#heavenlybarnes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ichorkurt · 2 years

Text

ficrecs masterlist.

welcome to my ficrecs masterlist! find my main blog @ichorai. find my own fics here.

below the cut includes marvel, game of thrones, house of the dragon, dc, star wars, the boys, friends, bridgerton, bullet train, the gray man, the walking dead, arcane, and succession fics!

marvel.

ೃ⁀➷ bucky barnes.

be still, my indelible love by @pellucid-constellations

code words by @cinebration

cookies and tea by @han-writings

counting by @/pellucid-constellations

depth of a shade by @softlybarnes

dreamscape by @wkemeup

first date by @melwilson

flight risk by @/wkemeup

guiding light by @/wkemeup

harmless by @shurisneakers

henleys and hairties by @lovelybarnes

if without you by @rassvetsky

it will come back by @shedobewritingalittle

i've got you by @majestyeverlasting

keep you warm by @heavenlybarnes

lavender by @/wkemeup

lilac wine by @nexusnyx

looped by @/softlybarnes

nostalgia for the new by @real-jane

safe by @hailhydra920

sleeping on the floor by @duckie-bee

snow days by @bucky-bucket-barnes

the sound of your heart by @jobean12-blog

stairs by @/lovelybarnes

time after time by @intrepidacious

two sides of the same coin by @anonymityisfunwriter

under oath by @ugh-supersoldiers

untitled by @vanderlustwords

valentine by @/softlybarnes

waiting waiting waiting by @/wkemeup

the way he loves by @/lovelybarnes

whatever happens, wherever i go... by @foreverindreamlandd

ೃ⁀➷ charles xavier.

gravitational pull by @lazydoodlesandfanfic

ೃ⁀➷ eddie brock.

exchanges by @whirlybirbs

ೃ⁀➷ frank castle.

wherever you go, i go by @amhrosina

ೃ⁀➷ jack russell.

come back to me by @/cinebration

a good night by @noforkingclue

untitled by @ruby-dragon

ೃ⁀➷ jake lockley.

bad days by @gooddaysmeanwritingdays

the jake problem by @bensolosbluesaber

keep the secret? by @mkfluffluv

trouble sleeping by @the-butterfly-blues

ೃ⁀➷ kate bishop.

this is a hospital by @alotofpockets

ೃ⁀➷ logan howlett.

blast from the past by @lune-hime

the breaking point by @stardustdreams-andcaffeine

dating logan howlett would include... by @chiefdirector

i don’t mind by @siren-and-faies-writing

family outing by @/lune-hime

forever winter by @luna-writes-stuff

if you’ll have me by @make-me-imagine

laura saw you two making-out... by @ellana-ravenwood

logan headcanons by @n1ghtw1ng01

reluctantly here by @moonlit-imagines

tragic endings by @buckyseddie

world on fire by @cobbvanthsblaster

ೃ⁀➷ marc spector.

bad days by @gooddaysmeanwritingdays

a future without you by @/mkfluffluv

halloween again by @/softlybarnes

jealousy by @stevenspector

just let me dream a little more by @the-archxr

lavender kisses by @kiwicider

loss by @b6cky

sleepy thief by @slightlypossessed

trouble sleeping by @/the-butterfly-blues

untitled by @/softlybarnes

ೃ⁀➷ m’baku.

lord of the mountains by @/foreverindreamlandd

ೃ⁀➷ miles morales.

corazón despeinado & cielo en la miente by @parkerflix

ೃ⁀➷ namor.

safest place in the world by @legends-of-apex

sanctuary by @eunsuri

until the waves call me home by @harrysweasleys

ೃ⁀➷ natasha romanoff.

lazy days by @alotofpockets

penguin by @luthorgarbage

ೃ⁀➷ peter parker.

banana split by @/kiwicider

caviar and cigarettes by @curseofaphrodite

ೃ⁀➷ pietro maximoff.

at the end of the day by @acciopietro

peter with an s/o who’s too nice by @takenbypeter

waking up with pietro maximoff by @angelltheninth

ೃ⁀➷ steve rogers.

as you wish by @rookthorne

bridges break by @/shurisneakers

hide and seek by @earth616variant

parade by @rodrikstark

surname by @withbuckybarnes

a threat beneath the nice veneer by @witchywithwhiskey

untitled by @blushstories

ೃ⁀➷ steven grant.

10.21 am by @brockify

bad days by @/gooddaysmeanwritingdays

cuddling headcanons by @bowieandqueen11

heaven's cloud by @/brockify

jealousy by @/stevenspector

loss by @/b6cky

trouble sleeping by @/the-butterfly-blues

untitled by @forever-rogue

ೃ⁀➷ wade wilson.

untitled by @thebisexualdogdad

wade hitting on you, clossus’ sibling by @/moonlit-imagines

game of thrones / house of the dragon.

ೃ⁀➷ aegon targaryen.

pretty when you cry by @/kiwicider

ೃ⁀➷ aemond targaryen.

and what of your love? by @endless-ineffabilities

the campain by @sapphire-writes

can’t help falling in love by @lauraneedstochill

can i sit here? by @aemonds-war-crime

citrus by @aemondx

devotion by @milliesdiary

the dance between dragons by @house-strong

dragons, knights, and princesses by @runningmunson

education by @oneeyedvisenya

haven’t i been good to you? by @cosmoeticss

heartbeat by @spideymatcha

i’d rather be sad with you, than anywhere away from you by @jasonsmirrorball

i’m a damsel, i’m in distress, i can handle this by @valeskafics

in a week by @/oneeyedvisenya

in dreams by @/oneeyedvisenya

in the beginning by @avtrbee

judas by @s-brant

just kill me and be done with it by @targaryenrealnessdarling

a mother for a son by @/targaryenrealnessdarling

nectar of the gods by @aemndx

now i draw a luxury nxde by @xfancyuu

not at all in love by @/oneeyedvisenya

one eye open when i’m sleeping by @just-some-random-blogger

persuasion by @aemonds-sapphire

practice makes perfect by @1800-fight-me

she was lovin’ me, she was wantin’ me by @astrumark

a song of flames and fury by @/sapphire-writes

a stranger by @/targaryenrealnessdarling

time can’t stop me quite like you did by @/jasonsmirrorball

tipping point by @/oneeyedvisenya

touch starved aemond by @aemondsbeloved

unexplained illness by @warmfieldofgrass

the warrior princess by @theold-ultraviolence

whispers unsaid by @/theold-ultraviolence

unnoticed by @/aemonds-sapphire

untitled by @/aemonds-war-crime

untitled by @themotherofhorses

ೃ⁀➷ daemon targaryen.

in the shadow of your heart by @/endless-ineffabilities

puppy love by @/just-some-random-blogger

ೃ⁀➷ jacaerys velaryon.

the dance between dragons by @/house-strong

love, parents, and truths by @/house-strong

under the weirdwood tree by @targaryen-jpg

unexpected visit by @jacesbeloved

ೃ⁀➷ jon snow.

the jealous type by @ninjasawakenedmystar

the making of a man by @januaryembrs

moon of my life by @depends-on-the-sellsword

a northern light by @fallatyourfeet

snow by @l4verq

ೃ⁀➷ robb stark.

robb stark being protective would include... by @imagines-all-day-everyday

ೃ⁀➷ sansa stark.

warmth by @megsironthrone

dc.

ೃ⁀➷ adrian chase.

complex simplicity by @bingoboingobongo

my favorite girl by @vigilvntes

now or never by @/whirlybirbs

on her majesty’s supersonic service by @training4theapocalypse-backup

ೃ⁀➷ bruce wayne.

convenience by @imaginingmarvelandeverything

lingering shadows by @/foreverindreamlandd

middle of the night and shadows in the night by @hollandorks

i won’t drown, batman by @twinklelilstarkey

the way down by @whats-rambled-rambled

a world alone by @/vigilvntes

world’s greatest detective by @bkwrm523

ೃ⁀➷ dream / morpheus.

darling by @daddyjackfrost

the deal by @spideybatsy

exit light, enter night by @clints-lucky-arrow

how to mistakenly summon an ancient being & keep him by @writethrough

imagine being the one who releases morpheus by @undiscovered-horizon

love game by @/avtrbee

playing with morpheus’ hair by @paradiseinaverno

the mixup by @7-wonders

morpheus’ love languages by @auroraborealyss

saving grace by @/avtrbee

today i bury you in me by @the-darklings

star wars.

ೃ⁀➷ poe dameron.

the f-word by @the-little-ewok

heartless by @youvebeenlivingfictional

officially unofficial by @thelovelylolly

one last dance by @loud-mouth-loser

peacetime by @lomlpoedameron

untitled by @starryeyedstories

the boys.

ೃ⁀➷ black noir.

domestic by @mlmxreader

in your dreams by @seeds-and-sins

friends.

ೃ⁀➷ friends.

how the friends characters would react to you asking for their pronouns by @lanawinterscigarettes

ೃ⁀➷ joey tribbiani.

the one where you’re dating joey by @charliewritesfanfic

untitled by @maximoff-pan

bridgerton.

ೃ⁀➷ benedict bridgerton.

365 days of you by @promenadewithme

as a kite by @saintlike78

benedict bridgerton and marriage by @iliveiloveiwrite

en garde by @delphispoeticals

forgive me by @benedictscanvas

invisible string by @purelyfiction

it is just tea by @leahsficemporium

knight in shining armor by @magpiencrow

matchmakers by @siempre-bucky

muse of mine by @murswrites

my heart, my future by @/make-me-imagine

pall mall by @tontattletale

paint with me by @/magpiencrow

the princess and the lord by @ficnacs

that’s my wife! by @wysteria-clad

they’re not the only ones by @/maximoff-pan

this and the next by @/iliveiloveiwrite

whatever the poets say by @cressidaclearwood

bullet train.

ೃ⁀➷ tangerine.

all in a days work by @fookinfandoms

bathroom b!tch by @keravnous

confessionals by @dragoneye01

crazy in love by @danny-cordray

tangerine comes home to you asleep by @magicchai

the gray man.

ೃ⁀➷ court gentry / lloyd hansen.

only the lonely and stop all the clocks by @charnelhouse

the walking dead.

ೃ⁀➷ rick grimes.

rick protecting you would include... by @joelsgeetar

arcane.

ೃ⁀➷ viktor.

all nighter by @shimmerforall

aphrodisiac with academy student viktor by @zaunitearchives

forgotten by @ficfanatictrf

human testing by @the-hidden-pages

rest by @writingmysanity

a theory by @gaybybirth

untitled by @astudyincontrasts

viktor with a sleey s/o headcanons by @kitt357

wet dreams by @/gaybybirth

succession.

ೃ⁀➷ roman roy.

bear hug by @richeeduvie

the blood pours by @bowieandqueen11

cuddling with roman roy by @/richeeduvie

date death by @/richeeduvie

heartbreaker by @the-west-meadow

hit me by @/the-west-meadow

jump then fall by @lukas-matsson

just close your eyes by @/lukas-matsson

like a leopard’s tongue in the mouth of a snake by @z3nitsusgf

neck and neck by @/richeeduvie

out of control by @jaebeomsbitch

phone line by @/richeeduvie

pining and anticipation by @aprilthearcher

the poison drips through by @itsasainz

red bird by @wildlunar

resolved issues by @/bowieandqueen11

roman roy being jealous would include... by @/bowieandqueen11

roman roy x age-gap reader headcanons & part two by @missscarlettangel

roman roy smut headcanons by @succcession

romeo take me somewhere we can be alone by @/missscarlettangel

romulus by @/richeeduvie

sneakers by @/richeeduvie

steamed by @/richeeduvie

sunlight by @/bowieandqueen11

this slant of light by @/richeeduvie

touch me (i’m sick) by @/richeeduvie

untitled by @/richeeduvie

untitled by @/the-west-meadow

untitled by @/z3nitsusgf

what’s an office crush? by @/missscarlettangel

when he’s gone by @/the-west-meadow

while you were sleeping by @/richeeduvie

730 notes · View notes

lovelybarnes · 2 years

Text

the way he loves- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x widow!reader warnings: mentions of red room, but mostly fluff and cuteness about: the five ways buck shows he loves you and the first time he actually tells you. for heavenlybarnes' love in verse challenge a/n: literally hate this but i am drop dead tired rn

you had told bucky barnes you loved him long after you knew you did—long after you’d felt the sweet butterflies that sprouted each time you talked to him or caught his eyes on you. only after the knowledge had enveloped you whole, wrapped you in its unyielding embrace until you were teeming with it, brimming, spilling over with your love for bucky did you tell him, lying under the covers and in his arms, pressed against his chest—with his eyes glimmering even prettier than the stars in the sky, you told him you loved him, feeling the gentle weight of his eyelashes on your cheeks when he smiled.

he could feel it too, embedded so he could never forget—would never want to because you were ingrained, your gentle reassurances threaded in him and your patience bleeding into his edges.

he loved you beyond words, but the poems of love he was feeling were lodged in his throat, and he wasn’t able to get them out.

you had smiled at him in that soft way that was so you, an index finger light on his cheek while your thumb pressed into the cleft of his chin. you kissed his forehead then, followed by his nose and both of his cheekbones until you landed on his lips.

“you don’t have to say anything,” you promised quietly, graceful words falling on the guilt on his tongue, soothing it away like water on fire. “i just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

he kissed you again, murmuring a thank you with the circles his fingers rub on your waist, his lips dragging his love on your jaw.

he still couldn’t speak it, not yet, but even if he didn’t recognize it, he let you know it was there.

the first time bucky met you, little bears were huddled in your hand as you offered them to him a few days after he’d arrived at the tower, nodding kindly when he declined with a silent answer. every other time he came out of his room and spotted you, you were holding some type of candy, always enough to extend some of it toward him. it only took endless patience on your part and a variety of sweets until he accepted, and suddenly you were buying two bags of candy instead of one and leaving them outside of his room when he didn’t feel like coming out.

candy became something… yours. which meant that bucky began paying attention to it, especially when your apartment became littered with it—particularly when he realized that the gummies you’d leave behind always seemed to be the same ones.

the lack of red and blue—and sometimes a very specific shade of green—gummies wasn’t something sudden or new, but it did bring him memories of the yellow gummies he’d find himself eating frequently.

bucky didn’t really even think about the color, eating whatever you would give him, which meant that yellow and orange gummies were always left behind until he ate them, clearly not carrying the same hatred for them that you did.

(which was lucky, because bags of gummies would always be left nearly half-empty, almost entirely consisting of the colors you avoided, but a few of the others left because you knew bucky liked them too.)

bucky never said anything, just held back a little smile when he saw you squinting to see if it was a pink or orange lifesaver while bucky popped whichever his fingers found in his mouth, unsurprised when it was usually orange.

then, a couple of months into your relationship, you found a bag of gummies you’d bought a while ago pulled open after coming back from a mission, half of the candy gone. a few days later, it was still there, untouched even after another bag had been opened.

you blinked, a finger reaching to make the opening wider in order to see better, surprised to find only red and blue gummy bears, as if the bag was tailored for you.

you’d snuck a peek at bucky, feeling the love he couldn’t voice as he squished an orange gummy worm, checking to make sure it wasn’t red.

before bucky and you became involved, you got him into baking shows.

particularly, one that put out a new episode every week, which you would always watch together so you could properly react and experience it with the other. the tradition carried on into your relationship and watching each new episode only got more exciting with time as the competition drew to a close for the season. the finale was long-awaited, with jokes that you would be watching when the finale finally aired, whether the other was there or not. .

as luck would have it, you were sent off on a mission in sokovia from the day the episode aired until three days later, and you expected to come home to bucky, poker face in full blow when he would sit down to rewatch it with you.

instead, you arrived to an expectant bucky who hadn’t watched it yet—after your full permission—in favor of seeing it with you, just as excited with anticipation as you were.

you felt it there, too, as bucky pulled you as close as he always did on the couch and settled in to watch it with you, squeezing your hip in excitement as the intro played, mumbling in disappointment as your favorite competitor added salt instead of sugar.

although they seemed muted in color now, weathered at the edges and staticky, bucky had memories of his mother. pinched features when he would track mud in through the house, worried crinkles when he was sick.

all loving, as his mother was, showing him and his sister she loved them as much as she could, whether it be in the simple words she’d press onto their foreheads, or the chopping of the knife as she’d slice fruit up into little cubes and hand the plates with sweet sticky fingers to her kids. something unasked, simple, but bucky had never felt more loved than when he ate fruit chopped by his mother.

he had told you this memory before, staring at your ceiling as he remembered her and the taste of the apples she would serve, your attention fully on him and a smile lightly adorning your face.

he hoped you would remember when he chopped jicama up for you one evening when you were splayed on the couch, laughing along to a television show with the sound of a knife against the board as background noise.

bucky took special care in arranging the pieces on a plate, making sure to spread them out in a way that the lime and salt would reach each of them. the pink of his tongue peeked out from between his lips as he squeezed drops of lime around the plate, then the granules of the salt until he got to the tajin, which he applied with a care he could only summon so easily when it came to you.

you had felt it then, too, gasping when he handed the plate to you with a kiss against your forehead.

you had gotten used to being alone, embraced it each time you watched couples walk by tangled in each other, blind to anything that wasn’t the other, while you were destined to be lonely forever—because a widow should have no ties to anyone except herself. it was a reminder that frequently popped up in your brain even after you were free from the organization, free to create loyalties to other people, to love in the way you had been itching to do.

then, bucky barnes. bucky barnes with his blue eyes and soft hair and sweet smiles. bucky barnes who would not let you be alone.

even before you were together, armed with the knowledge that you could protect yourself from any threat, bucky would always insist on accompanying you wherever you went, no matter if it was walking beside you as you browsed grocery aisles or walked your dog, or even just sit in the passenger seat as you drove to get gas.

it never changed once you were together, except for the kisses he was able to plant on your temple before he went to search for your favorite cereal, the hand he was finally able to set on your thigh while you drove, the arm he could wrap around you as you let your dog run around the park. he would lock your seatbelt when you got into the car, let fingertips linger on your cheeks after he’d tucked away a stray piece of hair before remembering he could kiss you now and pull you closer to do just that.

you had asked him once what it was about, interlacing vibranium and skin together so he was aware you weren’t upset about it, just curious. he had shrugged, subconsciously drawing your hand in his closer to his body, rubbing small circles into the back of your hand.

“‘just don’t think you should ever be alone.”

you had smiled at him, bringing his hand to your lips to press your lips against metal in thanks. he’d blushed, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours, pressing your lips to his in the middle of the cereal aisle.

you don’t think you’ve touched a door handle—opened anything from jars to doors—since you met bucky barnes.

he was a gentleman, the epitome of chivalry; who, even if you insisted it wasn’t necessary, wouldn’t hold back from racing out of the car to run to your side in order to open the door for you. he’d always fasten his pace a little bit more so you wouldn’t be the first to arrive at the door and hold it open for you if you were a few paces behind, even if you were far enough behind for it to become awkward how long he was waiting for you.

he had decided that you were his queen who had enough on her plate and deserved nothing less than not having to lift a finger. you’d laughed when he told you, cooing at him, and brushing a finger against his nose before kissing his forehead.

since then, he brought you your favorite drink from the coffee shop you liked each time he thought you would need it. he cooked for you on the nights where you were tired, helping you make your secret cookie recipe and decorate them with you, always telling you they looked great even when it was clearly a lie. he would slip fuzzy socks on your feet when you were cold, help you celebrate after something good happened, and helped you shower after missions that would leave you lost and sniffling, unable to do anything but cry.

he was there, his love interlaced in i’m so proud of you, sweetheart, in the kisses pressed to your hand and the tenderness with which he treated you.

one month after you’d uttered the words he’d shown you, he found you in the kitchen, preparing his favorite meal as a surprise, dog tags clinking together as you moved to the beat of the music you played. he marveled at the care you put into making his food, the love.

“bucky!” you exclaim when you finally catch sight of him and the bouquet of flowers in his hands, gifting him a grin that nearly parts your face in two. your face softens even more when you notice they’re your favorite ones. “oh, honey, i guess we had the same ‘let’s surprise the love of my life with something, huh?” you laugh, walking toward him to the melody of the song playing through the kitchen. you kiss his nose and then reveal a spoon from behind your back, asking him to try it with a goofy smile.

and he told you.

“i love you too.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes ff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction fluff #bucky barnes fanfic fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic fluff #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader fluff #love in verse challenge

618 notes · View notes

intrepidacious · 2 years

Text

brooklyn, thursday night

summary: It’s the third Thanksgiving after the Blip, and you’ve become a habit Steve’s unable to shake.

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 4.4k

warnings: some angst, some fluff (i mean, it's me); one night stand to two night stand to fwb to lovers kind of situationship; implied sexytimes

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

prompt: this was written for layla's love in verse challenge and i loved this idea so much!! i found inspiration in "thanksgiving 2006" by ocean vuong—or rather, the poem found me, as poems tend to do. you can find it in its entirety underneath the fic

a/n: i seem to be making a habit out of posting holiday fics when it’s not, in fact, said holiday, and i can't even feel sorry about it. @heavenlybarnes thank you so much for this beautiful challenge!! i missed writing for steve, and this was the perfect opportunity 💛

masterlist | read on ao3

Brooklyn’s too cold tonight, so Steve keeps walking.

The serum has a way of warming his hands, but not his heart, coursing through his veins with hot vengeance he doesn’t like to stop and examine. He suspects he wouldn’t like what he’d find, because at the core, at the very core of him, there is a numbness where all the world used to be, and he despises himself for it.

He hates that part of himself on nights like this, that soft, aching vulnerability no genius scientist with their experiments could ever cure him from, or even just protect with their chemicals and radiation, all their balancing, imbalanced bullshit. That was never the point.

It’s just that he doesn’t feel particularly good at the moment.

So he keeps walking.

It’s November again, and the winter air is just as ruthless as that gnawing feeling inside that for the third year in a row, Steve doesn’t have anything he feels particularly thankful for. For the third year in a row, he finds himself walking down these streets, but he can’t fool himself enough to pretend to be aimless anymore. His feet find the way easily.

("You like to keep moving, don’t you?"

A tired smile. "I just fear I’m getting my directions mixed up.")

The sound of a lighter seems to echo on the empty streets, buried between snow and lingering unease.

***

The first year, you’re a stranger, and it’s all coincidence.

No one on the planet, hell, in the universe, probably, feels particularly celebratory, and so most windows are dark by the time Steve takes the first step outside. He’s known these streets for the better part of a century, and yet he’s never felt more like a stranger in them.

He buried his parents and went to war, and yet he’s never known grief or guilt like this.

There’s a cut on his cheek that hasn’t quite healed yet, from when his hand slipped while shaving the beard. Or maybe he was just trying to feel something. Red blood spilled like a reminder that he could put on the Cap façade all he wanted; he was still just human, and he failed.

You just got off your shift.

You have your apron wrapped around your hand as you lean against the side wall, hands shaking as you try to light your cigarette. The lighter is broken. He can hear you cursing over the howling of the wind.

("I never used to smoke," you tell him later. "My best friend always said it calms her nerves. I get it now."

So does Steve.)

"Do you need help?" he asks, even though he doesn’t have fire, not the one you could use right now. It’s his instincts that are hardest to shake, even on a day like this.

"It’s fine," you say without even looking at him, throwing the cigarette into your bag. "This is all just great!"

There is a tremor in your voice that he recognizes, that pent up frustration threatening to boil up at a minor inconvenience. You let your head fall back until it hits brick so hard he almost flinches, but you don’t even seem to notice.

You blink at him like you’re only just realizing he’s real.

"You want something?" you ask, and your voice is so sharp he feels the cut on his cheek reopening, but your eyes are soft. It’s disarming, that combination.

Steve’s dumbfounded for a moment, because he doesn’t really know why he stopped, either. Now that he’s aware of it, though, it’s impossible not to keep looking at you. And there’s that instinct, again. That gut feeling that tells him neither of you should be alone right now.

If he were Bucky, he might have told you that, with that half-smile of his that used to bring half the city to its knees. Bucky used to say all kinds of things to the girls he went out with, back in the day, and the rare occasion on which that backfired never seemed to deter him.

But Steve’s just himself, and he’s starting to feel creepy now, so he just says, "I think you’re the first person I talked to today."

You stare at him, and there’s that shift in your eye when you recognize him and hesitate for a second as you evaluate if he’s a threat. He wonders if there’s any getting used to that.

"Wow," you finally say. "Not gonna lie, but that’s kind of sad."

Steve huffs. "Yeah."

It’s the heaviness in your gaze that betrays you, your jawline etched in the cool smoke your breath trails behind. You lost someone, too.

What a strange thing to pick up on, he thinks, when it’s rarer to meet someone who hasn’t, but he still feels sorry in a way that seems oddly personal. The question of who is almost on his lips before he catches himself. Before he remembers that he doesn’t know you, and that he has no right to that sort of information.

You tilt your head, and a small crease appears between your brows. "Aren’t you freezing?" you finally say.

He shrugs. "I’ve been colder."

"Yeah." You nod, but he can see the gears in your head turning. Finally, you seem to swallow something down. "You got a second person lined up for the night?"

His mouth twitches involuntarily and he shakes his head.

"Me either. Great Thanksgiving, huh."

There’s a pause as you shift on your feet and he clears his throat, but neither of you moves. It’s a little uncomfortable, or it should be, but you toss your apron into your bag and cross your arms in a way that poses a challenge. Steve swallows heavily.

"I should—"

"How about we move this someplace warmer?" The question is accompanied by a glance that makes him step a little closer, makes him lower his head ever so slightly as you both consider each other, both of you waiting to see what will happen next.

And, yeah, maybe it’s selfish of him not to make up an excuse and leave you to your unlit cigarette, but damnit, why can’t he be selfish for a change? After a year like this?

So he says, "lead the way," and his voice doesn’t shake a bit.

("You haven’t been casual a day in your life," Bucky would’ve said, and Steve would’ve glowered at him. These are the things he misses; he can’t even be casually mad anymore.)

It’s not a long walk, and the wind does most of the talking. Neither of you is much in the mood for it. You’re shivering by the time you try to get your keys out, and when he holds the door open for you, you just give him a small nod.

"It’s out of order," you murmur as you pass the elevator, already unraveling your scarf. Steve follows, close enough that he could smell the lingering remnants of perfume on your hair if he took a deep breath. He doesn’t.

The building is old, all high ceilings and broken floor tiles, colorless. Every step trails an echo behind. Your neighbor’s striped doormat is barely visible underneath the pile of unread newspapers. The air is so cold he imagines he could still see his own breath.

You force your door open with your shoulder and then halt in the entrance, as if just remembering something. "You’re not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Not since 1943," he answers. It’s odd to admit it like this, even though you know exactly who he is. Somehow, he feels like he’s going about all of this wrong, but the thought of leaving seems even worse.

"Good," you murmur before you let him in and close the door behind him. "That’s good."

The hallway to your apartment is cluttered, but in a homely, charming way. Vibrant art prints and knick-knacks litter the surfaces and jut out of cardboard boxes, all of it covered with a thin layer of dust. You don’t turn the lights on, and so Steve only puts it together when the soft pattering noise stops at his feet and turns into sniffing.

"You have a dog," he says, surprised.

"My roommate does," you say, and then you catch yourself. He can see the short pause in your movements, even though you continue with a lightheartedness that is familiar in how false it sounds. He knows before you say it out loud. "Well, I suppose she’s mine now."

He sinks to his knees, slowly, because he ran out of speed a while ago. The dog wiggles her tail.

"Her name is Leia," you tell him. "You know, like Star Wars?"

It’s another reminder that he still hasn’t quite caught up with this day and age. He is spared an answer, though, because you’ve already moved on to the kitchen, switching on the lights as you go. Steve keeps petting the dog.

"Drink?" you shout, and it’s strange, how casually you’re treating this whole encounter while Steve’s own thoughts are still stuck on a merry-go-round. He doesn’t know if he can ever get off this ride again.

"Sure," he says lightly, because he’s been acting for years.

All of it just play pretend.

("You don’t mean that," you whisper later, much, much later.

"No." He brushes the hair out of his eyes. "Sometimes.")

You drink, and you sit on the living room floor, just chatting, really, because this is a strange situation for both of you. There’s an uncertainty in the air that grows hotter with every passing minute, and when the conversation lulls to a stop, it shifts.

You look at him, then, anticipation of something so thick between you he could cut it with a knife.

Steve has lived through a war and two very different worlds colliding within less than a decade, but this is still so new for him. And yeah, maybe it feels like he’s breaking some sort of rule here, crossing some moral boundary he’s not supposed to even look at, because that’s just how he was brought up.

But times have changed, as he’s all too painfully aware, and you’re still looking at him, eyelids heavy, and Steve decides, fuck it.

His voice barely sounds like his own when he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

The second you take to blink and nod lasts an eternity, but when you do, he finally stops listening to that nagging voice at the back of his head that tells him he shouldn’t. Instead, he carefully pulls the sleepy dog off his knee and scoots over to where you’re sitting, watching, waiting. Steve looks at your face one more time, slowly, deliberate, and then he leans in.

He’s not gonna lie; it’s awkward for a good while.

The angle is weird, and he doesn’t know where to put his hands because this is the first time he’s touched you all night, and it’s just a simple fact that he hasn’t done this in a spell. But then you tilt your head just so, and his hand settles on your thigh, helping you into his lap and yes.

For a moment he remembers what it’s like to stop thinking, to stop running and just be.

And then your fingers thread through his hair, tugging slightly, and Steve’s brain shuts off entirely, consumed by the fire that courses through his veins. By the time your breath turns shorter, he knows your rhythm and he’s all too happy to take his time to match it.

He’s not ready for anything more than a distraction, and you’re not offering.

(You tell him to be gone when you wake up. "I have another early shift and I don’t want to have to kick you out," you mutter, snuggling closer. "Ruin my day."

Steve doesn’t sleep at all. He sneaks out once the early morning sunshine starts tickling your nose, shoes in his hand, his hands growing cold once again.)

***

The snow starts picking up.

There’s a message from Natasha on his phone that he’s stared at and then closed again about a hundred times. It was a response to him canceling their dinner plans, again, and this time she didn’t leave it at the sad little OK she would usually put. Her words have started to bleed into his very consciousness like a song stuck in his head.

I don’t know what’s different lately, but I think it’s good for you.

Steve’s not so sure.

The way he sees it, he’s setting himself up to grow attached to something he has no right to keep, and he’s seen how that story ends too many times in his life. It’s one thing to care for someone and a whole other thing to care about them.

("It’s nothing personal."

Of course it’s not. The marks left on his skin vanish within a few hours.)

There’s a bunch of unused brushes on his desk in the tiny apartment he calls home, more than twelve blocks away. Steve bought them last week, in a spur of almost giddy inspiration, and he’s only realized the ridiculousness of that when he unlocked the front door, receipt long discarded on the way.

Now they’re sitting there, waiting for something to change.

He’s been brought back to the city of the living, and he should be feeling more guilty about it.

***

The second year, you’re an indulgence.

He’s almost walked by your apartment several times now, mostly on early summer mornings or nights far colder than they should be, but he could never bring himself to actually cross the street, turn the corner, climb the stairs. He doesn’t come closer than a two block radius, really. Not until today.

The truth is, he’s thought about running into you so many times he’s forgotten what he wanted to tell you. Why he wants to see you at all.

But Brooklyn is too cold and too empty, and the feeling uncoiling in his chest tells him this was always how this was supposed to go.

You’re sitting on the steps in front of your apartment building, reading a book in the light of the street lantern. Your eyes are watery from the sharp sting of winter air, but you look undeterred. Unhurried.

"I thought you might come," you say, and Steve gets the strange sense that you’re pleased.

(It was a lie, you tell him later. You were waiting for a friend, to take you to some party you didn’t want to go to. "I didn’t think you’d ever come back," you mumble into his hair, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his skin.

As if he’s had a choice in the matter.)

"I aim to please," he says, even though that’s not true, has never been true. Maybe it’s the way you look at him.

You look sharper than you did a year ago, as if all that pain has carved itself into blunt edges and curt glances. But your hands are still soft. He stares at them as if he might be allowed to hold them again.

"Somehow, I doubt that," you say, tilting your head. "New look?"

Steve scratches his beard. "Old look. I’m still deciding which one to keep."

You snort, and it sends a tingle down his spine.

"What?"

"Nothing. That’s just the most serious way I’ve ever heard someone talk about facial hair." You look at him solemnly, like you’re about to break the worst news to him. He already knows. "You do realize it’ll keep growing back either way?"

If he were Sam, he’d have joked with you, in that dry manner of his, maybe winked at you afterwards to reassure you that it was all just teasing, good fun. There was a lightness to Sam’s interactions with people he cared about that had always seemed so precious in hindsight; like it couldn’t be shared enough.

But Steve’s just himself, and his eyes are as tired as his body, so he just says, "I didn’t want to be alone."

You watch his eyes with such intent he feels himself getting uneasy. Then, you take your keys out of your coat pocket and unlock the door. You don’t look back as you tell him, "It’s getting late."

It’s all the invitation Steve needs.

"What were you reading?" he asks, stepping into the damp, cold hallway after you. The elevator is still out of order.

You hand him your book without so much as a glance over your shoulder. He doesn’t really look at it, either, just keeps staring at the little bit of skin peeking out where your scarf has shifted down. He can’t help but wonder if it tastes the same.

("Whenever I’m sad and I feel like killing myself, I read something by Sylvia Plath."

He listens to your heartbeat. "And what if you’re sad and you don’t feel like that?" he asks.

Your smile is melancholy and contagious. "A children’s novel.")

"You know, you never told me your name," Steve says once you get inside, his cheeks burning.

"So I didn’t," you hum with a tilt of your head that’s already starting to feel familiar, even though this is only the second time you’ve met. There’s the same challenge in it, but the spark in your eye is new, mischievous, like you’re also remembering what things kept him from asking something as simple as a name the last time he was here.

You fill in his gaps.

The knowledge feels foreign. Like he’s somehow been allowed to see a whole new side of you, even though it’s just a name, and not much more.

He smiles softly at the sound of it, and then, before he can stop himself, admits, "I’ve been thinking about you."

Steve’s seen your lips twitch before, but he hasn’t seen you smile. Not last year, when everything was still so fresh the very air tasted like sorrow, not even when you lay next to him with hazy eyes and he wiped the sweat off your brow. But you smile at his words now, and it changes your entire face, all the harshness of it disappearing to show something glowing underneath, something more hopeful than he’s seen in quite a while.

You take his face into your hands and kiss him like an answer, carefully, as if he’s something precious, as if you have something to lose. It’s difficult for him to focus, to stop himself from telling you that he’s not, and you don’t.

But then his thoughts cease being so loud again, one by one, and maybe that’s why he’s missed your touch for a whole year. The endless echoes in his mind finally turn silent.

He pours his thanks into each kiss that follows.

("Text me," you offer this time, and even though he’s not sure what kind of invitation you’re extending with those two words, he clings to them like a lifeline.)

***

Each step crunches underneath his boots and Steve is starting to regret not taking the subway. But the air had seemed so nice tonight, and the streets are quiet in a way that should be lonely and yet is the opposite of that.

Three years, and empty spaces have been cautiously, regrettably filled.

("I hate losing things. It drives me up the wall."

How does someone move on from something like this? Little by little, or not at all.

The worst part, he thinks, is that anything new will never quite replace what’s missing. Only repopulate the void.)

The first time you came to his place instead of the other way around, you forgot your scarf, and Steve had to talk himself into returning it for almost a week. Fine. Ten days.

It just smelled so sweet.

"There it is," you said when he finally did knock on your door again, relief so clearly written all over your face as if he’s been returning a long lost child.

And then you carelessly tossed it aside and dragged him towards you by the collar.

Not that he’s complaining.

The snow, however …

Steve blinks up against it, at the familiar streets set against a dark sky. It’s a scene that begs to be painted, long shadows and milky streetlights caught in a whirlwird of ice. He looks at it for a long moment, and then he continues walking.

***

This year, you’re a necessity.

This year, it’s not been twelve months. In fact, it’s not even been two weeks, but he’s still missed you. Brooklyn sheds all of its colors this time of year, and on the dreariest mornings he finds himself craving your presence more than usual.

It’s terrifying, this sort of protectiveness he feels for you. It’s not what this is supposed to be, not what either of you needs right now.

("So what?" Sam would’ve said, and Steve would’ve lowered his head. Probably. He’s running out of scenarios to run through his mind, and so every time he tries, it feels like he’s chipping away at precious memories, distorting them, losing them. "So what?"

Maybe. The future has never felt less clear.)

He’s found out that he craves you like a drug, and he knows it can’t be healthy, he shouldn’t be doing this, but damnit, can’t he have one good thing to keep again for a change?

Like the taste of your hot skin bathed in a strip of moonlight, or that glimmer in your eyes that lets him forget the remaining half of the universe, reduces it only to him and you, and every shared breath between you. He keeps replaying those moments when he’s not with you, can’t stop himself, really. It’s easier now that he knows there will be a next time.

Not forever, of course, but now is enough.

("Enough already?" You nudge your nose against his shoulder. "I thought your ambitions were greater than that, Captain.")

Steve stops in front of the elevator, considers it for a moment, then takes the stairs anyway. Some habits are hard to shake, and perhaps you’re one of them. Though he doubts it; you’re more than just that.

He finds your door unlocked, which should be a reason for concern but somehow isn’t. Maybe it’s the smell. The lights are on in the living room and he can hear an old record playing.

("Leia loves it when I play them," you’ve told him before. "I think maybe they remind her of …" You trailed off, like you always do.

He still hasn’t learned your roommate’s name.)

He leaves his shoes by the door and follows the sound, like he’s done time and again.

Today, it’s Ella Fitzgerald, and you’re dancing in the kitchen.

The sight stops Steve in his tracks, because suddenly there’s an ease to his step he doesn’t like, can’t allow himself, even though it shouldn’t really be a surprise.

("Why not?" Bucky might have said.

"Live a little, man," Sam could have said.

He hopes, thinks, wishes.)

Nat’s message burns a hole into his pocket. Coward, it whispers, and Steve ignores it. He watches you swaying around and moving your arms in a ridiculously elaborate way, unaware that you have an audience.

Light. Pure light shining through all your edges, and softening them to his gaze.

Leia senses his presence first, waggling toward him with flapping ears and a cheerful bark, and so he lets himself be welcomed, sitting down on the floor with a quiet laugh.

You turn, and your hips stop moving, which is truly the biggest crime of all.

"Hey, stranger," you say, your smile so clearly audible in your voice it makes Steve bite his lip hard before he dares to look up.

"Hey," he says when his eyes meet yours, his body relaxing immediately at the sight of you. "What are you cooking at this hour?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know." You continue stirring the pot on the stove. "But you can set the table once you’re done charming my dog."

"That could take a while," Steve chuckles as Leia keeps licking his hand. "I’m very charming."

You roll your eyes, but the smile stays.

"Come on, honey," you say, pulling him to his feet again, and it might have just been a slip of the tongue, but damn if his heart didn’t just skip a beat.

Steve’s been called many names in his life, but he’s pretty sure none of them have ever sounded as right.

On impulse, he leans over to brush his lips over yours, softly, smiling when your mouth chases his as he pulls back.

"What was that for?" you whisper with a light frown.

He blinks. "Food," he finally says. "I’m starving."

("Get up, then."

His tongue traces delicate patterns down your throat. "Why would I need to do that?")

It hurts his brain, this softness of yours that’s close enough to touch and yet feels so off-limits.

He’s kissed you a hundred times before, languidly, feverishly, carefully, but never pointlessly. Well, not without a point he would admit to.

You choose not to dwell on it, thankfully, and go back to your pot with a hum. Steve runs a hand through his hair and pushes himself back into the role you’ve both agreed upon. Friends, for the most part. He can live with that, of course he can. He’s lived through worse things.

(Neither of you has ever wanted to fix the other. It was nice, for a change, being a little broken. It only meant finding new places to fit together.)

He wakes up a little over three hours after to find you wrapped around him, hugging his arm to your chest so tightly he can feel it rise and sink with each and every one of your breaths. He watches you for a long while, still half-asleep, every cell of his body screaming at him not to move an inch. To just keep you right where you are.

For a second, he wonders if he could get away with stealing one last kiss before he sets out on the trek home, like he always does. As if you’d heard him, you start stirring under his gaze.

"Stay," you whisper into the dead of night, and he can feel his eyes close almost immediately. Your voice cuts through the darkness like he’s already dreaming. "Steve. Don’t go, please."

And so he lets himself settle into your side, pulling you closer, breathing you in, his lips touching your forehead, and you sigh.

Maybe next year, he can be thankful for something.

thank you for reading!! if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog 💛 to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

Brooklyn's too cold tonight & all my friends are three years away. My mother said that I could be anything I wanted -- but I chose to live. On the stoop of an old brownstone a cigarette flares, then fades. I walk to it: a razor sharpened with silence. His jawline etched in smoke. The mouth where I reenter this city. Stranger, palpable echo, here is my hand, filled with blood thin as a widow's tears. I am ready. I am ready to be every animal you leave behind.

Thanksgiving 2006, Ocean Vuong

#loveinversewritingchallenge #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers oneshot #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #brooklyn thursday night

355 notes · View notes

m4tthewmurd0ck · 2 years

Text

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄 ~ 𝙱𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚡 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛! (𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎) 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧.

(𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍��𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘^) 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 @heavenlybarnes 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎! 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜… 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝! 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚜𝚘𝚗 :)

(((i don’t get into it in this because that would add like 3k words easily. BUT long story short, you’ve known bucky and steve since you met them in 1935. we’ll just say you were born the same year as bucky, so you were both 18. then when the war happens, you basically volunteer along with steve and end up becoming american dream. she is an actual hero but i’m mostly just using the name, imagine your powers are whatever you want them to be! you went into the ice with steve, and that’s how you’re able to be with bucky now.)))

word count: 1.3k (just a short little something)

divider by @firefly-graphics!! // flashbacks will be italicized.

The moment he first laid eyes on you, Bucky Barnes knew that he was in love. You’d tell him many times over the years that he couldn’t have possibly been in love with you, because he didn’t know you yet. But each time, all he does is shake his head and give you a slightly different response.

“I just knew. Once you walked into my life? That was it for me.”

“It was love at first sight, what else could it have been?”

You couldn’t argue too much though, because when it came down to it, you’d say the exact same thing. When Bucky smiled at you for the first time, you were a goner. You’d both been in relationships with other people before you met, but you were teenagers, and to this day you both swore that your hearts had always belonged to each other.

“Doll?”

You’re pulled from your thoughts, feeling yourself blushing as you realize you’ve been caught daydreaming again.

Getting that knowing look in his eyes, Bucky is quick to wrap his arms around you, pulling you close. “Ready for your last surprise?”

You nodded, though you still weren’t quite sure where the night was headed.

Today was your anniversary, and you and Bucky alternated years for who got to surprise the other. And as always, when it was his turn, your boyfriend went above and beyond.

The day started out with breakfast in bed, followed by a trip to the pop-up Van Gogh museum where Bucky had paid the owners to close for a couple of hours, and you had the place all to yourselves. You were in awe the entire time, and repeatedly thanked Bucky for bringing you there. He was in awe too, but for a different reason. Every time he looked at you and you had that smile on your face that you got when you were really excited, he swore he fell a little more in love with you. And he was pretty sure that he spent more time looking at you than he did at the exhibits.

After that, you went back to the compound and spent the rest of the afternoon on the floor you 2 shared, cuddling and watching a couple of films that you were both excited about.

At 5, Bucky said he had one more surprise in store for you. Before you could ask what the surprise was, Yelena and Kate arrived on your floor, the latter dragging you to your closet while Yelena all but shoved Bucky towards the elevator, telling him “you can go now”.

The next hour and a half went by in a blur as you tried on what felt like every single thing in your closet. And then of course, they agreed that one of the first things you tried on was the best. It was one of your favorite dresses though, so there were no arguments from you. You were then lead to your bathroom where Yelena did your hair in some fancy braids, and Kate did your makeup.

“Look at our little baby all grown up,” Yelena pretended to wipe a tear from her eyes as she and Kate stepped back to take a look at you. “You’re all ready now!” She took her phone out and sent a quick text, slipping her phone back into her pocket once she pressed send.

“Not that this wasn’t a lot of fun but I still have no idea what I’m ready for,” you laughed. Instead of responding, Kate just excitedly grabbed your hand and practically dragged you to the elevator. You had to ask her to slow down, it had been a while since you were forced to run in heels.

When neither woman got into the elevator with you, you were even more confused. “Rooftop,” was all Yelena said. You pressed the button for the top floor, still wondering what was going on.

When the doors open, you had to will yourself to not cry. Years ago, everyone worked to convert the roof to a garden, and tonight it had been completely transformed. Fairy lights hung everywhere, and at the center of it all there was now a small table, complete with glasses of champagne, what looked like the most delicious pasta you had ever seen, and a single light hung over the center.

Standing next to one of the chairs, was Bucky. He had changed too, now wearing your favorite suit. When he saw you, his eyes lit up and he was quick to walk over to you, pulling you in for a kiss.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered. He seemed nervous, though you weren’t quite sure why.

“James,” you whispered, in awe as he held your hand and led you to the table, “this is beautiful. You did all of this?”

He smiled, taking his seat after pulling out your chair so that you could sit down. “I had a little help, but yeah, for you doll.” You didn’t think you’d ever stop getting butterflies hearing him call you doll. From 1935 to now, it still had the same effect.

The next 10 minutes or so were mostly filled with silence as you both ate, with the occasional bit of conversation in between bites. When you were finished, he stood up, taking your hand once again and leading you through the garden. He talked about his favorite moments that you 2 had shared through the decades. From your first date in 1936, to being reunited with you during the war when a big part of him was so sure he’d never see you again, to you going to visit him during his time in Wakanda, and so many other memories in between. You were so kind and gentle, never once did you give up on him even when he’d given up on himself.

After walking around the entire garden, he led you back to where you’d eaten, and you were confused to see that the food, table, and chairs had been removed. But you stayed silent as he led you under the light, taking you in his arms and pulling you in for another kiss.

“You are without a doubt, the best thing to ever happen to me. When we first met, I knew. I knew that we were meant to spend our lives together. I turned to Steve and I said ‘that’s her’, he looked at me like I was crazy and asked ‘that’s who?’, and I just shrugged as I told him that you were the girl I knew I was supposed to end up with. Then you smiled at me and I was done for. You have helped me through the worst times in my life, and you’ve saved my life in more ways than I can count. You’ve always seen the best in me even when I was sure there was no good left. You help me be a better man, and every day I think about how lucky I am, to not only have you in my life, but to know that you’re my girl. I still sometimes think of myself as damaged goods, but the fact that you still love me, I don’t feel anything but peace.”

You gotta close your eyes now doll, it’s for the last surprise.” When you put your hands over your eyes, you hear him move.

“You can look now,” he spoke softly after a few seconds. Your eyes fill with tears as you look down and see Bucky down on one knee, holding a velvet box in his left hand. “I love you, so much. Even before I officially asked you to be mine, my heart has always belonged to you. Before we met, I think I somehow just knew I had to wait a little while longer. You are everything to me. You’re my whole world.”

As he opens the box, you gasp as you immediately recognize the ring. You’d seen it in person a long long time ago. It used to belong to his ma.

“Will you marry me?”

*cue my tears*

bucky tags: @hallecarey1, @valkyrie418, @weirdowithnobeardo, @adoringsebstan, @seabassstanfan , @eliwinchester99, @searchf0rtheskyline, @channelxt

all character tags: @jaywalkingape

sorry if i missed anyone, if i did please let me know and i’ll add you again! if you’d like to be tagged in anything i write for bucky, let me know in a comment, or send something to my ask / messages!

212 notes · View notes

obsidianvibranium · 2 years

Text

My friends, please pick your favorite heart. I will add it after your name when I tag our convo posts. Also please let me know what you would like me to call you if you don’t have your name listed on your blog. 🥰

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🤎❤️‍🔥❤️‍🩹❣️💕💞💝💘💖💗💓💔♥️💟

Tagging: @breadqueen95 @winter-soldier-vibes @sweetascanbee @earth2bucky @lisstothebliss @demonpoxballad @real-jane @writing-for-marvel @notgoingwell @heavenlybarnes

#mutuals #violets posts #em♥️#janie❣️#lissie🧡#liv💛#jenna💚#isa💙#layla💜#ren💖#winter💞#kate💕

27 notes · View notes

ao3feed-buckyreader · 2 years

Text

confessional - b.b.

by crazytwentythrees

in which neither of you can sleep very much. confessions ensue.

for @/heavenlybarnes’s (tumblr) 500 follower celebration sleepover, the "love in verse writing challenge".

fic inspired by Confessional by Sue Zhao ~ i honestly love this poem, it’s so raw and beautiful, plus i’ve had it bookmarked for ages so when i saw the prompt for the sleepover, i just couldn’t help myself.

Words: 7302, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Alpine (Marvel), Reader

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mild Gore, Emotional Baggage, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Confessions

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/39493326

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction

14 notes · View notes

real-jane · 2 years

Text

your own

[bucky barnes x fem!reader]

written for @heavenlybarnes and her Love in Verse challenge 💕, in celebration of 500 followers. The poem I chose was 'People Aren’t Homes' by Nikita Gill. Full poem at the end! Thank you so much to Layla for hosting! I hope you enjoy some yearning.

summary: bucky hosts her at his farm for ten days, and that's enough to make him realize what 'home' really means. enough to go after her.

words: 1845

a/n: i truly could not have done this without reading @fandoms-writings incredible series something domestic. it has been so healing to read, and very inspirational.

poems and promises masterlist

He takes the dirt road leading away from the farm-turned-safehouse-turned-farm-again cautiously, keeping an eye out for darting deer. The wheels pass over the washboard gravel with an unsettling vibration, but maybe it’s better for him. Being unsettled. Not allowing the fear to curl around his joints and lock them up before he ever reaches you.

No, people aren’t homes, but you’re the closest thing he’s found, and if he’s ever going to have one moment’s peace… he has to leave the sanctuary of Nowhere.

Should’ve left with you, really, but that would’ve meant accepting that whatever had happened in that house had disappeared with the threat which had landed you there for ten days. You had dutifully returned to the compound with Stark once the threat had blown over, while Bucky had stayed behind to… to wonder. Why nobody had reminded him–why you hadn’t reminded him–that that temporary solace between the two of you wasn’t something he could hold onto forever.

You are water. Can’t grasp you. All he can do now is follow, back to civilization.

He knows he’s on the right track when the street lights bunch up, and bully the stars for dominion over the night. You had marveled when you first arrived at the way constellations dotted the darkness; in your universe, there weren’t stars. Just flickering city lights. But you had your own curiosities, and the longer you spent out in the country, the less the great wilderness amazed. He had to take your word for it–that there is plenty of magic in a city stuffed to the gills with bodies. Has to be. You are there.

As far as Bucky can figure, you are the only thing which turns curiosity to wonder.

But by god, if there wasn’t something wonderful about watching you learn about the horses–what it took to gain the trust of a skittish mare, and how easy it was to do so if you carried fat carrots from the garden in your pockets for them to discover with inquiring snouts. It wasn’t just a safehouse, it was his grandfather’s farm. In reality, it was the only semblance of roots Bucky had left, even if his father had been estranged from his own by the time Bucky was old enough to know his namesake. Part of his immersion back into a world where he didn’t have to fight for autonomy was staking a claim on the property which had lapsed into bank holdings; the benefit of constant companionship from America’s favorite hero was that Steve knew how safe the place was, and getting you there had been a no-brainer.

And he hasn’t even kissed you.

It had been ten straight days of quiet dinners and softer mornings, where you slept through chores and still met him on the porch with a cup of coffee when he came in from mucking the stalls, and you never once wrinkled your nose at his muddy jeans or shit-kickers.

If he’s being honest with himself… he’s driving to you because of what you said as you left him, when you could hardly look him in the eye for want of tears. You turned your head back, over your shoulder as Tony led you towards the Range Rover, and–on second thought, you didn’t even speak specifically to Bucky, you had just tossed the words out into the night air, in the hopes that they wouldn’t fall into the dirt un-caught.

I’ve never been this happy.

It paralyzed him. He watched the dirt kick up behind the truck as if you were fading into a dusty mist, knowing all the while that ‘this happy’ included him. How could it not? Bucky realigned his whole world the moment Steve’s call rang through to his landline. Please. She needs asylum–I hate to disturb you, Buck, but you’re the only person I know who gets it.

He loaned you his bed, in favor of the couch. He leant you his flannels. You wore his jeans when you finally worked up the courage to join him for morning chores, and his horse let you braid his mane with such precision that Bucky questioned whether or not Alpine would follow you to the ends of the Earth, snickering every time you snapped your fingers like a circus pony (and not like a formidable rescued clydesdale, eighteen hands-high). He certainly benefited more from your penchant for stashing pocket carrots than any other equine citizen of the little haven-away-from-hell.

For a while? Bucky had calm nights on his grandmother’s favorite sofa, where sleep was something which came almost naturally to him, again. Not being alone in that great big farmhouse helped. Any creaks in the night were you, sneaking down to take a spoonful of peanut butter like a cure for your own insomnia. Crunchy, because you were a strange person who didn’t mind some obstacles in your spread.

Without thinking, he dials Steve.

‘Buck–’

“Listen. Just–I gotta know if I’m crazy,” Bucky breathes, phone held to his ear by the shoulder as he navigates aggressive evening traffic.

‘Go on.’

��You gotta be honest with me. Like brutal, Stevie–”

‘Where the hell are ya? It’s loud.’

“The truck. Listen… I’m–shit.” He gasps as a car swerves in front of his belabored truck, cutting him off.

‘...you’re here? Buck–’

“No, not–not yet. I’m still at least forty minutes out, if this traffic continues.” He glares at the bumper of the too-slick sedan in front of him, with it’s fuck-me rims and vanity plates.

Steve’s realization is wrapped in manifold sounds–a belabored ‘fuck.’ A laugh. Tapping, which sounds like it’s on some sort of echo-y metallic surface. ‘She’s been so upset,’ Steve says, finally. Bucky feels like his limbs have been dropped into a free-fall. ‘It’s not been overt; you know how she is. She’s never not smiling, but it’s so fake. She keeps telling me about how your coffee pot just makes the best coffee, if only you can trick the grounds into the right slot–’

“It’s awful,” Bucky admits, scratching his jaw.

‘You’re coming, then.’

“I’m an idiot.”

‘Didn’t say that. Might be the best thing you’ve ever done. Do you want me to tell her you’re coming?”

Does he?

“I’m–I gotta hang up. I’ll call her–”

‘You sure?’

“She doesn’t like surprises,” he breathes with a pained laugh, as if he should’ve considered that long before ever pulling on his best coat, and diving into the cab of his beat up truck.

‘She gets you.’

“She’s seen me comin’ since she met me. I don’t have two secrets to rub together. Why would I start now? You gotta hang up.”

‘I’ll see you when you get here.’

“Bye.” Bucky hangs up abruptly and flicks his thumb over to his contacts, selecting your name without hesitation. He listens to the rolling ring, and it cuts off abruptly–

‘Nooooo, you have to be up so early!! Why are you calling? You better be bleeding or in the hospital, James Barnes–’

“Would you shut up?” he breathes, laughing so hard that his stomach clenches in recognition of that bossy tone which came to represent every good thing he wanted to have in his pitifully long life.

‘Fuckin’ rude. But. You sound alive.’ Why do you have to be so sweet and ridiculous?

“I’m alive, doll.”

‘Hmmm. God. I missed your voice. You know–you’ve got the best voice, Bucky Barnes?’

“Honey–shit. I’m sorry. No, what am I saying… I’m on my way. To you. And I realize it’s way too late, traffic might take me before I get there, but I am comin’ to get you,” he says. “Alpine misses his morning walk buddy.”

‘Just Alpine, then?’ Your voice is so set on being right that it betrays your excitement to hear from him. He lets his head fall back against the headrest, and the silence drape between his lips and the microphone in a swag of good-intentions. ‘Bucky–’

“Shouldn’t have let you go,” he says. You’re struck silent by the admission. He glares at the red rear lights of the mercedes suv which just taunted him by inching forward in the crawl of traffic.

‘...Oh my god, you’re seriously coming. You hate driving!’

“Doll–I’ll turn around if you don’t want me to come–”

‘No! I’m–Buck, Jesus Christ. I’m wearing your shirt, I want you to come get me.’

“Yeah?” There is nothing so good in the world as hearing you admit it. “Doll–”

“I shoulda kissed you, Barnes. I really wanted to, but Tony’s such a buzzkill.’

“I’ll do it. Second I see you.”

‘If you don’t kiss the smile off my face–’

“You’re happy, baby?”

‘Mmm. So happy.’

“Hey.”

‘Yeah?’

“I’m gonna take you home. Okay?”

Your silence is poignant. He knows you would never hang up without saying goodbye, even if you are distraught. When you’re quiet, you’re thinking. You’re ruminating. So, when you choke back a laugh and sigh, he knows it’s just because you’ve made a choice.

‘How fast is your heart beating?’ You ask.

Bucky holds two fingers to his jugular, but he can’t remember a single number which sounds reasonable in the midst of his thrumming heartbeat. “Fast,” he whispers.

‘That’s my home,’ you say, as he eases his truck into the exit lane as his GPS indicates.

“As if I don’t know,” Bucky replies. He rubs his chest where an ache spreads between his ribs, knowing that the puzzle piece he’s searching for will ease it all the same.

You don’t have to hang up, or speak; Bucky knows without needing verbal confirmation that you will wait with him on a silent phone line, past all normal or reasonable limits. He doesn’t even need to hear you. You’ve probably muted yourself as Steve hurries you around the compound, preparing as he is known to do for you to take your leave again, but the seconds count upwards on your call as they will do forever in his esteem. That’s why poets number things, he thinks. The things we love can only grow.

People aren’t homes. Homes are homes. They’re cultivated by mutual efforts. And that’s why he pulls his truck up to the security gate and honks twice, and then leaves his keys in the ignition and throws open the cab door, and strides towards the barb-crowned gate as it unfurls to reveal a woman in clothing which belongs to him. Bucky stops a handful of yards from the only person who makes home feel attainable and covers his mouth with both hands.

He forgot that you fell to Earth, too bright and good to be looked at without wincing.

Bucky kisses you like you might disappear again, all limbs locked in entanglement with yours. It doesn’t take much longer for him to remember that the things which he calls home don’t require retention. Or any kind of leash.

All the way home, your nose is tucked up against his neck and you murmur secrets you’d only ever trust him with. Things he knew were true long before he had a heart to hold them.

***

the story continues here

Thanks for reading! :)

bucky barnes tag list: @peterhollandkait @honeywithemoney @nahthanks

kate’s masterlist - marvel masterlist

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #loveinversewritingchallenge #heavenlybarnes #layla <3

363 notes · View notes

crazytwentythrees · 2 years

Text

confessional

for @heavenlybarnes's 500 follower celebration sleepover (congratulations!!), love in verse writing challenge.

fic inspired by Confessional by Sue Zhao (@blossomfully) ~ i honestly love this poem, it's so raw and beautiful, plus i've had it bookmarked for ages so when i saw the prompt for the sleepover, i just couldn't help myself. i also listened to lovesong by adele while writing and i felt like it fit the theme pretty well.

special thanks to the lovely @ladyblack15, thank you so so much for beta reading (and being my very first beta reader ever), here's the promised resolution ;)

enjoy!!

summary: in which neither of you can sleep very much. confessions ensue. word count: 7.2k [don't look at me like that, i'm just as surprised as you] content warning: swearing, angst/hurt (mentions of ptsd, anxiety, nightmares, injury, canon-level stuff, etc.), comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, romantic relations implied character: bucky barnes (mcu) x avengers!reader fanfic masterlist | main masterlist

It always happened at night. The confessionals.

Honestly, they probably weren’t exactly confessionals, more so midnight talks—you just liked the intimacy that the word held. But one morning you looked it up anyway.

Confessional. Adjective. “In which a person reveals private thoughts or admits to past incidents, especially ones about which they feel ashamed or embarrassed.”

So maybe some of them were confessionals.

The first night was interesting. You’d been awake for hours, tossing and turning and afraid of the restless sleep that awaited you. Eventually, however, you’d succumbed to the unignorable hunger that had crawled into your stomach.

Clad in gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt with the standard Avenger’s logo, you sluggishly pulled your door open and walked down the tiled hallway and into the elevator. Once inside, you murmured a quick note to F.R.I.D.A.Y. to take you to the kitchen, remembering to tell her to turn the lights on as the elevator doors opened.

Your eyes had opened a little more, and you no longer squinted against the soft light emanating from the edges of the floor and ceiling. As you walked, the lights would glow a little brighter, before dimming behind you. The cool grey surfaces calmed you, temporarily drawing away the fatigue that lingered behind your eyes.

As you entered the kitchen, the lights switched on, brightening in a few seconds.

“Fuck,” you heard a voice curse as some objects clattered to the floor.

“Barnes?” You asked, surprised to see someone else awake, even if you’d roughly known his history with sleep.

You glanced at the clock in the room, 4:23 am.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you coming,” Bucky said. You could see him now, dressed in similar attire as you, minus the shirt, which was short-sleeved and—

“Is that an old dodger’s shirt?” It seemed your sleep-deprived mind had no filter as the question left your mouth before you could think about it.

He blinked in surprise. It was the second time that night you’d caught him unaware. It was… different.

“It is. It’s from when they were still in Brooklyn—before they moved to Los Angeles.”

“That’s cool,” you said with a sleepy smile and walked to the fridge to steal the milk jug that was always stocked up. As you did, you mentally chided your sleepy self. ‘That’s cool?’ Surely you could do better than that. But your thoughts drifted when you noticed there wasn’t any opened jug there. Huffing, you reached an arm out to grab a new one when Bucky called out to you.

“The open one’s here.” He gestured to the jug on the counter next to him, unintentionally giving you a perfect view of some spilled milk and a toppled-over glass. “Shit, sorry, wait.” He grabbed a nearby cloth and tried to clean up the mess.

You stood there blinking, before realizing you’d inadvertently caused the spill and immediately jumped into action, helping him clean it up.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’d asked F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn on the lights for me, I just didn’t realize anyone else would be in here.”

“It’s alright, I’m normally more alert than that, though. I just didn’t hear you for some reason,” he said, the tips of his ears flushing as he scratched the back of his neck, the mess all cleared now. Looking away from you, he reached into a cabinet and got out another glass, one identical to his. He held it out to you.

You tucked your hair behind an ear, taking the glass from him and turning to the counter. As you poured yourself some milk, your eyes flicked to him, and you motioned for his glass too.

“Might as well help you refill it after spilling the first glass,” you chuckled. He slid it over to you and you repeated the motions. The mundanity of it all warmed you.

Moments like these were a rarity, and there were even fewer moments like it that you shared with the rest of the team. Everyone was always caught up in their own whirlwind of action, investigation, or research. Life at S.H.I.E.L.D. was like that. But it made you appreciate times like this when things had slowed down and all was quiet.

Once you slid his glass back to him and picked up your own, your eyes dropped to your feet and a soft laugh tumbled from your lips. Bucky looked at you, lowering his glass to reveal a translucent white mustache on his face. Your laugh became louder, and you held your hand up to try and stifle your evident humor.

His brow had furrowed in confusion, though his lips had quirked in the corner at your expense. He thought you looked cute.

You thought he looked cute.

“You—uh—you have a slight—” you lifted a finger to trace the area above your lip— “right there.” Tiny chuckles escaped you again, but you blamed your inability to keep your composure on your lack of sleep. You really weren’t like this normally.

Bucky chuckled, wiping off the milk mustache with the side of his right hand. Your eyes gleamed with laughter even after you’d stopped giggling, and they flitted to his left arm for a fraction of a second as he drank from his glass. His vision was blocked, and he missed it. You were fine with that, though, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable with your staring—it could easily be misunderstood as something negative, and you and Bucky were always on good terms, relatively speaking.

Your eyes landed on your feet. To be specific, your wooly-sock-clad feet. This just widened your smile, making you chuckle, and Bucky looked at you again.

“Sorry, I just realized why you couldn’t hear me coming,” you tried to explain, looking down again as you rocked back on your heels and flexed your toes. “I wore my super thick socks.”

Bucky saw the fluffy rainbow camouflage wool that disappeared under your sweatpants, then glanced up at the rest of your monochrome outfit. Your face warmed when your eyes locked with his and his brow raised in amusement.

“That color’s not very stealthy, soldier,” he said. You fought another string of laughter, ignoring the nickname.

“In my defense, you didn’t hear me at all, and you can’t see the colors in the dark.”

He laughed. Bucky nearly forgot about the nightmares that plagued him, wondering what brought you here so late at night. He knew barely anything about you—he knew just as much as the rest of the team—but he wanted to change that. And that’s what made him ask:

“Oh really?”

And, well, you knew only what a report had to say about him—and James Barnes was so much more than a report—so you replied in kind, with the same intentions at heart.

“Really. But it’s probably the sleep talking, so don’t hold it to me later in the day.”

The sounds of your combined laughter drifted around the kitchen and softly in the hallway, the rest of the compound locked away in their respective laboratories or in deep sleep, all unaware of the two assassins prolonging drinking a single glass of milk and searching for chocolate cookies as they made terrible jokes at four in the morning; both avoiding the clutches of a too-deep slumber.

It did make for an interesting night.

And when Bucky walked with you to the elevator, and then to your door, you were more than a little glad you’d gotten up and out of bed for a midnight snack. A talk was just the distraction you both had needed.

The twelfth night was fun.

It was the last week of December when everyone and everything hovered between Christmas and the new year. No bad guys had decided to bother you with your own Die Hard special this year, and thankfully, the same applied to Bucky.

Plus, New York City was absolutely magical with the light snowfall at 3:00 am.

You’d bundled up in your regular nightwear, slipping on thermal sweatpants instead of the regular ones, and tugged on some thicker socks and snow boots before walking down the hallway and knocking on Bucky’s door.

“Wanna go for a walk?” You asked once he opened the door. His hair was adorably messy, and his eyes were half-drooped shut, but they widened at your proposal.

“Sure,” he said, “come in for a minute, I’ll just change.”

Your footsteps were audible this time, the heavy soles of your boots making your tread discernible to the average human. As you both approached his closet, you hopped onto the edge of Bucky’s bed with more energy than he expected, the sight causing a slow smile to take over his face.

“Aren’t you gonna wear a jacket or something?” He asked.

You glanced down at your torso, realizing you’d left your coat on your bed in your haste to get to Bucky. Your face warmed.

“My coat’s back in my room, I’ll grab it on our way out.”

Bucky only chuckled, your late-night meetings being the only times he’d ever seen you disoriented like this. He really did think you were cute.

You fell back onto his bed, letting your legs dangle off the end while he rummaged through the bare but organized wardrobe. Your eyes had drifted shut without you noticing, only snapping open when something fell on your torso with a soft thud. A glance down showed you a lump of black fabric but when you looked to your side, Bucky had already slipped into his bathroom with a soft click of the lock.

Sitting up so you could properly hold it out at arm’s length, you tried to turn the fabric to see what it was. It was soft and thick, and it smelled like Bucky—you chastised yourself for wanting to suffocate yourself in the scent. He’d given you one of his sweatshirts.

You suppressed the smile that threatened to permanently tattoo itself on your face and quickly tugged the sweater on as you heard the lock click open.

“You ready to go?” you heard Bucky ask as your face popped out of the neck of the sweatshirt. He looked like he was trying not to laugh at the way your hair was pulled against your head. You sent a playful glare his way, standing up as you walked back out with him in tow.

“The real question is, are you ready Sergeant Barnes?”

“May I remind you of which one of us is fully dressed to leave the compound? Because it definitely isn’t you,” he said, chuckling.

You pretended to sniff. “I suppose you aren’t bad for an old man at three in the morning.”

The response intensified his laugh and while his eyes crinkled shut, you smile fondly. He had a nice laugh.

“Seriously, though. That has to be the longest sentence you’ve said to me—and not mission-related, either.”

“It must be the sleep talking,” he’d said, and your chest warmed at the memory of you saying it to him first.

Once you’d slipped into your room and pulled on your coat over Bucky’s sweatshirt—the two of you once again in near-identical outfits, with each of you thinking the other pulled it off better—you made your way out the front gates and down the secluded driveway which led to the rest of Manhattan.

You and Bucky had talked quietly while walking, the latter not knowing the destination you were leading him to. You each felt the way the fabric of your jackets swished when your arms brushed, the vibrations flickering under your skin.

Both of your eyes were heavy as you linked your arm with Bucky’s and pulled him into the cozy diner on fifth avenue, the cashier looking up in surprise at the sound of customers this late. The surprise turned into awe once the two of you were recognized to be part of the Avengers’ team.

When the waitress came by to the booth where you were seated, fumbling with fatigue and astonishment, she took down your order for two coffees and four grilled cheese sandwiches—one and a half for you, two and a half for Bucky.

“Grilled cheese, huh? How’d you know?” He asked when she walked back to the open kitchen counter.

“You talk a lot in your sleep.”

Bucky had laughed at that, and you smiled at the way his eyes twinkled under the warm lights of the diner. The place seemed cozier than before.

You’d actually seen him go out of his way to grab some at breakfast a few times, along with gyros at lunch or dinner, and you’d put two and two together on a whim. But he didn’t have to know that; and since gyros were hard to come by at this time of night, grilled cheese would have to do.

By the time your order arrived, the two of you had gotten comfortable, with your jackets discarded on the side of the booth cushions as you sat across each other with wide smiles and sparkling eyes.

Eleven nights was a lot of time to get to know someone, especially when they weren’t consecutive, and you saw each other practically every day in between. The conversation flowed easily, from brief mission details to pet peeves your fellow teammates possessed on and off the field. It was a treasured comfort.

You ate in your own time, and it felt like the world had stopped turning for the two of you until the sun rose on the horizon once again.

Bucky threw a wistful smile at you as you gazed at the sky and sluggish commuters. The staff at the diner stared at the two people huddled in a booth across from each other, looking like they couldn’t possibly be any closer than they already were as they kept leaning over the tabletop while making hushed conversation. They were in their own safe little world, away from the nightmares that pulled them back into hell every night.

The walk back to the compound was filled with a comfortable silence, one of your arms linked with Bucky’s while the other held your coat; he walked the same way. As you strolled across the driveway, a large yawn stretched your face and your eyes fluttered. You rested your head against Bucky’s shoulder, uncaring that it was his left shoulder, and the metal of his arm was harder than most would’ve expected.

He stared down at your sleepy form as the elevator went up and whispered a goodnight after he walked you to your room.

It was a fun night, you thought as your door closed.

Down the hallway, Bucky thought the same.

Bucky remembers the nineteenth night very well. It was horrible.

Well, it started out horrible. You’d made it better.

That day had gone off to a bad start. He’d been distracted while training and nearly taken someone’s head off, and it eventually rolled into a bigger issue: his final assignment.

Bucky recalled his standard line:

“I’m no longer the Winter Soldier. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and you’re part of my efforts to make amends.”

But yet again, facing another memory of his past had triggered a whole set of other memories and it broke like a mini-dam—mini because each target had its own and since this had been the last, it flowed a little too strong.

Long story short, he missed dinner and you noticed.

You weren’t that worried, though, he had off days just as much as you did, except this time you knew what was going on. Still, you decided to give him his space. If you ran into each other at some ungodly hour of the night then so be it, but you would give him some time to process things first.

Bucky didn’t make you wait that long, however. He’d been antsy all evening, pacing the floors of his room, trying to shove down the gyro you’d left at his door earlier. There was just nothing that could get his mind off the Winter Soldier. He had a permanent reminder hanging from his shoulder—literally.

So, once he decided pacing wasn’t going to cut it, he sat at the foot of his bed—the same spot where you had occupied many times since the nightly meetings began—and thought about what to do instead. He couldn’t help the crawling feelings of guilt and helplessness and the damned cage that was a cryo-chamber.

His skin erupted in goosebumps at the distant memory of the cold. It wasn’t like the walks he went on with you when it was cold; he wasn’t cold then. The serum in his veins and the electricity you sparked under his skin when you were close to him kept him warm enough.

No, the other cold was biting and dry. It was desolate. It was empty.

It was a glorified death.

For a moment, it was as if Bucky was having tunnel vision, as if his arms and legs and organs were failing and freezing up and the only thing he could see was you.

And so he got up to go look for you. He took a deep breath, remembering the memories that kept him grounded; he remembered his time in Wakanda—the relief of finally being rid of the Winter Soldier and the incarnation of the White Wolf. He remembered the nights he spent with you. How you didn’t seem to sleep much and how you said and did things you normally wouldn’t do during the day. How you’d loop his arm with yours or hold his hand when you were especially drowsy—and how that one time you’d started swinging your joined hands back and forth between the two of you as you walked.

Bucky was a man on a mission. Only this time, his mission was to find you; fortunately for him, he knew just where you would be at 11:00 PM on a regular night.

As he knocked on your door, he drew in steadying breaths, hoping you were there and that you’d let him in tonight.

“Come in.” Your voice was muffled from where Bucky stood but with his enhanced hearing, it was as though you had said it from right next to him.

He turned the handle and pushed it open, stepping inside only to be engulfed in a sweet, citrus-like scent he knew to be yours. He closed the door behind him slowly and walked to your bed, where you were sitting cross-legged with some scraps of paper spread around you.

“Oh, hey Buck,” you said, smiling.

The nickname was relatively new, and Bucky normally hated his already shortened name getting shortened again—Steve was the only one who could call him Buck—but he liked the way you said it, especially when it was during one of your midnight talks.

“Hi,” he said, though he felt like someone had shoved a handful of sand down his throat and the sound of his voice was gravelly and rough.

Your eyes softened. You moved the papers to one side and patted the now empty side of the bed next to you. You wanted to make sure Bucky could sit wherever he chose to—if that was across from you, then you could see his face directly, and if that was next to you, then you could offer some support.

He took up the entire right side of the bed, leaning back against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him. You thought you rather liked it—you could get used to it.

You followed suit, brushing away the remaining scraps of paper and stretching your legs out next to his. In the futile attempts to lessen the ridiculous difference in both your leg lengths, you had slid down from a seated position to an almost-lying-down one.

Bucky couldn’t hold back the laugh that rose in his chest, you were just so adorable and so, so sleep deprived that it was difficult to imagine you had the same abilities that he did, with the training that both he and Natasha had. During the day, you could easily take him out, no question. But in the night, you seemed to almost… let go.

Bucky envied that about you.

Once his laughter and your reluctant chuckles died out, he asked, “What’s the paper scraps for?”

“Oh!” You glanced down and picked up the scraps, depositing some in your lap and the rest in his. “These are temporary tattoos. Ya’know like the ones on old bubblegum wrappers?” When he nodded, you continued, “Well, a few years ago some guys came up with a new kind of temporary tattoos. They develop in a day and stay on for two weeks.”

“Got it. But why not get the real deal instead?”

“Bucky. Come on, you really expect me to pick a design and stick with it? Forever? No, thank you.” He laughed at that, causing you to smile for a second. “But seriously,” you said, and Bucky tensed because he thought you might bring up why he was there in your room. “I wouldn’t get a permanent one because of the job. Going undercover with tattoos is a pain in the ass and Fury doesn’t pay me enough for me to constantly keep removing them.” Just like that, the smile was back on your face and Bucky relaxed.

“But now since you’re here—” he tensed again and you pretended not to notice (again)—“you can help me choose which one I should do now. Or where I should put all of them. Either one.”

Bucky really envied you. He wished he could be as carefree as you, as easygoing, as fun—

“Barnes?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“You okay?”

And there it was. The quintillion-dollar dreaded question. Bucky shifted in his place next to you, and you noticed he ever only did that—showed his tells—during your talks.

“No.” His answer took you by surprise. You were ready to give him more time and definitely hadn’t expected such a quick response. Hesitantly, you tried another question.

“Is it about the target from today?”

“Yeah.” This was good. Answers were good. Monosyllables were the first step.

“How did it go?” You tried again. But apparently, that was the wrong question because you could see the shutters Bucky drew down, the way his body shifted slightly away from yours, all things you wish you weren’t trained to see if only to spare the pinpricks of hurt blossoming in your chest.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He wasn’t looking at you.

“Okay,” you breathed. “Do you want to talk at all?”

“Not really,” he said, wincing. He was too tired to talk.

“Okay.”

“I don’t mind listening, though.” His words made you blink, and your blank face staring at him prompted him further. “I just mean that—if you want to and you’re comfortable with it—then I don’t mind hearing about you. I’m sure you knew everything about me before from my files, and you know everything else now.”

Not everything, you wanted to say, but you let it go—for now.

“I know next to nothing about you—just that you worked with Romanoff a long time ago and you know Barton.”

“Okay,” you said again, “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

And so, on the nineteenth night, James Buchanan Barnes got to know the nitty-gritty details of your morbid past.

You told him you were born to a regular American family in the late 40s, all of whom were later killed by HYDRA agents who were posing as S.H.I.E.L.D. when you were seven. Similar to the Maximoff twins, you were taken in for testing, but just not as a volunteer. You endured years of training in the Red Room in addition to training almost identical to the Winter Soldier’s. In fact, part of your training was overseen by the Winter Soldier. Your purpose was to aid HYDRA in the Cold War and further.

HYDRA cultivated your already existing superhuman abilities and shaped you into the Winter Soldier’s successor, should the original Asset fail. Sometime in the 1970s, you were first introduced to the cryo-chamber. You must have been twenty-four then, old and experienced enough to be both an asset and a threat. Just like Bucky, you were pulled in and out of cryo for important missions, yours usually coinciding with the Widows.

You were never officially a Widow like Natasha and Yelena, only working with them a handful of times in the 2000s while you were out of that glorified freezer. In the end, though, Natasha was the only reason you got out.

Natasha knew Clint who knew Fury who made the decisions for better or worse. So when Fury had called in Natasha to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., what better way for her to help clear the red in her ledger than with the name of a woman who knew no other color?

After a few years of recon missions and close calls with the slowly forming Avengers, Natasha had finally tracked you down with Yelena’s help. With some weapons curated for the great Captain Rogers himself—made only for a worst-case scenario, you promised Bucky—they managed to get you to headquarters and under observation.

Unlike Bucky’s experience with HYDRA, your “Asset” personality was not induced by hypnosis, but was rather an implant that was aimed to remain under your skin permanently. It was to ensure you were 100% under HYDRA’s control at all times.

Bucky noted how you cringed at that part, and he understood. He fought the urge to reach out and pull you close to him, instead letting you finish your story at a distance comfortable enough for both of you.

It took you years to recover, even after Banner and Stark got the implant out. The ghost of the memories lingered whenever you closed your eyes too long—you didn’t tell Bucky that, but you supposed he knew anyway.

When Thanos came to Earth and half the population went missing, you admitted that it drove you more than a little crazy. You barely liked technology, thanks to the kind that put you through decades of torture, and magic was uncharted territory. You very much did not like uncharted territory. It was safe to say you were surprised but glad when everybody came back years later, grateful for the chance to meet the rest of the team yet saddened at all the loss that the final battle had incurred.

You then pulled your knees up to your chest and told Bucky the part of the story he did know—when you met the team after the war. Then you drew in a shaky breath, because: yes, you did just tell him your life story, yes, it was a lot of information, but it was also the first time you’d recounted it all like that. Sure, you’d given Fury the run-down, but that was only parts of it, and that had just been another written report to be added to your file.

You were also not in love with Nick Fury. You cared about what Bucky would say, so you kept talking.

“I’ve done terrible things, Bucky. I killed grown adults before I was ever even legal. I helped overthrow governments and tortured people in the darkest of shadows and I can’t forget any of it as much as I want to because they didn’t let me forget. They made sure I would always remember what I did and to whom I did it.

“I’m a horrible person,” you said and for the first time since you began your story, you turned to face Bucky—but your eyes still didn’t meet his. You stared at his dog tags and shuddered as you felt your face heat like an inferno, like the darkest circle of hell, where you sometimes felt you had a place reserved.

You felt the ghost of Bucky’s hand gripping yours, tightening as he took note of the tears burning along the waterline of your wide eyes. The drops were barely clinging to your lashes, mere seconds away from spilling down your face and taking the little composure you still had with them. You fought the sobs threatening to loose themselves from your throat.

“Sometimes—sometimes I don’t want to forget.” You looked up at him for a moment, eyes piercing his blue ones. “Sometimes I don’t realize the reality of it—of my entire situation—and I think not forgetting is better. Because then I know exactly what I did and how it was wrong and the whole flood of guilt that comes with it.”

The tears had run down your flushed cheeks as you spoke and a part of Bucky broke at the sight. He wrapped his arms around you, shifting on the bed so you were entwined in each other. Your face fell into the space above his collarbone, right next to the point where his prosthetic arm began.

Bucky’s arms tightened around you, holding you close as your body shook with grief and pain. His jaw clenched above you, out of your sight, hurting from the way you shuddered, regretting asking you about your past. He hated seeing you in pain like this.

The two of you stayed there for a while, losing track of time and realizing it was the first time you ever had been that close to each other.

You pulled back from Bucky’s embrace to look at him better, one hand moving from its grip on his t-shirt to the side of his face, cupping his jaw with a feather-like touch. You felt like you were touching the most delicate glass in your hands and you wanted to make sure it wouldn’t crumble at your touch.

But what truly undid you was the sight of Bucky’s glistening blue eyes, heavy teardrops waiting to spill from those thick eyelashes and down the stubble smattering his cheeks. Your other hand followed the first so that you were now holding his face in your palms, still gentle as ever. You came back to the reason why Bucky was here in your room tonight. Your eyes flitted between his sad ones as you spoke.

“Never forget your reality, Buck.” You sniffed. “You did not make any of those choices and you were violated horribly when you were forced to hurt people. But you aren’t the Winter Soldier anymore, okay? You’re James Buchanan Fucking Barnes. The Winter Soldier is the past. He’s HYDRA’s creation. And I can tell you right now that HYDRA sure as hell didn’t make you.

“You are strong and loyal and smart. You won’t be the same Bucky from Brooklyn again, but you’re Bucky Barnes the Avenger. You get to make your own choices now. Your last ties to HYDRA are gone, you made your final amends, and you can be free, Buck. You’re free. It’s over.

“I know there’ll be nights when you feel like you’re a horrible person and the memories in your dreams are too real and too much to relive, but you need to remember that you’ll be okay. Your thumb caressed his cheek and your eyes followed the movement.

“I know I’m not a horrible person right now,” Bucky started, “Because I know you aren’t. HYDRA used you and made you do things like they did with me and I know it was much worse, but I also know you. I know you and I know you’re a good person. Your past doesn’t define you.”

Once he finished speaking, you buried your face back in his t-shirt and a new round of tears escaped your eyes. Bucky held you just as tightly, pressing his lips against the top of your head and letting his own tears fall.

I love you, you both thought, but neither of you voiced it just yet. The silence and your tangled bodies said enough. So, even after Bucky’s and your tears had dried and both of you had calmed, you each held on to the other.

You fell asleep like that, temporary tattoos and memories brushed away for the night, and knew that in the morning, things would have changed just a little.

It was all for the better.

Things changed a lot after the nineteenth night.

“Sleep doesn’t come easy without you.”

“I feel safe.”

“Just five more minutes?”

“I’ll walk you to the clinic.”

Bucky and you had said variations of them to each other since then. You’d bridged a small gap.

The confessionals became sleepovers—if thirty-year-olds had sleepovers—but nothing ever strayed past platonic. In fact, your relationship was mostly the same, just with additional physical contact and more of an understanding. Both of those factors came as a slight shock to the team when they found you laughing in the kitchen one morning, leaning into each other, eyes bleary from a good night’s sleep and twinkling with mirth.

But with this new closeness came new territory, too.

Missions with Bucky left you breathless, your heart had fallen so far so fast that your mind could only comprehend keeping Bucky safe, and Bucky could only ever think of how he never wanted to see you in pain like he had that night.

You and Bucky had just gotten back from a particularly grueling mission. The debrief and checkups were over now, and you had been back for at least twelve hours.

It was long past midnight when you trudged across the hall to Bucky’s room—you’d moved closer to each other because of renovations and hadn’t really moved back even after it was all over.

You knocked firmly on his door, needing to see him, to know he was okay. Every second you waited seemed to drag you down with the burying weight of your nightmare, but you relaxed ever so slightly when you heard a distinct shuffling on the other side of the door.

Only when it fully opened and you saw Bucky in a Henley shirt and some boxers did you fully relax.

Bucky noticed that, just like he noticed the redness that rimmed your eyes and the way you had a haunted look about you. His eyes softened in understanding and held you when you knocked into him with a hug.

He was okay. You were okay. You repeated it in your mind like a mantra.

Bucky swept you up and closed the door behind him as he walked to the foot of his bed with you in his arms. You were too busy grappling with your nightmare to fully process the new boundary that had been crossed. You needed to know he was okay and your hands were too busy gripping the back of his shirt and his hair to understand much else.

He sat on the floor with you straddled over his lap.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with his brow furrowed deeply. Bucky held your face in both his palms so he could look you in the eye. He looked like he was in pain and that just sent another wave of worry through you.

Your hands moved to his face and you could feel your throat closing up. Bucky knew you by now, he knew your tells and knew when you had a nightmare—the same way you knew all about him.

“Sweetheart,” he said with such soft, sweet reverence that your eyes burned and a sob broke from you. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

But it wasn’t about you, you wanted to tell him. It was on the tip of your tongue, but you just couldn’t get the words out. It was like the words would dry up in your mouth the minute you went to tell him. You shook your head as the tears flowed.

You couldn’t say it, so you held him closer and hoped that would be enough for now. You hoped that, since you’d lasted so long, you could last a little longer without revealing your feelings—hell, you’d never had feelings up until a few years ago, it was unknown territory.

You’d grown quieter in his hold and Bucky tested the waters, pulling you up.

“Do you want to talk?”

Fuck. Yes. But there were so many what-ifs and questions and Bucky could see your hesitation in answering the question, but you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea and your head just hurt so much—

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, breathe,” he instructed and held your face softly as you breathed with him.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. Bucky nodded with you. “I… I think—no, I want to talk about it.”

Your eyes met his, the soft blue irises calming you. How had you lived all these years without someone like him? You thought. Then you remembered that you hadn’t lived, you’d been barely surviving.

“The nightmare—it wasn’t about me. Well, not entirely.” You puffed a breath, hands coming to rest on Bucky’s chest as you fiddled with the fabric of his shirt. “It started off as usual, with me and HYDRA doing their thing, but then—” your voice cracked.

Bucky’s thumb traced circles on your arm soothingly and your eyes drifted shut. He waited.

“But then I saw you,” you said, and Bucky tensed, his mind flying in a thousand different directions—had he hurt you?—but you saw where his mind was going, and it made you cup his jaw. “They had you, Buck. They were hurting you because of me.”

Bucky’s eyes burned with tears at the sheer devastation in your voice. He loved you, but god did he hate you hurting like this. Of course, neither of you were totally oblivious to the other’s affection, but both of you had been holding back. But that was before tonight.

He pulled you into him, your head automatically nestling in the crook of his neck as you took deep breaths, inhaling the scent of him. His own face found your neck, metal hand pressed over your back and the other carding through your hair, occasionally pausing to cradle your head. He broke a little more when he felt little rivulets of tears on his skin, pushing him to release some of his own as he held you.

Your hands didn’t leave his shirt and you were sure that the fabric had been overstretched in your fists but you didn’t care. You just needed to know that Bucky was here and he was safe and you were wrapped up in him.

The both of you sat there until the tears stopped and your breathing calmed. A boundary may have been crossed, but neither you nor Bucky were counting it as a loss.

Bucky got up from the floor, keeping you in his arms even after you moved to stand, and laid you down on the right side of the bed—your side of the bed—and got under the covers next to you. He pulled you closer, making sure your head rested comfortably on his right arm, wrapping his other arm around your waist and keeping you there. You slipped into a similar position as you had while sitting with him, face against his neck and arms tangled in him.

You both fell into a dreamless sleep within minutes.

Your spine cracked as you stretched on the bed, back arching just enough to relax you as you laid limp among the barely ruffled sheets and cozy comforter. You’d spent the last few nights in Bucky’s room, in his bed—specifically in his arms—and the two of you had yet to have a conversation about the underlying feelings both of you had only silently acknowledged until now.

You turned over to your side and the inside of your knee eased over the cool fabric. Bucky had woken up quite some time earlier, hushing you back to sleep as you clutched at his pillow and fell back asleep.

There was no reason for you to be on guard, you trusted Bucky, and he trusted you. In the private space that was his bedroom, there was no need for you to be calculating and all-seeing. You could close your eyes and rest, disconnected from all the bad in the world.

It was your safe space.

You turned onto your back again, arms falling to rest on top of the comforter. The pat-pat-pat-pat of Bucky’s footsteps were vibrating in your eardrums, the familiar tread lifting your lips into a soft smile.

The door to his room opened and you pushed yourself up to a seated position and greeted him with a very gravelly, “‘Morning, Buck.”

Bucky smiled at you, his eyes softening at the sight of you in his bed, wearing that old Dodgers t-shirt of his, with your hair matted on one side and wild on the other, and that gorgeous smile on your face. He was more than happy that you hadn’t bolted to your room after waking up.

“Morning,” he said back, gaze dropping to the cardboard box in his arms when a soft thud sounded from it.

You furrowed your brows at the sight, “What’s in the box?” you asked, leaning forward ever so little.

All you got in return was a cryptic—albeit sheepish—smile.

“Bucky…” you started, unable to keep the smile off your face. You pushed the covers down and shuffled towards Bucky, not getting out of the bed. “What’s in the—”

And you had never been as happy that you had enhanced senses when you heard a soft purr from the box, and you kicked away the comforter to stand by Bucky.

Your lips parted in surprise, a gasp filtering through them as you reached for the little kitten laid on top of an old shirt.

“Her name’s Alpine,” Bucky said, “Found her in this alley I was walking by earlier. There’s a note and everything. She’s been checked up and everything, the people who left her there left her medical papers too. They just wanted someone to look after her.” Bucky laid the box down by a wall and came back to you, standing closer than before.

His eyes glinted with joy as he watched you hold the temperamental feline in your arms. Alpine kept moving in your grasp for a few minutes, her short claws sticking to the fabric of your—Bucky’s—t-shirt. You giggled as she finally settled, head against your shoulder, and closed her eyes.

“She reminds me of this cat Natasha used to have,” you said, “She’d named her Liho. Russian for—”

“Misfortune,” Bucky finished it for you. He looked at you with a burning gaze, the small smile still present as you continued, face tilted to look at him.

“Though they look the exact opposite. Liho was this black cat that would follow Romanoff around back in Ukraine, and she had the prettiest hazel eyes. But Alpine has the same eyes as you.” You smiled wider, eyes flitting between both of his. “You have really beautiful eyes.”

Bucky stood in front of you, arms going around your waist, and as you looked into his eyes, you saw what was coming.

“I love you,” he said.

You smiled softly at him, because you knew.

“I love you too, Barnes.”

And you and Bucky knew, that come what may, no past memories or future villains could get in the way of what you two had.

You closed your eyes as Bucky held you close, with a sleepy Alpine still in your arms, and you both have the same thought,

Yes. This is happiness. I'm home.

fanfic masterlist | main masterlist

9 notes · View notes

fandoms-writings · 2 years

Text

Spice Jars

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader (no body descriptions though)

Word Count: 3.6K

Summary: Bucky reminisces on your life together, and how far you two have come.

Warnings: none really, it’s mainly a giant fluffy one-shot, with a tiny bit of angst thrown in as a memory.

A/N: this is my submission for @heavenlybarnes writing challenge, i hope you love it darlin! <3 I based this off of this poem "filling spice jars as your wife" by kai coggin.

Bucky Masterlist || Main Masterpost

The pitter patter of the rain filtered through the open windows of the kitchen, filling the otherwise comfortable silence. All the doors and windows had been left open to let in the rainy summer breeze, and to air out the fresh scent of paint from earlier - you still had a small swipe of it across your neck.

The aroma of paprika and turmeric and cumin filled Bucky's nose as he poured the spices into their labeled jars while you gently placed the small new shelves on the wall. You'd been adamant about doing the shelves yourself, and Bucky didn't argue.

You had a specific organization to the kitchen, a clean and tidy space that was covered in you. Everywhere he looked, your influence was there, even though it was only halfway there. The backsplash above the counter that you'd picked, the cabinet door handles that you just had to have, the magnets that adorned the fridge from your travels together - those were one of the first things you unpacked when you two moved in.

Everything was you and he loved it, because everything about you made his heart feel weightless but so heavy at the same time. And it wasn't the uncomfortable kind of heavy. It was the kind of heavy that made you feel warm and loved and safe.

It was immaculate - the best feeling in the world, according to him.

He remembers the first time he met you. He wasn't even going to go to the little celebration at the docks, but Sam's nephews had practically begged him to come.

"There you are, man," Sam had greeted him with a slap to his shoulder, pulling a smile out of Bucky.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," Bucky raised his hand to show the bag of baked goods he picked up on the way over, "and I stopped at that bakery you mentioned the boys liked."

Sam's face lit up, "Oh thanks, man!" He took the bag from Bucky, "They're gonna love you even more now, just be prepared for that."

Bucky rolled his eyes with a laugh and followed behind Sam to the docs, seeing said boys running around, causing a ruckus like usual. But something was different. There was a woman chasing them.

She was jogging after the boys, their giggles and shrieks cutting through the air as they played together. The forest green sundress wrapped around her form like it was made just for her and the skirt whipped around her legs in the most enticing way.

She tapped one of the boys and halted, yelling out, "AJ's it! Run Cass!" She put her hands on her hips, chest heaving as she caught her breath and watched the boys chase each other down the doc, "Be careful!"

When she turned and saw Sam walking towards her, she smiled, "Hey Sam!"

Bucky halted just a couple feet behind Sam and watched you two interact like you've known each other your whole lives - hell, maybe you did. His friend turned to him.

"If you'll keep her company while I help Sarah finish the food, that'd be great," Sam said before disappearing. Bucky looked at you, you were already looking up at him with an easy smile, and he swallowed his nerves down, reaching a hand out for you to shake.

"I'm, uh, James," he started, before quickly speaking again, "but, uh, people call me Bucky," He smiled - well, tried to, it felt more like a grimace and all he could hope was that you didn't see it that way.

The way you giggled as you took his hand in yours had his heart stuttering in his chest and he knew it didn't matter how he smiled. All he knew was that was the only sound he ever wanted to hear for the rest of his life and that your hand fit in his like a puzzle piece - he never wanted to let go.

"Y/n," You said, "It's nice to meet you, James."

He capped one of the jars in his hand, turning over his shoulder to glance at you, watching with soft eyes as you drilled the holes in the walls with such determination and focus. A small smile grew on his face as he looked back down to the task you'd assigned him when he'd asked to help and been denied shelf duty.

He couldn't believe where you two had ended up.

He couldn't believe that you chose him. Through all the self doubt and the sleepless nights.

Even after that first time you'd insisted he spend the night and he woke up screaming, you still chose him.

He woke with a start, sucking in deep breath after deep breath as he tried to regain his senses, his eyes darting around the dark room, trying to adjust so he could see. They flitted over the comforter and sheets that were wrapped around him, then the mattress under his fingertips and to the bedside table that held his phone and his watch. He turned to see the other half of the room that was unfamiliar.

His gaze landed on you, sitting on your knees next to him, but leaning away as you watched and waited with wide eyes. His head dropped and his shoulders rolled up to hide him from your eyes as the guilt settled in his stomach as the realization of where he was hit him like a truck.

He'd tried to warn you, to let you know that he couldn't just sleep at night - that he struggled. But then you swept him up with your kisses and your gentle caresses and those sweet noises that you make and he just couldn't leave your side.

So he stayed.

And now he was cursing himself for not leaving, for staying longer than he ever has, for scaring you.

He grabbed the blankets and shoved them off his legs, moving to throw his feet over the edge of the bed so he could stand when your voice made his movements falter.

"Are you okay?" You'd whispered it and if it wasn't for his enhanced hearing, he was sure he wouldn't have heard it over the roaring adrenaline in his ears. He turned to look at you over his shoulder but he couldn't hold your gaze as his eyes fell to the bed.

" 'm fine," he muttered, gripping the sheets in his hands that refused to stop shaking.

"Bucky - " He didn't let you finish the thought as he shoved himself up, fumbling around while trying to find his jeans or his shirt. He knew he shouldn't have stayed overnight, shouldn't have pushed his luck with you. You wouldn't want him to stay after you heard him scream like that. No one ever did.

"I'm sorry, I should - " he spotted his shirt and grabbed it, fingers not cooperating to open it so he could put it on, "I should go, I'll go." It was coming out all rushed, a flurry of apologies and self decrement, and in his rambling he couldn't focus on you trying to get his attention. It wasn't until your hand landed on the shirt that he was still trying to untangle.

He froze as your hand came into his view and gently pulled the fabric from his fingers. He chanced a glance at you, seeing you had crawled across the bed in such a hurry, the sheets were still tangled around your calves and your feet and you'd kicked your pillow over the edge.

Your fingers gingerly wrapped around his hands, pulling him to stand stiff in front of you. He still hadn't looked you in the eyes - he was scared of what he could find.

"Bucky," You whispered, swiping your thumbs over his knuckles and he dropped his gaze down to your entwined fingers, hanging his head. The more he stood still, the faster the adrenaline finished pumping through his blood and it left him trembling.

He heard you sigh and he was ready for you to drop his hands and to let him go. But your fingers squeezed his wrists and pulled him down to sit on the edge of the bed, where he still wouldn't look up.

"Bucky," You reached one hand up to brush the few short strands of hair off his forehead, "Will you please look at me?" Your voice was so soft, so gentle as you asked, how could he not do as you asked.

He raised his eyes, slightly tilting his head up from where it hung, and he looked up at you through his lashes that had grown wet at some point - when, he wasn't sure.

Your initial frightened gaze had turned into a look full of worry and empathy. The moonlight cut through the blinds of your window and caressed your soft skin in an ethereal glow as you watched him.

"You're safe here, Jamie," Your words seemed to sink into his skin and melt the last of his resolve as he let the trembling of his nerves take over, "You don't have to leave."

That was all he needed before he crumbled forward into your embrace, burying his face in your collar and grabbing at your back as he crushed himself to you, letting himself fall apart as you whispered to him promises of “I got you.”

You held him as his body shook and he worked to even his breathing again, pressing small kisses into his temple as his scruff scratched at the skin of your neck. You carded your fingers through his hair and drew soft lines across the expanse of his back, and he could feel the tension in his muscles melting away at your touch.

You held him until he stopped shaking and his grip around you loosened. That was when you pulled back and stood from the bed, grabbing the shirt that you pulled from his hands just moments ago and pulling it over your head and arms.

You reached down, finding his sweatpants and holding them out for him to stick his feet through the holes. He followed your lead and let you help him pull the pants up over his legs, too exhausted to question what you were doing, but also hyper aware of the intention in your movements.

You grabbed his hand again, leading him out of your room and down the hall to your small kitchen where you turned on the small corner lamp that lit the room in a soft yellow glow. He watched as you pulled out the barstool for him and he took his seat.

You moved around the kitchen with purpose as you quietly opened and closed cabinets pulling down two mugs and two tea bags and a jar of local honey he remembered you telling him about earlier that evening.

You brewed two mugs of chamomile tea in silence. Not once did you ask him to tell you about what happened, what he'd seen or why he tried to run. You simply set his mug in front of him and yours in front of the barstool next to him before you softly padded your way around him. He reached over and pulled the stool out for you and you shot him your endearing smile and he could feel more of his anxiety wash away.

You sat in silence as you both drank the tea and Bucky let the warmth of it heat away the rest of the shakiness in his hands and the restlessness in his legs. When you were finished, you set your mug down and leaned your head against his shoulder, wrapping your hand around his elbow, rubbing small circles into the skin there.

“You’re not gonna ask?” He muttered, his voice still slightly rough from the scream he’d woken himself with.

You shook your head. “No,” you pulled back and looked up at him, giving him that knowing but sad smile, “I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready,” you leaned up and pressed your lips to his cheek, “and I’ll be here.”

“What if,” he started, pausing to swallow around the nervous lump in his throat, “what if I was ready. . . now?”

You reached to set your other hand on his leg as you turned your body in your stool to face him, “Then you can tell me.”

And so he did, most of it at least. He left out small things, the gruesome details that he wasn’t ready to share, nor did he ever know if he would be; but he told you how he fell from the train and was taken by Hydra. He told you about having his brain scrambled. He told you about how Steve had helped him and took him to Wakanda to fix his head and his arm. And he told you about Steve leaving after they undid the snap from Thanos.

And you listened so intently, you cried for him. He almost refused to tell you anymore when the tears slipped past your lashes and down your cheeks. Reaching up, he brushed them away, trying to tell you not to cry for him and that pulled a weak smile out of you. You'd pushed his hand away and told him, "I'll cry for whoever or whatever I damn well please," wiped the other side of your face and took a breath, "continue, please?"

When he finished telling you the most of it, you pulled him in for another soul changing embrace and you apologized. You told him he didn't deserve any of it, that you wished he'd had an easier life and that you'd always be there for him.

It lifted a weight off of his chest that had been there longer than he could remember, and when you went back to bed, you pulled him down to lay with his head on your chest as you repeated your earlier promise, “I got you.”

It was that moment that he knew he wanted to marry you.

And now, here you were, in the kitchen of the first house you two had bought together, after months of searching for the perfect one, because he couldn't let you settle for anything less. He peaked back over at you, hanging shelves above the stove, with that beautiful diamond on your finger reflecting the low light of the kitchen. Looking back to his own hands, fingertips covered in an array of spices and his own wedding band shining back at him - he'd asked Shuri to make a vibranium one that could withstand anything he put himself through.

He felt a surge of emotion in his chest that he released with a heavy sigh and water in his eyes.

You were his wife. He was your husband. He was yours and you were his. In every essence of the word.

Everything he did would be different now. Every thought, every sight. It would all be different, he could already see it. And it wasn't in a bad way. It was a way that made him feel relief and made him feel weightless.

Sure, you were by his side before the wedding, always there with your homemade dinners and freshly baked desserts. With your infectious laugh and a squeeze of your arms around his torso. But now, you had promised him a forever.

A forever of love and affection and safety and you.

He'd been so nervous when he asked you to marry him.

You were walking ahead of him on the doc, it was where you met and it just felt like the perfect place to ask you.

His hand was in his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the little velvet box that acted like a weight in his pocket. He'd gotten the ring for you months ago, but just couldn't figure out how to ask you until he could no longer wait. He'd been carrying it with him everywhere in hopes to have the perfect opportunity to ask, and now he couldn't wait anymore.

"Buck!" Your shout grabbed his attention back to you and he looked up to see you pointing at the horizon, where the river met the sky almost seamlessly, "Look at the sunset!"

He looked to where you were pointing, seeing the sky littered in shades of pale pinks and blues, a bit of orange peaking through the clouds.

He walked up behind you as you told him how beautiful you thought it was and how you would watch the sunset every night if you could and he knew that to be true from how many you'd watched together.

He slowly and quietly dipped down to his knee, pulling the ring out of his pocket, his fingers shaking as he tried to open it before you turned around again.

He'd had a whole speech planned out. He was going to tell you how much he loved you, how you'd changed his life for the better and how he wanted you to keep changing it and to keep helping him fix himself.

But the words left his brain the second you turned around and looked at him with a small gasp. He could see the tears forming along your lashes and all he could say was, "I love you, please, marry me?"

Your smile blew wide as you let out a wet laugh and frantically nodded your head before jumping into him, knocking him from his knee to his ass. He lay there with you in arms, you, peppering kisses over his face while he struggled to keep a hold of the ring all the while you repeated your "yes yes yes" in his ear.

It was the best day of his life.

You must have heard him sigh because within a moment you were by his side. The drill set on the counter where you'd been and your hands on your hips as you playfully nudged him before setting the side of your head against his bicep, looking up at him through your lashes.

You could bring him to his knees with a single look, and you knew it.

"You okay?" Your gentle voice filled his ears and had even more tears settling on his lashes, threatening to spill over.

"Yeah," He whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at you.

The playful glint in your eyes subdued as your gaze softened, "Jamie, what's wrong?" You reached up to cup his cheeks, rubbing your thumbs across his cheeks. He gave you a small smile and a huff through his nose before he reached up to grab your wrists, turning each one over to place his lips against the light beat of your pulse.

“Nothings wrong,” he muttered, pulling your hands down to his chest where he wrapped his flesh hand around the both of yours, holding them over his heart. His metal hand moving to settle at the small of your back, holding you to him, “Everything’s perfect.”

You gave him a shy, nervous smile, “Then what’s got you in your head, hm?”

You always did seem to know him better than he knew himself sometimes. It always surprised him how quickly you picked up on his little giveaways. The twitch of a finger, the smallest octave of a change in his voice. Even the slightest change in the way he looked at you, and you caught on.

He felt the heat crawl up his neck before it flooded his cheeks, "It's corny," he tried to look down at his feet, but he was holding you so close to his chest that there was nowhere else to look but you.

"You know I love corny," You whispered, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his lips, so featherlight he wasn't sure you really kissed him. But he found himself leaning forward for more before you shook your head with a giggle. "Tell me the corny stuff, or no more kisses for you." You teased, giving him a smirk.

He chuckled at your antics before taking a breath. He moved his hand from your wrists to the sides of your neck, his touch gentle as he traced your jaw with his thumb.

"You're my wife," He whispered. A knowing smile graced your lips as you nodded.

"I am," You kept your hands on his chest, playing with the thin fabric of his shirt between your fingers, trying to keep yourself from grabbing his face and bringing him in for another kiss, "and you're my husband."

"I just. . ." he trailed off as he got lost in your eyes, letting the love and patience that was pouring from them wrap around him and steady his heart. Even after all this time, you still left him a nervous and blubbering mess - left him breathless. "There was a time where I didn't think I'd ever get to have this," he gestured around the room, half put together and tools scattered about, "And now you're here, and it's," he released a shaky breath, "It's kind of all hitting me at once, ya know?"

You sighed and your smile grew as you leaned up on your tiptoes, reaching your hands up to wrap around his neck and hovering your lips over his, "I know what you mean, love, and I'll always be here." Your lips finally touched his and he melted into your touch.

"Forever," you mumbled against his lips and he gripped at your back, trying to pull you impossibly closer, "or until you get sick of me, I suppose."

He laughed at that, wrapping his other arm around your back to pick you up, placing you on the counter, "I could never."

Yes, you were his wife and things were going to be different now, but it was a different with you. And Bucky would embrace it.

If you liked this story, please consider checking out my Ko-Fi✨

Taglist: @spid3rgwen @austynparksandpizza @imjustace @dancer3205 @shadytalementality @leosandbuckysgirl @chwlogy @hysteriadarling @peaches1958 @historygeekfics @slutforsexyseabass @oceaniamaddness @pandaxnienke

#loveinversewritingchallenge #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky one shot #bucky oneshot #reader insert #bucky fanfiction #mcu fanfic #fandoms-writings

331 notes · View notes