside, leaving you bare and aching for him. Only the damp scrap of your panties between you. His fingers skate along the band of them, inches away from where you need him.

“Shit,” you gasp, hips bucking involuntarily, “Please.”

You expect him to fuck you then. It feels like he might, the length of him hard against your hip, slowly rocking against you, dragging spit and precum across your stomach.

Instead, Joel lowers himself to his knees. His hands skate up your thighs, thumbs hooking under the band of your panties and dragging them down your legs. You stand above him, fully exposed, your skin flushed and feverish from his attention.

He takes your thighs in hands, carefully coaxing them apart. His eyes go dark as he stares at your wet cunt. Your swollen clit, skin damp with slick. His palms slide up to your burning core. His thumbs drag up your lips and pull them apart, exposing you — to him, to the camera, to the room full of strangers. But you can only see him. The way he’s looking at you.

He leans forwards and spits.

His thumb moves up to rub your clit, mixing his spit with your slick. A whine slips through your lips.

“So pretty, baby,” Joel mutters, voice low, “Got you all worked up, huh.”

He begins drawing tight circles over your clit, finally, finally giving you the friction you so desperately need. You bite your lip, nerves sparking, already close to overstimulated. He drags your wetness down to your entrance and slides two fingers deep inside you. You both groan at the feeling.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

His fingers are so much thicker than your own. His knuckles rub against your inner walls, hitting you exactly where you need him. His thumb drags over your clit with every stroke.

Your legs begin to shake. He hooks his free hand around your calf and lifts your leg, hitching it over his shoulder. You lean back against the lockers, letting him hold you up like this, keep you open.

“There you go.”

His fingers drive deep up into you, thumb grinding against your clit. Your hips move against his hand, chasing the feeling. His gaze stays fixed on your cunt, focused on the way you grip his fingers, your arousal dripping down his wrist. He twists up into you and scrapes against a spot that makes you see stars. Your breath catches in your throat, you’re so fucking close —

“Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, and then tension inside you releases all at once, snaps and sends you hurtling over the end. Heat flares inside of you and your cunt clenches around his hand, walls rippling as you ride out your orgasm. Joel works you through it, his fingers keeping a steady rhythm inside you.

You struggle to catch your breath. Trying to remember what’s supposed to happen next.

But Joel's eyes haven’t left you. He looks up from between your legs, roving over your body, taking it all in. The flush on your chest. The faint sheen of sweat. The slick shining at the apex of your thighs.

“Fuck, that was pretty,” he murmurs, real quiet. Too low for the cameras. His thumb ghosts over your clit and your body jerks in his grasp, already so sensitive.

“Want you to give me another one.”

You open your mouth to respond — to say what, you’re not sure. You feel unfocused, television static fuzzing your brain, scattering your thoughts.

“Can you do that? Can you come again for me?”

Joel presses harder against your clit and you choke on a moan.

“Yes,” you whine, the words catching in your throat, “God, yes. Please.”

There’s a gleam of approval in his eye.

“Good girl.”

Then he leans forward and licks a broad stripe over your dripping cunt. You flinch at the sudden intensity, thousands of nerve endings lighting up at once. His grip tightens on your thighs and he holds you steady as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue slips through your soaking folds, lapping up the slick that has gathered there. His mouth moves hungrily, devouring you, drinking you down. His beard scratches along your sensitive lips, sending little shockwaves through you. Your hand shoots out, tangling in his hair. He lets out a low groan of approval.

You can feel your second orgasm building, sparking up your spine as he scrapes his teeth carefully across your clit. The tension in your stomach coils tighter and tighter, everything inside you drawing taught. No one has ever made you feel this good, nothing has ever felt like this.

Joel slides two thick fingers inside, sucks hard at your clit, and you’re gone.

Your vision goes white as you clench down on him, coming hard, your orgasm ripping through you in a way that’s almost painful. Joel’s tongue catches your sweetness as it spills from you, tasting you from the source, letting you soak his face.

When you whimper at the overstimulation, he pulls away, beard shining with your release. His eyes are so dark they look black, pupils blown wide with lust.

He slides out from under your leg, standing and keeping you steady with a hand on your hip. He drags his damp fingers across your flush skin, over your stomach, between your breasts. Up to your mouth, swiping across your bottom lip.

You hold his gaze as you wrap your lips around them, tasting yourself, licking him clean. You’re panting when he pulls away.

He gives you a long look, chest heaving, the heavy scent of you on his breath.

“Gonna fuck you now,” Joel murmurs.

You feel his cock rub up against your belly, and you look down to where it’s trapped between your sweaty bodies. He thrusts against you, smearing precum across your stomach.

You bite your lip. He’s so big. And even though you’ve had him in your mouth, all the way down the back of your throat, you’re overwhelmed by the idea of all that inside of you.

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and it’s like he can see what you’re thinking. He thumbs over your cheek. Almost affectionate.

“It’s alright. We’ll make it fit.”

Joel turns you around, hands sliding over your waist. He drags your hips out so that you’re bent over, exposed, breasts flush against the cool metal of the locker. His hand smooths down your spine, forcing you to arch for him. You feel his fingers drag through your folds, teasing your entrance.

Your breath catches as his head presses against you, the weeping tip parting your lips. You brace yourself, cheek pressed against the metal, looking over your shoulder as he finally, finally slides inside. A moan tears itself from your throat at the stretch, the way your walls flex around him.

He fills you in one slow stroke, until his hips are flush with yours, cock kissing your cervix. You’re so full you can barely breathe. It’s like he’s everywhere all at once, choking the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel growls, “So fucking good. Gripping me so goddamn tight.”

He sounds almost as wrecked as you feel, voice low and hoarse. His fingertips dig into the meat of your hips, holding you tight to him. You can feel yourself bruising beneath him, but you don’t pull away. You want him to mark you, to leave something of himself behind.

He gives you a second to adjust, then pulls back, almost all the way out. The slow drag of him is excruciating. You whine when he thrusts back in, nails scratching against smooth metal, struggling to catch your breath. You can feel the way your walls grip him, clinging to the hard length of his cock as he takes you in long, deep strokes.

“That’s it,” he grits his teeth, “Taking it so well.”

All you can do is take it, barely holding yourself up against the locker, letting him set the pace. He increases the speed of his thrusts, his hips snapping against yours. The sound is filthy, wet and wanton, the slap of skin on skin.

He gathers your sweaty hair in his hand, pulling your head back, baring your throat. His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin there, and you keen, high and reedy. You’re already so fucked out, unable to focus on anything but the slide of him inside you, slick and raw.

He lifts your leg, exposing the place where your bodies are joined, where your sex is stretched so obscenely around him. His hand slides over your stomach, down between your legs, to where you’re still so raw, soaking wet. You cry out — it’s too much, way too sensitive — but he’s relentless, fingers rubbing hard against your overwrought clit, wringing a third orgasm out of you.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You shiver through it, feel the weak flutter of your cunt around his cock. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you up. You can tell he’s close, the way his body draws tense, how he crowds even closer.

“Look at me.”

He cups your jaw with his hand, tilting your head back, angling it so he can see you. Your eyes are glassy, tears clinging to your lashes. Your spine bows in a delicate curve, and all you can feel is him. The hand on your face, the one at your hip, and his cock driving deep, deep inside you.

His jaw goes slack — that expression you’ve memorized, the one you know means he’s close — but his eyes stay open this time. He stares down at you, brows furrowed, his hips stuttering through the final few thrusts, and then he’s coming. He pulls out at the last second, spilling over your skin, streaks of thick cum painting your pussy.

His hand is still wrapped around your jaw, thumb pressed against your frantic pulse. You stay like that, breathing hard, gazing up at him.

“And cut.”

You blink. It’s like coming back to yourself. Everything is suddenly in sharp focus. You feel the floor beneath you, the sweat cooling on your bare skin. The sticky tack of his cum over your aching cunt, slipping down your thighs.

Joel releases your leg, steadying you before stepping away. His touch feels different now. Formal, almost. Perfunctory. He doesn’t quite meet your eye as he tucks himself back into his sweatpants.

He looks so composed, like he hasn’t just fucked you within an inch of your life. You’re suddenly conscious of just how naked you are.

“Great job, guys,” Tess says, stepping out from behind the camera and passing you a robe. You slip it over your shoulders, tying the front, tucking yourself away. Even though everyone had already seen everything, your nudity now stings with a kind of self-consciousness, a strange obscenity.

Tess is saying something, and you have to shake your head to refocus on her.

“Sorry, what?”

Your throat feels raw, stripped from sex.

“Statement of consent,” Tess repeats, pointing, “Straight into camera.”

“Oh, right.”

Your knees are shaking, and Joel’s semen is slowly dripping down your thighs. Your pulse hasn’t slowed, still racing beneath your skin. You’ve barely had a second to catch your breath.

You make eye contact with the camera lens.

“My name is —“ you start, but cut yourself off with a breathy laugh, “Shit, sorry. My name is —“

A fresh wave of giggles overwhelms you. You feel giddy. Freshly-fucked and freer than you have in your whole life. You manage to gasp out your name before biting down on your knuckles, trying to suppress the laughter.

Joel glances at you.

You struggle to pull yourself together.

“Right, sorry. I consented to, you know,” you wave your hand, “Everything.”

Tess gives you an amused look.

“Good enough for me,” she says, then claps her hands together, “That’s a wrap, everybody.”

There’s a general shuffling as the crew begins to move, striking the sparse set, packing up the equipment. Tess turns away to speak to one of the grips, and you linger at the edge of the hallway, unsure of what to do with yourself.

You feel raw, every inch of your skin oversensitive. There’s a tenderness between your legs, bruises ripening on your hips, but nothing hurts. It’s a good kind of sore. You lean into it and find you like it. You search yourself — for shame, for regret — but find nothing but a low hum of satisfaction, the pleasure that still pulses through you.

“You did good.”

You look up sharply and find Joel watching you. You feel yourself flush, the blush rising high on your cheeks. Which is ridiculous, after everything. After he’s touched every soft and secret part of you, laid you bare and made you come undone.

But still, you blush.

“Thanks.”

Joel’s expression is unreadable, but the earlier intensity is gone. He’s just looking.

You feel like you should say something, anything, so you stammer out, “You too. I mean. You were — that was. Thank you, for that.”

Stupid. What a stupid thing to say. But you think you see the corner of his mouth twitch up, the faint suggestion of a smile. He opens his mouth to say something else, then seems to think better of it.

He gives you another, slightly stilted nod, then turns back down the hallway. And there’s a funny sort of feeling low in your stomach, a longing. You want so badly for him to look back at you.

But he doesn’t.

x x x x x x x x

part two here

author’s note: this fic is pro-sex work and anti-patriarchy. i do not believe in the exploitation of female bodies for male profit or entertainment. capitalism is evil and all men should die. xo

#joel miller imagine #featured authors

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imagines-hoarder · 2 years

Text

I have to post at least one of the phenomenal pieces by @touchstarvedirl because C’MON. The way they write Bucky as a gentle giant with an attitude problem and dirty mouth simply cannot be topped.

Let Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!reader

Word Count: 2,319

Warning: Implied smut, Lots of Fluff, Hair washing (definitely some typos, more than usual probably, feeling a little too lazy to proofread)

A/N: This can be read as a standalone, sequel or prologue to my ‘There’s Been a Misunderstanding’ fic. + My Masterlist for my other Bucky Barnes works.

Summary: You and Bucky shower together, and you give Bucky treatment he hasn’t had in a long time. ~ Or~ The first time you wash Bucky’s hair.

Keep reading

#featured author #featured authors #bucky barnes imagine

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imagines-hoarder · 2 years

Text

I just had the ugliest cry in a very long time. I am soooo unwell

when it all falls apart

Summary: The fate of the universe was in your hands. Bucky and you had been sent to retrieve the soul stone, a seemingly simple task. Unbeknownst to you, there was a hefty price to pay for such an exchange. You’re able to return to Earth, but it’s soon apparent part of you was left in Vormir.

Pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

Warnings: major angst, some fluff, swearing, major character death.

Word Count: 8.1k

Disclaimer: In this AU, Bucky didn’t get snapped and you two got the soul stone instead of Nat and Clint. Natasha is still alive in this universe.

If it weren’t for the circumstances, Vormir would have been one of the most breathtaking places you’d ever been to. The cool sand seemed to slide off your shoes seamlessly and the eternal sunset that peaked over the land reflected a warm purple color off of Bucky’s and your skin. If Bucky tried hard enough, he could momentarily convince himself that this was just a stroll on the beach for you two, that the fate of the universe wasn’t dependent on getting that stone.

But it was. So there you were. Hand in hand, silently hoping to leave this majestic place for more familiar scenery back home.

“I love you,” Bucky spoke, eyes remaining at the rocky mountain ahead.

“Don’t say that.”

“I do.”

“You make it sound like we’re going to die. Save it for when we get back home.” You were trying your best to stay collected, keep cool, but you were hanging on by a thread. The weight of what you had to do hadn’t dawned on you until you got to Vormir.

His eyes travelled over to you, giving you a melancholic look. In return you gave him a weak smile. As you further trekked towards the mountain, you knew something was wrong. Where was the battle? Where was the fight? It felt too easy, too simple to just climb a hill and claim one of the most powerful items in the cosmo. You knew something was wrong. He did too.

If only you both understood the dire fate you were about to become entangled in.

“After this, we should get married.”

“Bucky-”

“I’m serious,” he confessed, stopping to look directly at you. “I know I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Why shouldn’t we?”

You halted your movements to return your lover’s gaze. Sighing, you corrected lightly, “You’re just saying that because you feel like the world is ending.”

“Maybe because it is.”

“It’s been ending for the past five years,” you said, taking his hand back into yours to pull him along to your final destination.

“All the more reason. Doll, say yes and we get back and ditch this life for something simpler. Just you and me.”

“Buck-”

“Welcome,” an unfamiliar voice spoke out as you reached the peak of the rocky structure. You both whipped out your weapons, taking a defensive stance. A shadowy figure emerged from behind one of the stones, cloaked in a cape of darkness, face blood red. Not an ounce of flesh clung to his body, revealing an unnaturally bony figure.

“Bucky, son of Winnifred. Y/N, daughter of-”

“Cut the crap, what’s your game?” you spat, still ready to attack.

“There’s no game. I’m just a guide to the soul stone.” Bucky lowered his weapons, detecting this man was no threat to either of you. Not here, at least.

“How about you show us and we’ll be on our way,” he said, placing his gun back into its holster.

The stranger with the velvet face shook his head lightly in disappointment. “If only it were that easy.” Turning, he approached the edge of the cliff, Bucky and you cautiously following.

You looked over, seeing nothing but a long drop to the bottom, filled with uneven ground and rough terrain. “So the stone is down there?”

“To obtain the stone, one must lose which they love. The other must lose their life. A soul for a soul.”

For a few minutes, Bucky and you assessed your options.

You now leaned against one of the rocky walls, gazing out into the lovely dusk. Bucky paced slowly, trying to figure out what to do, if there was another way.

“He’s lying.”

“I don’t think he is,” you replied, nervously fixating on your hands.

“Why not?”

“Think about it, Buck. Thanos came here with Gamora and left with the stone, but not his daughter. . .”

You two knew what had to be done, but saying it out loud is what made the weight fall upon your shoulders. Although not tangible, it was suffocating at best and harrowing at worst.

You now shifted your position from the wall and stood at Bucky’s side. You both faced out to the edge, only feet away from obtaining the soul stone, looking out.

“If we don’t get that stone. . .” he spoke quietly.

“Billions stay gone. . .”

“I guess we know what we have to do.”

“Yeah, I guess we do.”

You turned to face each other, slowly. His faded eyes beamed into yours. You took the moment to remember his face, bask in it just one last time.

The bluest sea.

The quietest breath.

The strongest jaw.

The saddest eyes.

You rested your foreheads together, lacing your hands with the others. Bucky was ready to crumble at that moment, but he refused to cry. He didn’t want the last memory you saw of him to be such a tragic one.

“The answer’s yes.” You let out a weak smile, eyes closed.

His eyes remained shut as well, but he heard the grin in your cadence. “We’ll have to start planning when we get back, then. You’ve just made me the happiest man alive.” His voice remained low, stricken with grief.

“I love you, Bucky.”

“Hey,” he cooed, “‘I love you’s are only for the dying.” You sniffled as you let out a defeated laugh in response. “I love you too.”

He pulled his forehead back from yours, studying you. His hand cupped around your cheek and wiped a silent tear that threatened to spill over. Don’t cry for me, now.

“Another lifetime maybe?”

“I’m just sad it couldn’t have been this one.” He gently laid a kiss upon your forehead, lingering for longer than he meant to; he was just making it harder for himself. It was supposed to make up for the words he’d never get to say, the moments you’d never get to share. Taking your hand in his, he gently laid a kiss upon the back of it. For later. Finally, he gave it one last squeeze before letting go.

Simultaneously, you both turned to walk towards the edge. Your heads snapped immediately into the direction of the other.

“I don’t think we meant the same thing,” he said lowly.

“Seems like we have different ideas of who’s going.” Your voice remained steady.

“You have to let me do this.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

Like machine work, he gathered all his strength to toss you as far back as he could to the ground before he started bolting towards the rocky ledge. Grunting, you shot up and ignored the pain in your side to pursue him. Your adrenaline began to surge as you pounced him, taking him down as he swiftly moved.

“Please don’t make me fight you,” he begged.

“Bucky, you’re not going,” you commanded, frustration and sorrow arising in your voice.

He shoved you off of him and went to regain his footing. Before he could begin to run again, you conjured rocks out of the ground and wrapped them around his feet, causing him to come to an aggressive halt midmotion. You surpassed where he was quickly and dashed off the side of the cliff, free falling for only seconds before Bucky collided into your body.

Bucky wrapped his flesh arm around you and used his remaining metal one to grab on for dear life to the side of the jagged rocks. Now there you were, dangling, Bucky’s arm being the only tether you had left keeping you from a long way down.

“Bucky,” you breathed, “you have to let me go.”

“There’s no me without you, I can’t.” Tears were beginning to brim his eyes as he desperately tried to think of a way to get you back home.

Bucky’s grip was slowly slipping on you. Your fingers were finding ways to escape his grasp, shuffling and twisting, making it harder to keep a study hold. This was the way it had to be.

“We’re going to be okay, I promise.”

It was hitting him, there wasn’t anything else he could do. Your hold was too loose, he’d never be able to pull you back up. In that brief second, as he stared down at the love of his life, he contemplated letting his arm go, falling with you. He knew it’d be selfish, that you would’ve died in vain, that they’d never get the soul stone, that the world would have perished because of him, but his mind was a cloudy mess. He couldn’t begin to fathom a life with you.

Before you started your spiral down, he took one final moment to take in all the features he’d never see again. The ones that kept him safe at night, the ones that’d now haunt his dreams.

The softest lips.

The starriest gaze.

The truest heart.

The warmest smile.

One by one, your fingers released themselves from Bucky's hold, try as he might to keep his grasp on you. You were now falling, making your way down. You felt the air slide between your fingers as they left the safety of Bucky’s. The smell of the cold wind stung your nose as your further plummeted. Even from halfway down, you could see a pair of desperate blue eyes looking down at you. The final thing you heard was the blood curdling scream Bucky let out, the swan song of your love. The last thing you tasted was the grotesque flavor of metal that came with blood.

The world was smiling again, in all her glory. Families had been reunited, friendships were brought back together, and the sun seemed to be shining on the Earth once again. All was well.

Well, for most anyways.

There were those who crumbled under the wait. Faces that used to be called home were different now, unfamiliar. Some learned to move on, starting new lives without those from before. Others suffocated in the waves of the past.

Bucky returned with the stone.

They saved the world.

You saved the world.

He was supposed to be happy, joyful as the rest of the Earth. You died a hero, a true martyr. People sang your name in praise and for generations to come children would learn of your sacrifice. You died for a cause and that was supposed to help coax the pain. It never did, though.

There were nights where he’d wake up, aching for your touch once more, whispering your name. No matter how hard he hoped or how much he tried, he could never conjure you. You were a memory, a picture in the hallway, a piece of the past.

Bucky had always been a reclusive person, but your passing amplified his hermit tendencies. He never ventured out anymore. He confined himself to the small house you used to share, barely leaving the bedroom most days. The coffee cup you last used remained on the counter, undisturbed. He refused to move any of your things out, despite what everyone suggested. He couldn’t corrupt the last remaining traces of you. The team sent their condolences, words of pity to try to console him.

They’ll never understand. They didn’t know her like I did.

Of course, visitors came, not in droves, but a fair amount. As the days passed, they stopped coming by and Bucky stopped asking for them. What was the point? They couldn’t give him what he wanted.

The last person from the team to see him was Wanda. It was a brisk early winter night, not a star in the sky or a flake of snow on the ground. She stood at his door, hands in pockets, shielding what she could from the cold. It had been two months since that day.

He creaked the door open, looking out to see a familiar face, red hair tucked inside her coat hood.

“You look like shit.” His face had noticeably grown gaunt and his flesh was a sickly pale color. He looked beyond exhausted.

“It’s nice to see you too.” He was too tired to quip back.

“Can I come in?” Without saying a word, Bucky turned around to enter back into his house, leaving the door ajar as her only invitation in.

“How have you been?” Wanda asked, stepping in, taking in the house around her. Unopened mail piled up near the door greeted her. As she passed by the coat hanger, her fingers quickly lingered at the fabric of one of your jackets. If she didn’t know any better, it was almost like you were still there. Your shoes were still neatly placed near the door where you’d left them, your keys still on their usual hook.

“Never better,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky,” she sighed, “I want to help, but you can’t keep shutting me out like this.” She followed him into the kitchen where he stood, opposite the counter to her.

“Maybe I don’t want your help!” he barked back. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but he had grown so frustrated. He didn’t want sympathy, he wanted you. No amount of I’m sorry or this is what she would’ve wanted eased the ripping sensation in his chest.

“You’re not the only person who lost somebody,” she snapped.

Vision.

Steve.

Tony.

Gone.

Bucky sighed. He hadn’t realized how hard his hands were gripping onto the kitchen counter, knuckles turning white from the strain. She was right. “I’m sorry.”

“She was my friend too.”

“I know.”

Wanda sighed, rubbing her temples in frustration. “I don’t even know why I came here.”

“Wait.” Bucky released his grip from the counter, looking up at her. “Stay, please”

Wanda nodded silently. Bucky decided to concoct a small pot of tea to fill the silence. Despite being best friends with you, Wanda and Bucky never talked much. It wasn’t because they didn’t get along necessarily, they just existed as separate pieces of your life.

It wasn’t until now that they realized they were the closest thing the other had to a family left. The world had learned to move on without them. They were both caught in a state of purgatory, seemingly endless mourning. What bound them was that nasty sting of survivor’s guilt. The phrase it should’ve been me played in their minds like a broken record.

They sat on the couch, ignoring the piping tea Bucky made and instead opted to nurse a beer. It was times like these that Bucky really wished he could just get a little intoxicated, anything to ease his mood.

“Do you see it in your dreams too?” Wanda asked, taking another sip of her drink.

“What?”

“How she died.” A moment of silence paused. “I see Viz sometimes.” Her voice was quiet.

He simmered in the question for a minute. “Every night.”

Bucky heard a quiet sob come from her direction causing him to turn his attention away from his bottle and to her. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

“Your thoughts,” she sniffled, “they’re- they’re so loud. I can hear her, Bucky.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond. That moment, those few minutes were on an eternal loop in his mind. He didn’t ever really stop thinking about it, but those few times the thought went dormant all he felt was numb. Wasn’t it better to feel sorrow than nothing at all, though? Doesn’t that just prove it was real?

Bucky went to gently place his hand on Wanda’s shoulder for reassurance. In a flash, he was back there, upon that rocky cliff reliving that awful moment. Except this time, Wanda saw it all too. Ripping his hand away abruptly he cursed under his breath. Wanda was now shaking, tears drowning her face.

“Bucky I saw it- I saw her.” She was crying too hard to form a coherent sentence but he knew what she meant. “Oh, Bucky, I’m so sorry.” She pulled him into an embrace, still sobbing. At first he wasn’t sure what to do, the last person he held being you, still trying to register how he felt. Soon enough, he settled into the hug.

Wanda pulled back after a few minutes, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, trying to regain her composure.

“She would’ve made a beautiful bride,” she smiled sadly, picturing her best friend adorned in a gorgeous dress.

“Yeah,” he ached, “she would have.”

“A soul for a soul.” She let the words marinate on her lips.

“A soul for a soul.” He let the words fester like a venom on his tongue.

They sat in the quiet of one another for a moment. Bucky felt awful Wanda had to watch her best friend die, but secretly it was oddly pleasant to share the burden. If he could’ve done the same for her, he would’ve. It was a strange comfort to know it hurt someone as much as it cut him.

“If you could, even if it was just for a while, wouldn’t you bring her back?”

“Wanda. . .” It was wishful thinking. You were gone.

“I miss her.”

“I miss her too.”

“Wouldn’t you do it?”

“You know I would.”

She then got up, excusing herself quickly. She left in a hurry, as if she were running late and thanked Bucky for the cup of tea she hadn’t even sipped. She had work to do.

He went to bed that night, dreaming of that day all over again. Except this time, it ended the way he wanted it; you safe at home and him at the bottom of a rocky tundra.

“Child, I am warning you, you’re playing with the natural law,” the Red Skull cautioned sharply.

“Are you going to stop me?” she asked, ready to face any obstacle that came in her way.

“I’m here to warn you. You cannot retrieve the soul. The exchange has been made.”

“You can keep the soul,” she hissed.

With those fateful words, Wanda had sealed your fate.

You didn’t know how long you’d been trapped inside the darkness, but once you were pulled from it, it was an abrupt awakening. Your ears continued to ring for a while longer, but you could make out snippets of a heated argument.

What did you do? I saved her. What if it’s no longer her? What did you trade? This is bad, this is bad. She’s back. This isn’t natural. None of what we do is natural.

Your mouth still had the slight taste of blood in it and your body ached, but besides that there weren’t many physical ailments you suffered. You began to open your eyes a little to assess the room. Bucky held tightly onto your hand, too busy ugly crying to see you had awakened. As you finally sat up, everyone in the room quickly turned their attention towards you. You used your free hand to shield yourself from the light.

“Is it really you?” Wanda asked, slowly approaching.

“I believe it is.” Something was different. Not physically perhaps, but you knew something had changed.

Bruce came over to look at your vitals, affirming that you would be fine. Wanda began to smile at you. Internally, though, she was panicking.

She knows.

“Y/N, I’ve missed you so much-”

“Wanda, I need to talk to you,” you cut off Bucky, not paying much mind to his tears. Everyone in the room was taken aback by your bluntness. Like a scorned child, Bucky slowly kissed your hand before leaving the room with the rest of the team. She just needs time.

“I’m different,” you commented, pulling and tugging out the many wires inside your veins to stand up.

“You’re back.” She embraced you, happy to see her friend alive.

“What did you do?” You didn’t bother to return the gesture.

“I got you back,” she sniffled, pulling away to look into your gaze.

You narrowed your eyes. “No, you did something else.”

“Y/N-”

“Fucking tell me, Wanda.” She wasn’t used to this version of you. You were distant, biting with your words. You normally would’ve never spoken to her that way.

“Don’t be mad.” Her tears were now ones of pain instead of joy.

“Fine. Tell me.”

“You don’t have a soul.” She was trying to hold back, not breakdown immediately. She was way in over her head with this one. But she couldn’t lose you and Viz, not if she could help it. You were all she had left.

You stared blankly at her. In your head, you knew that statement was supposed to warrant a reaction, some form of emotion. Nothing. No words came, no strong feelings manifested, so you just continued to look at her absent mindedly. What was there to say?

“But-” she continued.

“But?”

“I can fix this. We just need to ‘borrow’ a piece of someone else’s. It’s not perfect, but it can work.” Wanda wanted to sound convincing, but she wasn’t even sure she believed in herself at that moment. She wasn’t even really sure you would wake up once you were back.

You already had heard enough of her bargaining. You gave it a quick thought before responding. “No.”

“What?” Her face twisted into an expression of confusion and horror. Of all the reactions she pictured, she would’ve never assumed you wouldn’t want it back.

To her further surprise, you began to walk out of the room. There wasn’t anything left for you there, not that you could tell anyways. As you passed Bucky, he went to take your hand and get your attention.

“Doll, is everything alright?” His voice was gentle, eyes still puffy from the recent crying he had just endured.

“Yeah,” you answered, not stopping to look at him as you found your way to the exit.

Nat saw you were in pursuit of the door and casually stepped in front of it, creating a barrier. “Why so eager to head out?” she asked, careful in her tone.

You gave it a second of thought. “There’s nothing here for me.”

“Wanda, what did you do?” Clint wasn’t accusatory in his voice, but there was an underlying sharpness.

“She’s not dangerous, she’s just, she’s just-”

“You’re scared of me?” You asked everyone, inspecting the room. Footsteps were making their way to the nearest exit, others had their hands closed to their weapons, some just shifted nervously, unsure of what to do.

“Wanda, we need to figure out what’s happening or she can’t stay,” Bruce reasoned calmly.

“Like hell she can’t.” Bucky instinctively stepped in front of you. “Wanda is going to fix whatever this is. Right, Wanda?” He was desperate and was beyond horrible at hiding it. He wasn’t going to lose you again, not when he just got you back.

“I can, but-”

“See. She’s going to be okay.” He turned to look at you now, ignoring everyone else in the room. “You’re going to be okay. This must be really hard for you right now. Just like you said, we’re going to be okay, doll.”

“I am okay. Now if you don’t mind I’ll be on my way,” you said matter-of-factly.

“Love,” Bucky whispered dejectedly, “what are you talking about?”

They wouldn’t understand, but you knew you had to try to explain if you ever wanted to make it out without a fight. “My soul’s gone.” The room turned eerily silent. Some eyes turned to Wanda, others remained focused on you.

“Doll-”

“I don’t love you.” Every muscle in the room tensed with shock. This was not the same girl who died at Vormir. “Stop saying doll like it’s going to bring me back. She’s gone. I can’t care about you even if I tried-'' Suddenly, you were hit with a monstrous wave of fatigue.

As you were monologuing, Wanda snuck up behind you and was working her magic. She couldn’t continue to watch this, she didn’t need spells or sorcery to know this was killing Bucky all over again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered before the world went dark once more.

“You said you can fix her.”

“I can. I think.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“She wasn’t dead when I got there. She wasn’t alive. Her consciousness was in this sort of limbo state, neither fully in either state. I could pull her from that. But she didn’t have a soul, that was far gone once I got there.”

“That doesn’t sound like solving the problem.”

“I need someone else’s soul, even just a piece. Kind of like a transplant. It would morph into her and she could use it. I just need to find-”

“Use mine.”

“Bucky, I’ve never done this before and I don’t know what might happen. . .”

“Wanda. I said use mine.”

A silence fell between the two. It was only a matter of time before the team would find a way to return you. They loved you, but the person who came from Vormir was barely a shell of the girl they knew. They couldn’t have a mutant with no moral compass running around.

“Okay.”

Bucky was really beginning to hate the concept of time. There was never enough of it, always slipping through the cracks of his palms. But there was nothing he wouldn’t do for more time with you.

The exchange happened in secret. It is quite a difficult thing to quantify a soul and even more challenging to find a way to split it into two. It was also unknown what the soul determined. You still had your memories without one and you still had desires, but no emotional regard for others. Would taking half of another person’s soul mean you were now that person? Did you feel emotions the way they felt them? Can you run off half of one?

The whole situation was messy, but Bucky and Wanda well knew they were past the point of no return. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t stay like this. This was the only viable option.

After what felt like centuries of darkness, your body was back once more. The lights, they were all too flashy, too proud. They mocked you, jeered in your face as they reflected off your pupils and announced I was here before you were born and I’ll exist long after you die. Light was a very prideful entity. But the way Bucky made you light up was warm, and soft. It was tender and its rays peppered I love yous along your flesh.

In many ways, having half of Bucky’s soul felt poetic. There’s no me without you. You were now tethered by a celestial bond, something deeper than what was written in the stars. You had a piece of him, you were a piece of him now.

Your eyes flickered open slowly, straining against the dim lamp. This time you were in your normal bed, no wires or needles poked or prodded into your skin. By your side were a nervous Bucky and Wanda, waiting with bated breath.

“Bucky?” your voice rasped.

“Y/N?” His voice was hesitant. He wasn’t sure what to expect anymore.

You immediately jolted up to embrace him. His arms were just as safe as you remembered, his hair just as soft as you ran your fingers through it.

“Buck, I’m so sorry,” you groveled. You had a crystal clear memory of all the hurtful things you had said, the image of a melancholic Bucky and Wanda etched in your mind. “Wanda, I’m sorry,” you hicked into Bucky’s chest.

“Shh,” he reassured you, “It’s okay. We’re okay now.”

“We missed you,” Wanda smiled, tears filling her wide eyes. You got up to hug her. A dizzy spell struck you as you got to your feet, Wanda having to bear some of your weight on her as you fell into a hug.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just a lot,” you smiled through joyous tears.

Life was beginning to look up. Sure, maybe you were a little tired, but that’s expected when you’re essentially resurrected from the dead.

“How long was I gone for?” you asked, sitting back down on the bed.

“Two months,” Bucky answered. Now that the excitement had waned, you saw how haunted he looked. His face was hollowed and his eyes were tinted an autumn red. He was by no means thriving, but he’d never looked so handsome to you.

As you looked at your best friend and your boyfriend by your side, surrounding you with warmth and hugs of reassurance, you knew things were going to be alright.

It was the fourth night you had returned. The team had greeted you, albeit hesitantly, and reveled in your comeback. The world knew of your return by your third. You were a hero, an emblem of greatness. It was a strange sight, walking around seeing portraits of your face along the city streets. What hurt most was learning of everyone who died along with you, their faces preserved in the same murals.

Peacefully, you slept next to Bucky, his arms wrapped firmly around you. He never let you out of his sight once you returned. Some would say it was overbearing, borderline clingy, but with the given circumstances you understood why.

You’d slept relatively with ease until that night. It all happened so quickly, rapid fire images. Their screaming. The blood. The horror in their eyes. The snaps and tears of their bodies. You woke up, breathing in deeply. In an attempt to regain your grip on reality you sat up and took a small sip of your water on the nightstand. Bucky felt your weight shift off of him and sat up alongside you.

“Everything okay?” he asked, rubbing circles on your back with his cool metal touch.

“Yeah, just a bad dream.”

“Was it about. . .”

“No. It wasn’t even mine,” you confessed.

Even in the dark, you could easily decipher that Bucky’s face was settled into a confused disposition.

You’d play this scene, many endless nights before. Except you’d usually be consoling Bucky, assuring him he was okay. They were all just dreams, not a reflection of his reality.

“I have your nightmares,” you whispered. It was strangely intimate, to not only hear about them, but live them. Borderline invasive.

“Oh, doll,” he lilted, holding you against his chest as you laid back down. He couldn’t help but feel horrified. He didn’t want you to see, to relive that part of his past.

“Do you have them often?”

“Not anymore.”

“Really?” you asked hopefully, eyes travelling to look up to him. “That’s good.”

“I have nightmares about Vormir instead.”

“I’m back, we’re alright,” you assured, nuzzling deeper into him.

“I know. I’m still scared I’ll wake up sometimes.” He rubbed light circles around your back. “And you’ll disappear again.”

“I’m here to stay.”

“Promise?” He knew you couldn’t.

“Promise.” You weren’t sure. But that was enough to hear for the night. It was all the convincing you two needed for the moment, even if it was capricious. You’d only been back for a few days, there were no signs you were staying or leaving. You fell asleep once more, being lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest. Bucky stayed awake, though. Every moment was precious, too irreplaceable to not enjoy. Sometimes he wished he could stay awake for every minute you shared. The cute face you made when you woke up, the way you tugged at his hand, how you sounded when you sang along with the radio.

You were right in his arms, but he couldn't help but dread this would slip from him again.

“I didn’t understand love until I met you. I love you when you’re happy and laughing and I love you when you’re angry with me. I love your messy hair in the mornings and I love your sleepy yawns at night. I love when you say my name loudly and I love when you take my hand mindlessly. There is not a piece of you I haven’t loved since the day I met you. You’re half my soul and my whole life. You’re my sun, my moon, my stars, and my everything. There’s not enough words to describe how much I love you with all my being. I love you, my love.” Tears streamed down his face as he spoke. He had prepared the vows the day you died and now here he was, saying the very same words to you.

Life was a dream, a ray of sunshine once again. He kissed your lips fervently, fearing he might perish if he had to stay another moment away from you.

You were his.

He was yours.

The sun peeked through the curtains and onto the kitchen floor. The snow was beginning to melt off the ground and the trees were collecting their green shades back. Birds chirped outside as you continued to make lunch. You heard the light sound of Bucky’s bare feet on the wooden boards as he sneaked up behind you, encaging you in his arms.

It had been three months since you returned. All was okay. You were finally going to be okay. It shouldn’t have happened and you sometimes didn’t believe it yourself, but you were here to stay. Your comeback didn’t come without its obstacles, of course. Running off of half a soul was not a particularly viable way to live. You’d began to grow weaker, slower in your movements. Unlike Bucky, you didn’t have super soldier serum to keep you running. You no longer had your previous geokinesis abilities which meant no more fighting. Bucky and you decided to retire from the Avenger’s because of that, but the extra time together took your mind off your fragile state.

You felt the tinge of Bucky’s stubble against your neck as he kissed it lovingly.

“What are you doing, Mr. Barnes?” you giggled, his beard hair tickling your skin.

“Admiring my wife, Mrs. Barnes.”

The wedding ceremony was modest. You two bought the first rings you saw and married the same night. You’d only been back a week, but you weren’t sure how much longer you had. Time, it was fickle as always. Wanda acted as your maid of honor. The rest of the team also attended. It was the happiest you’d seen any of them in a long time. Glasses clinked in celebration and well wishes were directed to the newly weds. It was the pick me up everyone needed.

Bucky continued to pepper kisses down your neck, shoulders, and collar bones. He just couldn’t get enough of you.

“How am I supposed to make lunch if my husband won’t give me some room?”

“Forget lunch, come cuddle with me,” he mumbled into your neck.

Before you could quip back at your husband, the breath was knocked out of your chest. If Bucky hadn’t been standing right behind you, you surely would’ve fallen to the cool ground.

“What’s wrong, doll?”

You went to answer him, but your words were stopped by a sharp inhale. You clutched at your chest, it felt like your heart was burning a hole inside your ribcage.

“Baby, c’mon stay with me now,” he pleaded gently. He lifted you up and tenderly set you on the couch to lay down.

“Bucky, I don’t feel so good,” you groaned, a light headed feeling settling into your skull.

“No, no, no, no,” he mumbled panickedly. “We’re going to get Wanda and you’re going to be alright. Okay?”

He went to dial her number, one hand still firmly gripped around your shaky one. Before the phone could let out its first ring, you were out cold.

“Bucky.”

“Yes, love?”

“We need to talk about it?”

“About what?” he asked, genuinely curious as to what you were referring to.

It was exactly two weeks since you passed out. Wanda came over to assess the damage. Maybe you just didn’t get enough sunlight or enough sleep. Bucky was hoping it was an issue of the Earthly medical realm. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t and instead called the only person who could possibly give answers.

You let out a sigh. Your fork mindlessly pushed around your food on your dinner plate. Recently, you’d lost your appetite. The days blended together, fading in and out of conscious understanding of your reality.

“You know what.”

Bucky swallowed and continued to stare at the plate in front of him. “She said she didn’t know.”

Your husband was never the optimist until you came back. He was strong headed, and resilient. At first his unwavering positivity was sweet. Quickly, you realized it was a state of denial. He was going to lose you twice and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. So he rather just not talk about it. He would rather make all the meals and do all the shopping and pretend that you sleeping eighteen hours straight was normal. Your new shivering habit was just a result of the cold wind and your lightheaded spells happened because you didn’t drink enough water. That’s what he tried to tell himself, anyways.

“What if I die tonight?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Bucky, you know as well as I do that it could happen.”

“I won’t let it.”

“You don’t get a say in that!” You yelled across the table. This forced Bucky’s eyes to peer up at you. “We have never gotten a say in any of this. Stop acting like we’re okay. Maybe Wanda can give you your other half back-”

“You are my other half. I don’t care about the soul, I want you.” He walked over to you and kneeled down to where you sat. He firmly looped your hands into his. “Can’t you see that?”

“Bucky, I’m dying.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We can’t stop it.”

“I know!” he cried. “I know.” He now put his face defeatedly into his hands. The usually large, intimating man looked pathetic crying on his knees on the kitchen floor. His body shook as his pulse raced.

Your fingers softly grazed through his hair to offer him some comfort. Maybe it was selfish, but you needed to hear him admit it. The fear that you’d leave and he wouldn’t be ready further and further crept into your mind at night.

“How about we go lay down?”

“Yeah,” he sniffled. “Yeah.”

“And you can tell me about your childhood.”

“And then you’ll tell me yours?”

“Of course, Buck.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he affirmed, and gently kissed your hand before helping you upstairs.

“Wanda, what the fuck do you mean?” Bucky barked.

Her tone was solemn. “I told you it might not work.”

“She was alright just three weeks ago.”

“That’s a funny way to put it.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Bucky. Look at her.” Bucky and Wanda both stood at your bedroom door. After the first time you passed out, they knew there was no use in taking you to a hospital. They couldn’t help you, why waste the trip?

“She looks fine.”

“If you won’t stop lying to yourself then I can’t help you.”

Bucky glanced over to you, cradled in the sheets. He had been absolutely blinded by the fear of losing you. You’d begun to look sickly since the day you’d returned. It was slow at first, maybe a weak moment here or there, but as the weeks progressed you were withering more rapidly. The past week was the worst. You looked empty, barely surviving.

“We both have half a soul. How am I fine and she’s not?”

“Bucky, that’s not even half her own soul.”

He looked over to the love of his life as he asked, “Did you know this would happen?”

“I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Give her mine.”

“You’ll die,” Wanda reasoned.

“I don’t care anymore!” His voice was forlorn.

Bucky’s booming voice disturbed your deep state of sleep. You slowly began to peel your eyes open. It hurt to know the two people you loved the most were always arguing. All because of you. Because the world had to be saved and there was no other way.

“I’m not losing both of you,” she answered plainly through gritted teeth.

Slowly, your body began to rise to a sitting position on the bed. The two stared at you with pitiful gazes, scanning your figure. You looked like a wilting flower, clinging onto the last few breaths life could afford you.

“Bucky? Wanda?”

“Hey, doll,” Bucky soothed. “You had me worried. You feeling better now?”

It was hard to meet his sincerely hopeful gaze. As you looked back into his bright blue eyes, you could see his judgment was clouded. He was delusional.

You shook your head slowly. “It’s happening.”

“What are you talking about?” He slowly stroked at your cheek.

Wanda left the doorway for the living room. She couldn’t watch this any longer.

It’s a strange feeling, to know your body is succumbing to itself. The funny thing about death is, no one really plans on it. You had known for weeks and had plenty of time to come to terms with such a fate, but now that it was here, you weren’t sure what to do.

You slowly took your hands into Bucky’s hand and sighed. For a moment, you both allowed yourselves to become engulfed in the silence. Absently, you traced your thumb around the back of Bucky’s hand. His voice may have remained calmed, but his body betrayed him easily. He was shaking, like a sick kitten forced to endure the rain.

It felt appropriate to say something, anything. But the silence was welcoming. For those few minutes in the quiet, you could pretend that everything was normal. You were his. He was yours. It would be alright.

“We’re on borrowed time, Buck.”

“Don’t say that. Please, we’re going to fix this.”

“James.”

“Y/N.”

“The only other option is living with no soul. I don’t want that. I don’t want to die not feeling love. Yes, there’s a lot of pain too, but that comes with it. And that’s okay. We’re going to be okay.”

You began to lethargically inch off of the bed, tiredly tossing the sheets aside. Bucky couldn’t help himself, he immediately rushed over to try to help you lie back down.

“Doll, you’re sick. You need your strength. Please rest.”

“Bucky, I’m dying. There’s nothing we can do. I’m not spending my last few hours shut up in a bedroom.”

He nodded with a sense of understanding. “Okay.”

You hated putting him in this position, but he knew it was coming. There wasn’t anything left. It was your time and you wanted to spend it in a meaningful way. He aided you back into the living room. Wanda awaited on the couch, head resting in her hands. No exchange of words needed to happen, she already understood.

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Wanda. Thanks for the extra time.”

You met each other in a warm embrace. She took in the scent of your hair one more time, the feel of your skin against hers. Wanda would miss the stories you’d never get to share, the laughs that would never happen, and most of all her best friend.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it longer,” she smiled sadly. She wouldn’t cry until she got home. You’d been strong this whole time, the least she felt she could do was extend the same courtesy to you.

With a loving last squeeze, she released and excused herself out of the house. The door closed with a foreboding quiet and all that remained was Bucky and you.

“Do you want to see the team?” He was still staring at the door. This was truly the finale, it was all coming to a close.

“I don’t think they’ll make it in time. Let’s go somewhere.” Your eyes remained at the door as well.

“Where to?”

“How about the backyard. The sunset looks beautiful this time of year.” You took his hand in yours. With what strength you had left you squeezed it lightly.

“That sounds wonderful.”

Little by little, you made your way outside and took a seat on the small bench in the back. The air was that of mid spring, clean and welcoming in her wake. By now, many wildflowers had begun to pop up, decorating the green yard with soft pastels. You rested your head gently on Bucky’s shoulder, him still keeping a strong hold on your hand.

“What’s it like?”

“Death?”

“Yeah. Do you remember it?”

“Well,” you explained, “I wasn’t fully dead. I was in some in-between state. It was dark, but I wasn’t scared.”

“Are you scared now?”

You gave it a moment's thought. “No. Not when you’re here.”

The sun slowly made its descent and began to color the sky with beautiful hues in its path. There were swirls and combinations of magentas, lavenders, and oranges across the dusk canvas. The air settled into a cooler temperature, causing you to snuggle closer into Bucky.

“Maybe in another lifetime,” you pondered.

“I’m just sad it couldn’t be this one,” he answered. He was almost glad you couldn’t see him. Silent tears were violently making their way down his face.

Gently lifting your hand to his mouth, he kissed it lightly. For later.

The sky was almost the same shade as Vormir’s, illuminating your skin in a lovely violet. It was a halo around your image, beautiful enough to paint in a picture. Silence dominated most of your time left. There was too much left to say, so instead you expressed your last remarks to one another with your touches and sweet nothings. A quick kiss on the forehead, a longing gaze exchanged with the other, a tender I love you mumbled in the other's hair.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“All the time.”

“I don’t say it enough. You’re beautiful. Thank you for the privilege of being yours.”

“Bucky.”

“Yes, doll?”

“We’re going to be okay.” You delicately placed a prolonged kiss on his cheek before returning to your previous position, your head on his shoulder.

“I know.”

The wind danced through the trees, the sun disappearing behind their jagged silhouettes. The sky faded to a deep lilac to finally a grand navy color. The sound of nature whizzed throughout the air and the steadiness of Bucky’s breathing was the only company it shared.

“Hey, Y/N?”

A distant animal pranced in the forest, crushing leaves as it travelled, filling the silence. The moon slowly began to take the sun's place, offering dim light to the tragic scene.

“Doll?”

The world went still. The blue in Bucky’s eyes travelled down to the girl leaning on him. Peaceful. She looked so peaceful. Weeks of fatigue and sleep deprivation had melted from her face and she looked content. Her soft hands still remained gripped around his, her eyelashes reflecting the beams of the moon off of them.

“I love you,” he whispered out into the lonely night.

The years went by. Your death wasn’t the only major one Bucky would suffer. He outlived many of his other friends, in fact. The super soldier serum kept him running longer than he intended. Still, everyday he would go to the small cemetery to talk to his lover. She was the greatest listener, the most fantastic person to cry to.

After two decades of her absence, he donated her items. To try to move on, to evolve from his past. But that didn’t help. She was everywhere. He still only slept on his side of his bed and made sure to come home at a decent time, subconsciously expecting someone to be waiting for him. There was a piece of her in everything he did. He hated it. He loved it. It was wonderful and the most horrendous feeling ever.

So there he sat now. Withered and grey on the coldest day of the year at your gravestone. He had lived a lifetime, desperately trying to remember the sound of your voice. The way it sang his name and how it lulled I love you. Your image was a fading photograph in his weary mind, a fuzzy picture of what could’ve been. As he took his final breaths, he thought of the girl he let fall, but just couldn’t let go.

A/N: I want to thank @cherry-season for the wonderful suggestion. I had a lot of fun (and a lot of crying sessions) writing this piece, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. All likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated. Have a lovely day.

My masterlist.

Taglist: @itscheybaby @akaaaaashiiii @Dumbhead1

#featured authors #featured author

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imagines-hoarder · 2 years

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I am eating every single bit of this series up 🥵🔥 Thank you for creating an AU I didn’t know I needed until now.

Title: here’s lookin’ at you, kid

part 1|| part 2 || part 3

Pairing: Chef!Bucky x Aspiring Chef!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Kitchens are loud and hot, but you’ve never minded that. Never minded the burnt fingers, and cut hands. What you do mind is Chef Barnes, the cocky talent that put Black Adder Brewery on the map. You’re even less used to hating someone quite this much, but you’re sure, somehow, you’ll manage—if you don’t stab him first.

Warnings: kitchen typical misogyny, Bucky being way too full of himself, light hazing, enemies to lovers, fluff, a little angst, light love triangle, hate-sex, kitchen typical drama

A/N: inspired by this headcanon i wrote!! hello my dears!! Part 4 is finally here, and i’m so sorry for the wait. thank you all for being patient, and for loving this fic so much. i really hope you enjoy, there’s some juicy drama in this one. i didn’t think we would be doing a love triangle but—here the hell we go. please enjoy, and as always, please let me know what you think in the comments and reblogs!! 😘 divider by @whimsicalrogers

This is a work of FICTION, and there will be ADULT themes and content included therein, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! MINORS, DNI!

🔪The one where you get asked out.🔪

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imagines-hoarder · 2 years

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Spent the last couple of hours going the The Barnes’ masterlist and my heart is SO FULL

Thank you for sharing all of this amazingness with us!!

becca and grant first time going for trick or treat 🥺🥺🥺

tricks and treats ~ the barnes’ au

pairing ~ husband!bucky barnes x wife!empath!reader

warnings ~fluff, motherly anxieties about halloween, domestic bucky galore, grant being a cockblock as always, hubby and wifey flirtin’

notes ~ so not necessarily the first time they trick or treat, but the first time that they can remember so grant is like seven and becca is four. also it’s been so long since ive written for them and I…missed this. anyway happy halloween!!

Bucky Barnes was very hands on dad, which meant when Halloween came around, he was helping make costumes for the kids so that they had the outfits their little hearts desired. He had learned to sew so long ago from his mother and he remembered all the times he had fixed his little sister’s dresses when she had torn them. It was a skill he had kept forever and now he was able to share that with his kids.

Grant was the most excited, jumping around the house in green tights and cap with a red feather. Peter Pan was his costume this year while little Rebecca has insisted she wanted to be Wendy. She twirled around in the little blue dress happily while you helped her with her hair.

Letting the kids decide your costumes had been the best thing to happen to Bucky because Grant had wanted you to be his tinkerbell and you looked absolutely stunning in that little green, glittering dress while Bucky dressed as a much hotter Captain Hook than the original cartoon. He dressed in classic pirate attire and kept his metal arm as his ‘hook’.

“Alright, who’s ready for some candy?”Bucky answered, fixing his own pirate hat before wrapping an arm around you.

Grant put out a hand as if telling Bucky to stop, his little palm facing his dad,”No, Captain Hook, you can’t have Tink!”

“Then I’ll just have to steal Wendy!”He went along, seizing Becca and picking her up to place on his shoulders. The giggles that came from both of the kids made Bucky’s heart thump harder. Oh how he loved his family.

Becca squealed happily, wrapping her little arms around his head.”Daddy!” Her laughs were music to his ears, the pure sound of happiness that sounded just like yours.

“What, doll? You wanna fly?” He asked, spinning around as she spread her arms like she was flying. You grinned at your husband and daughter while Grant gathered up his trick or treat bag along with Becca’s.

“Give me back my Wendy!”Grant insisted, stomping his little feet when he was finally ready to go. Bucky chuckled at him, setting a slightly dizzy Becca back on her feet.

“Careful, baby,”You steady her, giving her bag.”We’re gonna meet Sammy and Riley at the stop sign down the street, we’re gonna walk their road, there are more houses that way, plus, Sam is an extra pair of eyes,”You started to tell Bucky anxiously.

“They’ll be fine, babydoll,”He assured you, caressing your cheek gently while the kids out their shoes on by the door.”You always get like this on Halloween.”

“I’m just afraid they’ll get lost, or pranked, or someone will steal their candy,”You went on, but Bucky hushed you with a soft kiss that made the kids groan in disgust.

“Quiet, you two, go wait in the living room,”Bucky told them while they both pouted before running into the living room.

“Buck, what if—“

“Nothing is gonna happen,”Bucky told you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling your against his chest.”They’ve got us protecting them, and I highly doubt anyone is gonna bully the kids of the Winter Soldier. They’re scared of me, our kids will be fine, it’s the one good thing about being me.”

“James…”You scolded him with a frown much like you would the kids when they say something bad,”I think there is a lot of good things about being you.”

“Yeah, like what?”He asked, hoping to distract you from your other anxieties.

“Well, you got two beautiful children that look at you like you make the world go ‘round,”You told him, playing with the ruffles on his costume.”And don’t forget about your wife who just loves you so much.”

“Oh, yeah, my pretty little wife,”Bucky teased, squeezing your hips gently and not caring that glitter was undoubtedly getting all over him.”Have I told you how good you look in this dress?” He pressed his forehead against yours, a little smirk on his lips.

“I think you mentioned a couple times….”

“You’re definitely winning all the costume contests, you’re gonna be the talk of the neighborhood,”Bucky nudged his nose against yours. You can feel his breath against your lips, but you don’t lean forward. You just appreciate being close. It eased you to be held like this, but you knew if you kissed him, he’d have a hard time the rest of the night.

“Down, boy,”You chuckled, pushing his chest to get him to take a step back but he just tightened his grip around you.

“Can’t a man get a kiss from his beautiful wife before she goes and makes the entire town fall in love with her?”Bucky joked, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

“I don’t know about everyone falling in love with me, I think the moms will hate me,”You told him with a chuckle.

“Jealously at its finest,”Bucky whispered, inching his lips up your jaw and to your lips. He paused there for a second,”I’m gonna ruin you tonight, baby doll. This little dress is being torn to shreds the second the kids go to bed.”

“You’ll have to wait quite awhile once they get the sugar in their system,”You chuckled, grinning at him widely.

“Oh, I’m putting a candy limit for the night. No shenanigans, daddy wants a treat too.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“One kiss to hold me over?”

“One,”You agreed,”Better make it last.”

Bucky’s lips slotted against yours, his hands going down to just give your ass the slightest squeeze. The little gasp that escaped you gave him the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, sucking on yours slowly as your hands clench his shirt. Just as you were leaning into him, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, you were halted by the voices of your very eager children.

“Mommy, daddy! Let’s go!!”Grant complained with Becca in tow as they both stomped into the kitchen. Becca had her hands on her hips while Grant stood with his arms crossed.”We’re gonna be late!”

“Why do our kids have to be so punctual?”Bucky laughed, pressing one last kiss to your lips.”It’s like they don’t know us.”

“I know, we’re late everything, Sam tells to arrive half an hour early to all his dinners so we’ll show up on time, and we’re still late most the time,”You smiled, patting Bucky’s chest before pulling away completely.

Bucky admired you walking away from him, tilting his head to watch the way your hips sway while Grant rolled his eyes with a grumpy look on his face. Bucky noticed after a second, sighing as how much Grant’s facial expression mirrored his grumpy look.

“Okay, okay, let’s go, kiddos, let’s get some treat, but hey, you get five pieces of candy tonight so choose wisely,”Bucky told them, fixing Grant’s crooked hat before opening the door for everyone.

You kissed Bucky’s cheek on the way out, stopping just for a second,”Promise I’ll make tonight worth it, if you can capture me, Captain Hook.” You flicked his hat with a little smirk before taking both the kids’ hands in yours to keep them safe as you walked.

“Oh my god, I love you,”Bucky uttered before following behind you. Halloween night was definitely spectacular in the Barnes’ house.

#featured authors #featured author #Bucky Barnes

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imagines-hoarder · 2 years

Text

Breen, you’re quickly turning into one of my faces but please stop making me cry before 9am.

Looooveeeddd this piece ❤️❤️❤️

Let Me Be Your Whiskey

Pairing: Bucky Barnes × Reader

Summary: After a failed mission, you hide in the quietest place you know and Bucky finds you there to comfort you.

Word count: 3k

Warning: Poorly written smut (+18 only, please), unprotected sex (don't do that, kids. be responsible), injuries, death of a minor character, alcohol consumption. And I think that's it.

A/N: I am re-posting this because it marked error every time I clicked read more so, I'm sorry. If you interacted with the previous post, did you have the same issue? Lmk please. As always, lack of vocabulary and grammatical mistakes abound. *apologizes in español*

Inspired by Let Me Be Your Whiskey –Alexander Ludwig.

ᴺᵒᵗ ᵐʸ ᵍⁱᶠ ᶜʳᵉᵈⁱᵗˢ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʳᵉᵃᵗᵒʳ

Brttttt, brttttttt. Echoed the sound of a machine gun.

“Y/N!” Walter, one of your partners for the mission called for you.

You knew that assisting The Avengers on taking down one of the biggest Hydra bases was going to be difficult. You knew there were going to be complications. But nothing like this. Not of this magnitude.

They were waiting for you. Already shooting the second you were visible through the woods. Your unit barely made it inside the building. Scratches and bullet gallings didn't stop you from entering and keep fighting. The adrenaline obtained from said welcoming, running through your veins like gasoline.

Too concentrated on knocking out a Hydra agent, you didn't see the one wearing a different uniform. Big error, given the two blowtorches secured to his forearms.

Fire came from them in big flames. Oranges and yellows were all you could see as you took cover behind a wall. Three of your teammates were defeated in a second due to the lack of barrier between them and the hostil.

“Y/N, help!” He called again. Agony and desperation, leaving his mouth as his skin burned. “Help!”

Glancing at the bleeding wound in your arm, you mentally recapitulated how many bullets you had left. Only one. One shot to save him.

Getting out of your hiding, you prepared to pull the trigger, but it was too late.

Blam! The agent shot first.

Walter's hand fell, his eyes slowly lost brightness and his body stopped crawling in your direction. He was dead.

Bip, bip, bip. The sound of the microwave snapped you back to the present.

You took out the instant coffee you made and blew over the mud, trying to cool the liquid a little bit.

Outside, the sky was tearing apart, the slight rain that made you close the windows half an hour ago had turned into an angry storm. Thunders and lightning that could easily be mistaken for Thor's sorrow if you didn't know him personally.

The crackling in the fireplace usually calmed you, your warm blanket and the fluffy cushion always made you fall asleep on the couch. But today was not the case.

Images from the mission kept appearing in your head, the thought that you could have done more, drowning you in the deepest seas of gloominess.

Taking a sip of your hot drink, you sat on the carpet and focused on the flames trying to grow. The reflection of the fire, dancing in your pupils as the sight of them dragged you back to that memory.

The roaring of a motorcycle and the flash of light peeking through the window made you turn to the front door. Three knocks on the dark wood said that you were no longer alone.

Bucky Barnes stood soaked and preoccupied in the entrance of the cabin. Leather jacket, dripping as well as his hair, and a wet paper bag stuck to a whiskey bottle rested on his hand.

“Thought you needed something strong.” He shook the bottle, splashing water to the sides as he did so. “May I?”

Moving aside, you let him in.

It was not a secret that the former Winter Soldier and you were close to one another. Being one of the few people that didn't treat him like a threat or a martir, he learned to trust you, to like you.

Sparring seasons and lessons imparted by him to your unit of S.H.I.E.L.D agents formed a great friendship. Which was the reason you accepted to go to that mission in the first place.

They needed backup and the new recruits needed the experience so you signed up, formed a group and boarded the quinjet with two experienced agents and two newbies. Now, you were thinking that you should have said no to Bucky’s favour.

He went directly to the kitchen, opening cabinets looking for the glasses. When he finally found them, he took two and walked to the small living room of the cabin only to find you in the same spot you were when he came in.

The squeaky sound of his boots stopped when he stepped on the carpet, where he sat and went to open the bottle, silently inviting you to join him, which you did.

With both glasses filled, he took off his jacket and tossed it to the other side of the room.

“How did you find me?” You asked as he handed you a glass.

“You once mentioned that as a kid your parents used to take you to a cabin to spend the weekend. That you felt at peace whenever you smelt the lavender of the plant outside your room on the second floor.” He smiled at you so sweetly that having not known him, it could have felt like pity. “Figured you could use a friend.”

“I settle for the alcohol.”

He was silent for a second. The only sound he produced was when he poured more whiskey on his glass.

“Fine by me.” And he drank again.

None of you said anything after that for at least thirty minutes. A quiet agreement that you both accepted as the only way to cope with the situation. Your interactions, reduced to him filling your glass every now and then.

“I can still listen to his voice calling my name.” You said as a single tear rolled down your cheek. He turned to see you in the face. “If only I would've been faster…”

“There's no way on Earth it was your fault. You know that, right?”

“But…”

“'But' nothing.” He left his glass on the side table, next to the almost empty bottle. “If something, it’s on me that you are in this current position.” With his flesh hand, he brushed the tear off your face and caressed your cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

In his eyes you could see that he meant it, even though you knew it was not his fault either, you could detect a glint of sadness in the blue of his irises. And it was not only your own reflection in them.

The tremble of your lower lip had him looking down. You licked it to prevent that from happening again, not wanting to start crying for real in front of him. You didn’t want to show weakness, though you knew there was no use now.

“You don’t have to feel sorry.” Placing your hand on top of his, you closed your eyes. “You are warm.” You said as a cold shiver ran down your body to your toes.

His other hand was placed on the other side of your face, almost contradicting your statement. Metal, slowly warming against your skin.

“And you're hurt.” His hand went to your shoulder, where he tapped the sleeve of your ripped suit. You didn't even consider changing when you arrived. “Let me see. You don't want it to get infected.”

Since the only way to get a clean view of the wound was by taking off the uniform, you found yourself reluctant to do it at first but eventually gave up, knowing fully well that you were in good hands.

After unzipping the thigh piece of cloth practically glued to your skin a few inches, you lowered the side of the uniform as Bucky looked for the first aid kit.

When he was back, he saw you sitting in the arm of the couch, uncomfortably covering your left boob with a hand.

“It ain’t practical to wear a bra under this thing.” You answered his unspoken question.

“I didn't say anything.” He raised his hands in defense as he looked to the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing in the universe, making you giggle.

“No, you didn't.”

He sat in front of you in the arm of the other couch, soaked a piece of cotton with alcohol and warned you that it was going to hurt. You only told him to go ahead before the hissed shit you let out.

Biting your tongue, you let him bind you up, suppressing the need of telling him that it wasn't necessary since it was just a superficial wound.

As he rolled the bandage around your arm, you took the opportunity to contemplate his features; the frown on his forehead he had every time he concentrated too hard on something, his perfectly shaped furrowed brows, his long eyelashes batting with every blink, his white teeth biting on his lower lip as he tried to secure the band thigh enough without hurting you.

Finishing his task, he analyzed his work proudly and then looked up at you. “What?” He asked curiously. The small grin on his face, fading as he saw your seriousness.

“Thank you.”

To say that your words caught him with his guard down, was an understatement.

“What for?”

“For being here.” It was such a simple answer, such a simple motive that meant the world to you in that exact moment. Knowing that you could count on him in situations like that one… well, it had you on the verge of tears again.

He left the roll of gauze aside slowly and turned back to you, closer this time.

There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite decipher. A spark of comprehension, or maybe complicity you bet he only had with you. You lost sight of it when he gazed down to your lips.

“Always.” The way he said it, the amount of emotions transmitted through those six letters, sinking in your throat, obligating you to swallow hard.

“Buck, I--”

He interrupted you. His lips coming in contact with yours in a slow dance. You didn’t respond immediately, but he was in no rush. Having you not broken apart, Bucky waited for you to react and when you did, he thanked whoever was above because it was better than anything he had ever imagined.

Falling for you was the best thing that ever happened to Bucky. His nightmares turned into dreams about you two, the abrupt wakings in the middle of the night were replaced by the nice arm stretching one does in the morning still half asleep, and the reality of only having Steve by his side, was discarded as soon as you smiled in his direction. If only he could repay you for everything you had done for him…

His fingers brushed your hair back, tangling in the messy locks. The unexpected, unintentional tug made you moan in his mouth.

“Let me. Help you. Forget.” He said in between kisses. His vibranium hand, going up and down your healthy arm.

Your lack of answer and loss of contact between your and his lips concerned him. The idea that you regretted reciprocating the kiss, had him holding his breath.

Opening his eyes, he saw you already looking at him. Glassy eyes and a thigh, trembling smile, allowing him to do it.

The hand that was covering you, fell. Your fingers, blindly looking for the zipper to lower it.

He stopped you. Moving your hand to the side, replacing it with his own. You brought all your concentration on the sound of the zipper opening to keep your breath from hitching as it went lowen and lower.

When the suit was fully open, and your belly button was visible, Bucky helped you stand up. With extreme delicacy, he took it off little by little, drinking every inch of you he got to see as he got rid of the piece of cloth.

Bucky was on his knees, not only metaphorically. Looking up at you, mesmerized. His hands, roaming around your body from your ankles to your waist, from your ribs to the back of your thighs.

Soft kisses traveled up your stomach and between your breasts, passing from your clavicle to your pulse point, where he stopped for a second to stick out his tongue and lick his way up to your earlobe. His teeth grazed there and you shut your eyes. Your hands, holding onto his elbows and going down to the hem of his shirt to take it off. When it was gone, he kicked his boots out of the way and unfastened his belt, with your assistance, his jeans were gone in a second.

Both your shadows moved down on the couch as did you, kneeling on the carpet.

Bucky helped you lay down on it, making sure your head rested on the cushion and positioned between your legs.

He kissed you again. Hungrily, passionately. It was as if he was trying to suck the air out of your lungs, as if he was determined to make you think about him and only him.

You put your arms around him, fingers playing with his hair, making him groan.

He rubbed his still clothed hardness against you. Both moaned at the contact and he did it again, friction clouding your mind, doing its job, distracting you from the real world.

You didn't know when or how he took off his boxers. It was until the head of his cook brushed against your clit that you realized.

You cracked your fingers, a sign that you were nervous, Bucky knew.

“We don’t have to do this.” He rubbed his nose with yours in a reassurance gesture.

“Shhh.” You placed a finger on his lips. “Just… make me forget.”

And he entered you, unhurriedly shoving inside, making you feel every inch of him stretching you out.

He held his weight with his left hand while the other caressed your face with the back of his fingers. Another tear fell, cutting off his movements. Too scared of having hurt you, he stood still halfway through.

“Please, Bucky.” Hearing his name said like that from your lips was a dream. It was the only thing he wanted to listen to from then on. Especially since it meant that he was not the cause of your ache. It was an inner pain crushing your heart that he knew he needed to get rid of.

And the only way he found effective enough in that cabin was to resume his movements.

When he bottomed out he didn't waste more time, dragging out of you almost completely, only to slide back in. He felt in heaven, like he had died and avoided hell, skipping the purgatory. God, how much he loved you.

The gentle pace did not last long, though. Soon Bucky found out that he couldn't contain any longer, and he increased both the speed and the power of his pushes.

Short but fast thrusts had your breath hitching. The soft sounds falling from your lips, barely audible above the pouring rain. Bucky's grunts, ran down your spine and settled in your belly, tightening the knot forming in your stomach.

The thin layer of sweat in Bucky's body helped the fire glistening his skin. A warm and comforting vision you couldn't take your eyes from. His silhouette shone with a unique light, a view way more beautiful than a sunset.

His grasp on your hip grew stronger as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Digging your nails on his back, you went further to his ass, forcing his hips down, making him go deeper.

The outlines of two shadows found on the soft material of the couch, reflected by the fire, morphed into one as he understood the message and held you up by your lower back, bringing your bodies together until no air passed in between, finding a new angle to do as you pleased.

Neither you nor Bucky wanted the moment to come to an end, to have the spell broken and go back to the unfair reality, to postpone the inevitable, though you knew it was imminent.

You directed his face to yours one more time, conveying everything you wanted to say to him in a breathtaking kiss. He kissed you back, devouring the taste of your lips as if they were his favourite candy, savouring your gasps like they were water and he, a starved man.

His assault faltered, his thrusts became erratic and his arm gave up a little, letting a bit more of his weight fall on top of you. He was close and by the way you were thighing around him, he figured you were, too.

Doubling his efforts, he concentrated on making you cum first, reminding himself that _this_ was for you and only for you. You shut your eyes, getting lost in the pleasure, running in circles in a maze of sensations you had never felt before as you exploded.

Your back arched and your mouth fell open, a silent scream coming out as your walls clenched, milking him dry, forcing his release.

Panting, he gave you one last peck and drew out of you, laying on your left and bringing you closer to him, keeping you safe from the cold you suddenly felt by being apart from his warmth. Sneaking your hand under his arm, you made sure he would spend the rest of the night with you, that he’d stay until the morning light. Not that he were to move an inch if you didn’t want him to. God, how much you loved him.

His paused, calm breathing and the soft snores he let out were the only things, apart from the rain hitting the roof and the crackle of the fire still burning in the chimney, audible in the cabin.

You ran your fingers through his hair, brushing it, lulling him to sleep.

Laying down on the carpet, hugging him and letting him hug you, feeling in your chest the passive beating of his heart, you felt grateful. Grateful that he was there with you, that he made you feel less alone.

You knew that he couldn't make the guilt you were feeling disappear, that he couldn't stop the storm taking place outside, but you were grateful because he helped you kill the pain at least for a while.

#featured authors #featured author

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imagines-hoarder · 3 years

Text

Speaking of fave writers, @wkemeup has done it again. By ‘it’ I mean made me cry at 11 am on a weekend 😭😭

Behind the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s him,” Bucky replies defeatedly.

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

“The power’s not out, Y/n.”

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n, wait!”

You fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

You haven’t woken up screaming since.

“Bucky?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So I know it’s really you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know that.”

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s gaze flickers to your lips.

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

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

“You’re sure?” Bucky says instead.

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

“Can she reverse it?”

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

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

“Bucky?”

He swallows. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky?”

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

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

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

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

It takes a moment before he realizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m yours.”

---

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

#featured authors #featured author #marvel one shot #bucky barnes oneshot

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imagines-hoarder · 3 years

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I got blocked from one of my fave writer’s accounts mid-master list binge. I am 21 please unblock me 😭❤️

#me #shit post

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imagines-hoarder · 3 years

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House Warming - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Hopping through some standout moments in making Bucky’s apartment a place worth coming home to. (This definitely could have been a headcanon but I refuse to do headcanons at this time.)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 2.6 k

Warnings: fluff with a lil angst

A/N: I have finished all the assignments left for my degree and decided to sit down and write today. This is probably trash but idc because it has been written and therefore I may as well release it. It’s been a while since I’ve written and years since I’ve truly tried dipping my foot into a different fandom, but I figured I’d give it ago. Please don’t forget to leave comments, I love interacting with y'all. Thank you @bwbatta for the dividers! xoxox

Masterlist

It all started with a damn candle. A ‘sandalwood & vanilla orchid’ candle tucked away in a reused cyan jar.

“I found it at the art market down the street last weekend,” you said as you placed it in the corner of the living room window. “You know we have to support local business.”

“And I shouldn’t assume this is your way of telling me my place smells, right?” Bucky quipped from the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in his hand and a lazy smile on his face. He’d just gotten back from a 12-day mission with Sam, and the last thing he had on his to-do list was to buy candles.

Keep reading

#reposting because I’m on a domestic!bucky binge #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff

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imagines-hoarder · 3 years

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Literally STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING ‼️

Have you read this yet? If not, then there is now NO EXCUSE because I’m putting the master list right in front of your face!

I am not exaggerating when I say I cried at least 10 times while I spent the morning binging every chapter. God, there are some writers who are so gifted at world building inside a world that’s already been established universe, and @invisibleanonymousmonsters is one of them. Read this, go cry, then read some of their other works.

This story had quickly become so near and dear to my heart, and I’m not gonna be able to get it off my mind so now I’m making sure you won’t be able to either.

Non-Sequential // Masterlist

Pairing: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers/Steve Rogers x Reader

One night, Steve Rogers met a beautiful dame named Y/N. He hadn’t intended on letting her get away. But fate had other ideas. Y/N appeared and disappeared in his life so hauntingly that Steve started to wonder if she was an angel meant to watch over him.

A/N: Inspired by the film The Time Traveler’s Wife. But not one of those fics that just literally rips off the whole movie and plugs in characters where they please.

Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 // Chapter 12 // Chapter 13 // Chapter 14 // Chapter 15 // Chapter 16 // Chapter 17 // Chapter 18 // Chapter 19 // Chapter 20 // Chapter 21 // Chapter 22 // Chapter 23 // Chapter 24 // Chapter 25 // Chapter 26 // Chapter 27 // Chapter 28 // Chapter 29 //

—

Non-Sequential Headcanons & Asks

I DO NOT DO TAGLISTS.

#featured authors #featured author

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imagines-hoarder · 3 years

Text

House Warming - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Hopping through some standout moments in making Bucky's apartment a place worth coming home to. (This definitely could have been a headcanon but I refuse to do headcanons at this time.)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 2.6 k

Warnings: fluff with a lil angst

A/N: I have finished all the assignments left for my degree and decided to sit down and write today. This is probably trash but idc because it has been written and therefore I may as well release it. It's been a while since I've written and years since I've truly tried dipping my foot into a different fandom, but I figured I'd give it ago. Please don't forget to leave comments, I love interacting with y'all. Thank you @bwbatta for the dividers! xoxox

Masterlist

It all started with a damn candle. A ‘sandalwood & vanilla orchid’ candle tucked away in a reused cyan jar.

“I found it at the art market down the street last weekend,” you said as you placed it in the corner of the living room window. “You know we have to support local business.”

The smile grew firmer as you put yourself into his arms. “Complete opposite, actually. I bought it cause I thought it smelled just like you.” You hid your face within his chest, and he thanked the stars that you couldn’t see the warmth rising in his cheeks. His barren apartment felt a little bigger with a candle in the windowsill.

From there it became decorative pillows… and a couch to hold them. The small living room had quickly become a mess by the time you both had brought it up to his fourth-floor apartment, furniture wrap and packing peanuts strewn everywhere.

“I still don’t know why you needed to buy a sofa this big,” Bucky grumbled as he leaned over the back of the beige three-seater, looking down at your splayed out across its cushions.

“Don’t get me wrong, babe. I love the transient bachelor look you’ve got going on here, but you need more furniture than an armchair,” you mumbled between heavy breaths as you tried to regain control from maneuvering the couch into the apartment.

“And the pillows?” A laugh fell from your lips as you watched him look at the indigo cushions with a remarkable amount of disdain. Who buys pillows made just to look nice on a couch?

“They add character.”

“I didn’t think character was an area we were lacking in. Transient bachelor, remember?” He walked around the couch and shifted you over so he could lay beside you. You instinctively curled into him as you both closed your eyes. For a second the place felt like home. “I also don't know how you plan for us both to fit on this couch every day along with the pillows.”

“Don’t worry about it,” You looked up from his chest with a mischievous glint that made his heart skip. “It’s a pullout bed too. I’m sure it’ll be firm enough even for you.”

The home improvements didn’t stop there, but Bucky refused to admit how much he enjoyed them.

He liked having a place and person to come home to. After you had bought neutral bedding for his room, you’d spent an evening putting together ‘his and hers’ trestle bookcases for either side of the bed. He’d try to keep up his crabbish demeanor as you argued that ‘you needed a place to set your books for when you slept over,’ and a side table could no longer contain the small collection you had spilling over. Even still, he couldn’t find it in himself to banter much about the minor changes you made to make the place feel lived in.

And God, did he love living with you around. Between missions, his continued therapy, and trying to find his place in a world that had tripled in opportunity since his youth, he knew that he never had to question who he was and where he fit in when he walked through that door. You still occasionally slept at your own apartment when he was away, but he could always count on you being asleep in his bed by the time he came home.

One toothbrush in a glass became two, and from there, hand creams, face masks, and cotton pads cluttered the bathroom counter, packed away in their clear containers. You had made sure to keep lavender bath salts on hand for the late-night baths you took together when he woke up in a panic, unable to close his eyes again for fear of falling back into a nightmare.

It took time and working through plenty of hesitation before Bucky could progress from sleeping on the pull-out sofa to the bed, but ever since, you found your nights attended by restlessness whenever you weren’t wrapped in his arms.

Once your lease was up and you had a lengthy conversation about your inability to rest without him, you quickly filled the apartment with brown boxes. Bucky had been no less than astounded by how much you fit into them. From then on, no nook or cranny was without a vase or shelf.

“How many mugs does one house need,” Bucky asked skeptically while he continued to carefully pull them from their paper wrappings.

“Oh, come on! They’re fun!” You exclaimed, wrapping an arm around his waist as you took the Charlie Brown mug from his metal palm. “Plus, we go through enough coffee around here to justify some extra mugs.”

After you put the mug into the lowest shelf of the cabinet, you busied yourself with filing away the spices one cabinet over. No matter how much he tried, Bucky couldn’t pull his eyes away from you, lost in your own world as you chipped away at unpacking your belongings, making yours his, and vice versa. The domesticity in the little things you did was something he could get used to, and he wanted to return the feeling of normalcy as much as he could. He was far from the average boyfriend, but you remind him that could be a good thing. You never wanted to be average, but in these small moments, as you both did what normal couples do, he felt that he could create a new normal with you.

“So your Christmas gift came in already, and it’s too big to hide.” Your awkward tone carried over the phone as he exited a station ten minutes away from the apartment. Even though his neck ached and the cold nipped at the top of his ears, he couldn’t stop himself from releasing a breathy laugh.

“I thought you said you were good at this gift-giving thing, doll,” he teased you as he maneuvered his way to your shared apartment.

“Oh, don’t you fret, baby. I am the best gift-giver in all of New York City. I just slightly miscalculated how big this thing was and have realized it won’t fit into our closet.”

He tsked with a smirk on his face. “If you say so.”

“Hey, you gave me my Christmas gift a week ago.”

“Yeah, that’s because I didn’t know if I’d be back before Christmas.”

“Well, you will be, and I’m glad you are,” your voice softened lovingly as he pulled out his keys to the front of the building.

Bucky had gotten used to your love, but he’d vow to never take it for granted. All the pain he’d endured had somehow led him to you, the person who didn’t see his broken pieces as a burden or a project but as a potential to be whatever he desired.

When he hung up the call and unlocked the apartment, his brows furrowed into one; the apartment was pitch black. It was only when he heard your soft footstep walking towards the entrance that his face relaxed.

Before he could even kiss you, you had your palms firmly placed over his eyes. “No peeking; your gift is in the living room.”

The uncertainty in what you could have got him made his stomach clench. “Is it an animal?”

You slowly dragged him through the front hallway, making sure to avoid crashing into the entryway storage table. “I’m sorry to say it’s not alive.”

“Is it a nice welcome-home spread with candles, fruit, and the pullout bed all set up?”

He could feel your eyes roll to completion. “Easy there, sergeant. That’s for later.” You pulled him down to sit on the couch, and he kept his eyes closed as you pulled your palms away, moving to turn on a lamp. “Okay, Buck. open up.”

When he opened his eyes, it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing nestled against the wall; when he did recognize it, he could only form two words “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit indeed.”

He was quick to stand up and cross the room, eager to get a good look at the walnut centerpiece. “Does it work?”

You scoffed as you moved to kiss his cheek. “What kind of girlfriend would get her ancient boyfriend a broken phonograph console?”

He didn’t even attempt to answer as he bent down to wrap his arms around you, his lips eager to find yours. “A fucking Magnavox radio and phonograph,” he mumbled against your lips.

“A working Magnavox radio and phonograph, you mean.” When you pulled away and saw that his face held a glow reserved only for special occasions, you knew you had made the right choice. “I’ve got some records wrapped up if you want to open those now too.”

You yelped in surprise as he picked you up and made his way towards your bedroom. “I’ve got something else I’d like to unwrap first.”

Bucky Barnes had grown up in a period when the average family could seldom afford nice things or much of anything at all. The Great Depression has resulted in the slogan ‘Make it do or Do without,” being ingrained into what memories he still had, and 'doing without' had become commonplace for the Barnes household.

That’s why every gadget and gizmo you added to your household left him in awe. For much of his life, including the decades he spent as a weapon for Hydra, he hadn’t been allowed to call anything his own; he was still getting used to living so plentifully, both in love and in life. But now, he could barely move and he thought it had all been taken away from him.

The attack was supposed to have been contained, at least three miles away from the apartment. Anything less, and he would have made you visit your family upstate instead of just suggesting it. By the time Sam had told him that there’d been some confirmed damage within a block of the apartment, Bucky was already on his way home. He couldn’t think of anything but the worse: you trapped in a collapsing apartment building or pulling up to find no building there at all.

He felt his lungs fill with air again as he pulled up to your building, completely intact regardless of the severe damage less than a five-minute walk away. It felt like both seconds and hours between when he parked his outside and unlocked the front door.

“He doesn’t have his phone on him, mom. How am I supposed to…” you trailed off from your call as he walked into the living room, turning your head away from the Breaking News report you’d been glued to for the last hour. “Wait, I’ll call you back. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll call you back.” Your eyes never left his as he walked over to you, hanging up the phone with worry in your eyes. “Buck, are you oka-”

You couldn’t even finish your sentence before he pulled you off of the couch and into his arms. His grip was less reserved than he usually kept, but he made sure not to hurt you, eager to keep you in his arms, where he knew you were safe. A single tear fell from the corner of his eyes as he realized the real possibility that he could have lost you if you lived even 5 minutes closer to the attack. You stayed like that for a while, gathered tightly in his arms as you both settled onto the floor You didn’t push him to verbalize his fear; you already understood it. And it took this occurrence for him to realize he never wanted to experience this feeling again.

Bucky was quiet for the rest of the evening, and while it worried you, his fear had been evident enough not to require questioning. The city-wide cleanup had lasted all hours of the night; for the first time in all the years you had lived in the city, the sounds of the whirring of vehicles clearing debris off the street had been too close to ignore. The sun was rising before a single word was said between you and Bucky, tangled together on the sofa as the first ray of light made itself known.

“You’ve spent so much time piecing this place together, doll.” His voice was raspy. You know he hates when you see him cry, but his pain was always evident in his voice. “And it could have been all wiped away in seconds.” You let a heavy silence settle between you as you traced a pattern into his shoulder. He couldn’t bear to say it, but you knew what he meant: You could have been gone within seconds. “I just… I don’t ever want to feel like this again.”

You’d both gone through so much to make your relationship work. Nearly normal was as close as you would ever attain to being an average couple. The distance, the days without contact, and the ever-present fear that anything could pull you away from one another was something that had taken time to work through.

You looked around the living room and saw the place you had built together. There were photos and books scattered on any flat surface, a leftover mug half-filled with cold tea, and a record left out on the phonograph. The apartment looked like what love felt like; a messy combination of everything you and Bucky. But this apartment could not contain everything that ‘home’ was; only Bucky could do that.

The words fell from your mouth before you could restrain them. “Maybe we should move.”

Your eyes found each other, and you both sat in silence, though it felt lighter, invigorated with the new proposition.

Before he even responded, you could see tension dissolve from his shoulders. “Where do you want to move?”

You hadn’t thought that far ahead, only being able to provide him with a shrug. “I don’t know… maybe upstate, maybe somewhere else.”

“Your mom would like you being Upstate.”

“My mom would love us living next door too, but I don’t see that in the cards anytime soon.” You got a ghost of a smile for that.

“We could probably afford a house if we moved out there,” he said as he moved his lips to meet your forehead.

“Buck, I’d move anywhere with you. As long as we have each other, then we have all we need to rebuild this place.”

He pressed soft kisses to the crown of your head, and you swore you felt his chest flutter. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna look for some places, bigger ones too.” He tilted your head up to find your eyes, and you were sure that all of the love you carried for each other was incredibly visible at that moment. “You have made this apartment something worth coming home to. Now let me give you a house to make a home.” Your skin tingled with adoration as you pulled him as close as possible, burying your face into his neck.

You didn’t want to let go. You wanted to lay in this room, in this bed, and in this moment until the end of time, but you knew that something bigger and better was on the horizon for you and Bucky.

“All I heard is that you’re buying me a house.” His laugh was music to your ears.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff

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