#chrissy.words

[mercedesbarnes]

Lovebug

Summary: lovebug (n); the name given to the person with whom you have fallen head over heels in love. to be called a lovebug is the ultimate expression of affection. they are the love of your life.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 5,207

Warnings: 40s!Bucky, memories in italics, v minor cursing, angsty fluff, sadness

A/N: so I’ve had this idea for a while and it took a life of its own, hence the word count. As always, I love hearing from you! 

A/N: a massive thank you to the american science queen @modestlyconfused for listening to me rant about this and life, helping me with details, and laughing about my autocorrect mishaps. Bucky would get you a crown too❤️

“She’s over here.”

Steve’s voice carries over the rows.  Bucky doesn’t respond. Although the autumn sky is clear and blue, the sun is making its journey down in the sky and the breeze is cool.  It’s only when Steve places a gentle hand on his shoulder that Bucky stirs, tearing his gaze away from the weeping willow and focusing instead on his best friend.

His best friend, who knows where you are.

“Buck…we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

Steve’s eyes search his. He’s reading Bucky like he always does, and as always, he knows what Bucky is thinking.  Bucky says it anyway.

“Yes—“ His voice shakes and he clears it to try again. “Yes we do.”

“I know.”

Bucky needs Steve’s hand on his shoulder like he needs air.  Squeezed tight and solid, Steve keeps his hand there as he guides them through the rows, respectfully keeping to the carefully marked paths.  Each rock speaks of the deceased, the long-lost loves, the ones that got away.

The worst part is that you hadn’t gotten away.  He had you, once, until it was ripped away from him.

Steve stops, Bucky stops, and both simply stare. Y/N Y/L/N.

Steve drops his arm and walks up to your headstone.  He crouches, holding the rock that has your name and the eight numbers that speak of your life yet could never carry the weight of love you brought between each four.

He speaks to you, but the words are lost to Bucky’s ears.  Is he tuning them out for the sake of Steve’s privacy? Maybe. More likely they are lost because of the memories that have thrust themselves into the forefront of Bucky’s mind.  

Laying the bouquet of flowers he brought, Steve rises and tells Bucky he will give him some time alone.

“Hi. It’s me.”

After meeting in seventh grade art class, Steve invites you over to teach him more about shading techniques.  You’re both on the fire escape in the middle of drawing when Bucky lets himself into Steve’s apartment and yells his presence.

“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You introduce yourself with an outstretched hand and a dazzling smile that cannot be outshone by the sun setting on the horizon.

“The name’s Bucky. How you doin’, doll?”

“I’m doing pretty well, handsome. Your friend here is a great artist.”

This makes Steve puff out his chest. He tells Bucky, “She’s the queen of shading.”

“Is that so?”

“Damn right I am, come look.”

He looks, and you are aptly named. Your sketch is enchanting despite being in the middle of construction, your lines capturing the character of the Brooklyn Bridge with impeccable ease.

“Remind me to get you a crown, you are the queen! Can I?” he asks, and you let him flip through the rest of your book. 

Steve likes to draw people; he has tens of sketchbooks full of his mother, of Bucky, of the mailman.  You, however, like to draw places and things: skyscrapers, houses, the graffiti so often found in the alleys where Steve fights. All shaded beautifully. All of Brooklyn.

“It’s home,” you explain when he points this out, “I never want to forget home.”

~

It’s years later that Bucky sits cross legged and leaning back on his hands, amused at the sight of you snatching the bowl of chips away from a greedy hand.

“Will! Stop eating, it’s your turn.”

“Okay, okay, don’t have your kite in a twist.”

Will wipes his powdered hands before spinning the empty glass Coca-Cola bottle the group is using for Spin the Bottle. It wobbles in circles on the carpet before pointing at the lucky person: John.

“Ooo,” Bucky teases, “Pucker up, Johnny boy.”

You’re in murmured conversation with Steve to his right, and his feeling of contentment grows.  He’s surrounded by his friends, at night in Dot’s house, doing what teenagers do during the summer after high school graduation. Eating and drinking and laughing.

John taps his cheek jokingly. He isn’t prepared when Will grabs the sides of his face and crashes his lips to skin, adding an audible ‘mwah’ for dramatic effect. John swipes at the spot.

“Ew, he licked me.”

Bucky pokes Steve, who is massaging away the stitches as you go on with your entertaining story; Bucky had convinced him to tag along, and although he originally hesitated, Bucky knows he’s having a good time.  Your narration and constant inclusion of Steve is a huge factor--you two are both passionate beings and had become fast friends. It’s not possible for Bucky to be more grateful that you’re here.

“Okay, go John.”

Bucky’s not sure if he believes in God, but he’s sure the bottle is guided by the divine: it lands on Mary.  He cheers watching John press a tender kiss to Mary’s cheek.  Pink dusts her face as she gives him a shy smile—they have a crush on each other. It’s positively cute how their eyes catch across the circle.

This game could be a romantic catalyst, he thinks, recalling his lessons in chemistry. Catalysts cause a change.  Reactions happen regardless of catalysts, but with them the reactants mix faster to make the product almost instantaneously. Here, the product could be love.

Bucky loves the idea of love, but he hasn’t found it. Not yet. For now, he kisses girls behind shops, kisses them on the Ferris wheel, woos them, charms them, sweeps them off their feet.

“Mary, don’t forget the rule!” Dot pipes up. “If you land on John, you two have to kiss for thirty seconds.”

“Is that new, Dot? Seems like you come up with more rules every time we play,” you ask, tilting your head. You have that smirk playing at your lips, the one Bucky classifies as reserved for teasing.

“My older sister says it’s how she plays. If two people spin each other they have to!”

If Mary’s hand shakes, no one sees it. Her shoulders fall at the result but only slightly. It’s Bucky, after all. He meets Mary in the middle of the circle and receives his kiss on the cheek. It’s soft, and he remembers how her softness felt on his own not too long ago. She was a good kisser, and if her and John weren’t about to go steady, he’d consider finding her later and doing it again.

Bucky spins idly, and is roused by Steve’s clap on his back.  You.  He smirks and reaches out with both hands.

“C’mere doll.”

Your eyebrows rise, but you move past Steve, who has scooted back to make room. Bucky brings you close and places not one, not two, but three kisses on your cheek.  When you pull away, surprised, Bucky flashes an innocent grin.

“What?”

“You’re somethin’ else, Bucky Barnes, really.”

“Thanks, Y/N Y/L/N,” he grins wider.

There’s something curious in the way you’re looking at him. “I haven’t decided if that’s a compliment yet.”

Your hand reaches for the bottle, breaking eye contact for the second it takes to twirl the glass. It goes fast, then stops suddenly, snagged on a bump in the carpet.  It’s pointed directly at Bucky and your eyes lock.

Will yells, “Go on then! Kiss him!” and you do.  You kiss him, and he thinks he’s in heaven. If Mary’s lips were soft, yours were silk.

He’s so caught off guard by this feeling, this feeling of right, that ten seconds pass before he realizes you two are only connected by your mouths.  You’re tugging at his sleeve and you shuffle closer, enough for him to wrap an arm around your waist and bring you flush against his chest while you run your fingers over his shoulders and in his hair.

When Bucky surfaces at the call of thirty seconds, he is visibly shaken. The thought that he must be red as a tomato flits through Bucky’s muddled brain, because Steve has the exact look his Ma wore whenever he had a coughing fit.

The world is spinning. He likes it.

“Buck, you okay?”

Nothing so articulate as a sentence could be said from him now.  So he says the only word he knows.

“Y/N.”  Yes.

“…you sure?”

“Y/N,” he answers again, dazed.  

His eyes are on you as a small smile creeps onto your lips and they're on you as you hide it and your blush by looking at the carpet. You squirm under the taunts of your friends and Will’s excited cheers. Nobody’s ever seen Bucky rendered speechless. Hell, he doesn’t think he’s ever been. Your smile is well deserved.

Mary nudges you. “I think you broke him.”

Bucky sees you bite your lip, now worried, and turn to Steve. “Maybe he needs to go home? He’s a bit red--”

“Oh no, he’s not leaving. It’s time to play Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Dot announces while clapping her hands, “Y/N and Bucky can go first.”

The seven minutes are spent talking, any teenage awkwardness overshadowed by the sheer comfortableness of your friendship. 

Bucky realizes he wants more.  More time, more you, more than friendship.

Perhaps Cupid’s arrow is not made of wood, but of a red and white glass catalyst.  Whatever it is, whoever shoots it, Bucky knows he’s grateful for that bottle.

Which is why he places another one on your grave, beside Steve’s flowers; the neck of it pointed towards the carved letters of your name.

“I miss our seven minutes in heaven, Y/N. I miss you.”

It is two weeks later that Bucky sees you again, this time at Coney Island on a Saturday.  You’re standing arm-in-arm with Mary, in line for the games. The fabric of your clothes flows lazily as the crowd moves around you.

“Go over there.”

“Hmm?”

“Go over there,” Steve repeats.

“What happened to the Cyclone? You promised you’d come, don’t back out on me, punk.”

“Bucky, you haven’t taken a girl out in weeks. You’ve clearly got it bad for her, jerk, now go.”

“Stevie...”

Steve considers Bucky for a long minute, taking in how he is shuffling his feet, hands in his pockets and his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, yet staring longingly at you. Bucky is surprisingly nervous. He has never been nervous to talk to a girl before.

They ride the Cyclone, and Steve throws up.

“Steve was playing matchmaker; can you believe it? Man,” he says, smiling softly, “I’m so grateful.”

A week of pining and not-so-subtle flirting goes by before Bucky finally asks you on a date, much to Steve’s relief. He had told Bucky that Will made a move on you that morning and you declined. Then Steve pushed him out of the apartment with the threat of “an ass-kicking if you don’t come back with a date.” Nerves be damned, Bucky spends the whole afternoon trying to find you, checking all your regular spots and catching you as you exit a store. You're adjusting your purse and your head raises when he calls your name.

“Y/N!”

Bucky walks backwards, facing you, looking behind him every few moments to make sure he doesn’t bump into anything.

“Hey, Bucky.”

“Going somewhere?”

You nod. “Dot’s asked me to come over.”

“Nah, you’re not going there. We’re doing something fun.”

“Steve said he heard the theatre’s playing a good one--”

“No, no, not with Steve.”

You gasp, holding a hand over your heart. “No Steve? You’re a terrible friend.”

“It must be Opposite Day, I’m a terrific friend. And I’m a boy too, I can show you how terrific of a boyfriend I am.”

Bucky bites his lip and runs his fingers up your arms to brush back your hair, and he blinks when you don’t swoon like other girls at the classic Barnes seduction technique. Had you not seen him in action over the years, maybe, just maybe, you might not have rolled your eyes. No matter how affectionately. It is then that he knows you will challenge him more than any of his trigonometry problems ever could. 

“I can’t ditch Dot...”

“You could...reschedule. Unless you two are meeting Will? Little birdie told me he was asking after you.”

“Steve’s such a gossip. No, we’re not seeing him, look out—”

He twists to avoid hitting a mailbox but he overshoots in excitement and whacks his elbow, making him bite his cheek to stop a colourful string of curses from escaping. All he wants to feel better is your hug, and that’s exactly what he goes for.  

“Ow.”

“Poor Bucky,” you say, your voice sympathetic and muffled by his shirt while your hands rub up and down his back. “Anything I can do?”

It’s clear you mean ice, or a bandage, but you walked right into it and it’s too good of an opportunity for him to ignore.

“Play hooky with me. You can see Dot tomorrow and tell her all about our spectacular date.”

“Spectacular, huh? What are we doing?”

“Well...” Bucky sways you back and forth, slowly walking you back to where you came from. He meets next to no resistance. In fact, you wind your arms tighter around him and prop your chin on his chest to meet his gaze.  “You’ll just have to find out, won't you?”

“You’re making me very curious.”

“Good. Means you’ll come with me.”

His mind is running wild with possible date spots when he hears them, and his head falls onto your shoulder. They're the unmistakable, undeniable sounds of Steve’s righteousness.

“Goddammit Steve.”

You giggle. It’s right in his ear and oh, how he loves the sound. “Go rescue him, the brave stubborn soul.”

“If you’ll go out with me. See? My elbow feels better already and I’ll need more hugs after pulling Stevie out.” You’re shaking your head in wonder at him, that teasing smirk on your lips again. “And I’m more fun than Dot, believe me!” 

Bucky pecks your cheek and runs off, calling over his shoulder, “Seven!” 

It is seven o‘clock, and Bucky has his fist raised, poised to knock on your door when it flies open.  

“Hello.”

Your smile, the one that has him hooked, knocks the wind out of him.  So does the dress that hugs you like it was custom-made. You look beautiful. Ethereal.

“Wow,” he breathes. “Hi.”

Part of being their friend means lounging in their apartment due to Steve’s health, so Bucky is used to seeing you in more casual wear or in his sweaters anytime you got cold.  Regardless of the outfit you’re stunning, but this date look is new and it’s making you glow and he’s more than a fan.

With the way you’re looking at him, you must be thinking the same thing: Bucky has parted his hair neatly and is looking smart in a pair of black dress pants and a blue button up that matches his eyes. His face is clean shaven, just the way you like it, and he’s wearing his best cologne.

“I must say, Barnes, you clean up well for dates,” you wink, running a finger under his chin before turning to lock your door.

“We’re just getting started, doll,” he assures you. 

Never breaking eye contact, Bucky takes your hand and brushes his lips across the knuckles. This gets a soft smile and linked hands, and his heart does a flip-flop. You keep the other on his upper arm while he takes you to the destination.

“Where are we off to, Mr. King of Spectacular Dates? Do I have to wear a blindfold?” 

“Patience is a virtue,” he teases, “And nope. Look! We’re on the way and no blindfold.”

“Give me a hint. No? Not even one? Okay. I’m calling you Mr. King of Secrets instead.”

“For future reference, Y/N, if I’m a king then you’re my queen.”

“You did tell me you'd get me a crown when we first met.”

“What do you think I’m getting you for your birthday?” Bucky grins and it’s rewarded by one of your own.

“I'll be sure to wear it every day.”

“As you should, Your Majesty.”

One night while watching the stars Steve, the hopeless romantic, had asked what was the perfect date? You had said a dinner on the docks; it's simple yet romantic, with the waves lapping at the wooden pier and serenading you as you get to know your companion.

Bucky had filed that information away for the future. Now is the future. It didn’t take too much for him to set up; he just had to call in a few favours with his chef friend, charm the local vendor into selling him your favourite fruit, and promise to switch shifts with the dock workers so they’d keep the area empty for the night. 

Slightly anxious, Bucky awaits your reaction when you reach the docks. Your eyes are wide and you're uncharacteristically quiet, having trailed off from telling him about your mom’s cousin and he’s worried you don't like it.

He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand and is about to open his mouth to suggest something else but he doesn't have to.

“Bucky…this is...wow…” You speak in a whisper, and it is no whisper of dislike. Wonder, astonishment, but no dislike. Your gaze shifts from the meal on the candlelit table to Bucky. “I can't believe you remembered. I said that years ago.”

“Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you.”  

Your face reflects your awe and gratitude, and it's as if someone lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders: you like it. He just needs to know if it’s as perfect as he remembers the tone of your words being when you described it. 

“It's still true, right? What you said?”

“Yeah.”

Squeezing his hand, you go to the table and he helps you into your chair. You have dinner, your conversation easy and the food delicious, and halfway through you confess the date is more than spectacular. He wholeheartedly agrees. It’s the best date he’s ever been on and it's not even done. You’re the best date he’s ever had.

It's dark when Bucky walks you home, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, your intertwined hands swinging merrily while he recounts what happened at the docks last week.  It’s a silly little story, but it makes you light up and that’s all that matters.

If only the night could never end.

Dying to get more time with you, Bucky declares through your laughter that he's forgotten where your building is and kidnaps you for another lap of the block. You make him complete two more before he’s allowed to bring you to your doorstep. 

Bucky's ecstatic when you hold off on the goodbye by fiddling with your keys. As a gentleman he doesn’t want to overstep, but he really wants to kiss you goodnight.

“Thank you for tonight, Bucky, I had a really great time,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck. You sigh happily when his encircle your waist. This too, feels right. Maybe he can kidnap you again.

“Mmm,” he hums, breathing in the intoxicating smell of your shampoo, “I did too. Cancel all your plans, doll, we're going out again tomorrow.”

You move but don’t go far. Still, touching noses isn't close enough for Bucky. “Dot won't be happy.”

“I’ll be happy. What do you say, Y/N?” He tilts his chin so his lips feather gently over yours. The taste of your exhales pleases his beating heart, which is screaming at the manners telling him to wait for permission. “Another spectacular date?”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Yes. Now kiss me already.”

It's soft and sweet, and when you melt into him, his eyes roll back into his head. With his previous lovers he is used to being in control, on solid ground. But you are making him fly, over the tallest of buildings, above the highest of clouds, and the feeling he got from the Cyclone is laughable compared to this. He's falling.

“Goodnight, Bucky, ” you say softly when you part, and your hand trails down the side of his face. He takes it and kisses your palm.

“Night, Y/N, see you tomorrow.”

You nod at his words, and turn to open the door. Unsuccessfully, because Bucky still has your hand and uses it to pull you back to him and steal another kiss, lacing your fingers as he does. You whack his arm when he doesn't let go but it’s light and he feels you smiling against his lips.

He’s falling, and has every intention of bringing you with him.

Walking away from your door, running a hand through his hair and grinning like a fool, Bucky stops when you call his name.

“I’ve made up my mind.  You’re really somethin’ Bucky Barnes, and that’s more than a compliment. It's fact.”

“Steve swore he could hear me cheering from blocks away...not sure if he ever told you that.”

He is 22 and he is in love.

“Bucky, please not there—“

“Why not? Dancing is fun!”

You draw circles in the dirt with your shoe and mumble, “I-I don’t know how,” to which he clicks his tongue in disagreement.

“Lying is bad, Y/N.”

“You’re so good, I’ll embarrass you.“

“You could never embarrass me, how could I be embarrassed when I have the best and prettiest girl in all of Brooklyn on my arm?”

“You could, if you saw my moves. I might even break your toe.”

“Doll, you’re being worse than Steve,” he sighs, and you pout. It’s adorable.

“Am not.”

Bucky takes your face in his hands and he kisses your nose, rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb. The trust in how you look at him is everything he’s ever dreamed about and wanted in a love, only it’s better and it’s you. 

“You are. I’ll be right there with you and it’ll be fun, I promise. Let me dance with my lovebug.”

“Okay. I hear our song playing, too.”

You let him lead you to the dance floor, and he thinks, for the millionth time, how perfect your hands fit in his. There have been many dates since the first one and the novelty still hasn’t worn off.

“Ah! Sorry!” you exclaim as you step on his foot again.

“It’s okay. You’re doing great, really fantastic! Now we go left,” he coaxes, guiding you through the movements. It takes a few songs, but he’s an excellent teacher and you’re a fast learner. “That’s it, Y/N, you’ve got it!”

Soon you have forgotten the steps and are simply dancing like nobody's watching.  Because nobody is: there is only you and him, him and you. The music swells and he is laughing and you are laughing, your hair coming undone from its style. Bucky spins you to make more pieces wild, because they frame your face and the sparkle in your eyes.

You are spinning. He likes it.

When a slow song comes on as the last dance of the night, Bucky brings you into him and, resting his forehead on yours, he places his hands at the small of your back. You close your eyes and your hands are warm on his neck.  After all the dancing, both of your heartbeats are fast, though Bucky can feel them slow in the comfort of each other’s arms.

He is 23 and he is in love.

With a phone he has the world in his pocket.  With you, he had the world in his arms.

But the world faces disaster; natural or manmade, none felt as devastating as the writing in that fateful envelope.

Drafted.

It is the best thing to have someone’s love. Though Bucky cannot feel his body much, your hands are on him, smoothing back his hair, wiping away the sweat, and it is nice.

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know, Bucky, I know.”

You don’t say it, yet Bucky hears it loud. You don’t want him to go either. It’s not like he has a choice; his country needs him. If he did, he’d stay with you and Steve in an instant--

“How the hell am I going to tell Steve?!” He bolts up, eyes wide, and he searches your face for the answers he knows you don’t have.

“We’ll find a way,” you soothe, and you guide him back down to the bed. “Let’s get some sleep and think about that tomorrow.”

You lie on your side, facing him, the line of your waist as graceful as the curve of your smile. You reach out and trace the shape of his nose, his jaw, his collarbone.  It makes him shiver; you hurry to grab the blankets, but he isn’t cold.

“I didn’t know it then, but you were memorizing me, weren't you?”  

The first time Bucky notices you drawing a person, it surprises him.

The three of you are sitting on the fire escape as usual, breathing in the afternoon Brooklyn air. You and Bucky are reading a book together, his inner thighs pressed against your outer ones, and his arms are around your waist as you lean against him and read aloud. Steve is across from you, sketching who knows what, his eyebrows drawn into the line only art could cause. It’s perfect.

Then Steve wordlessly passes you the sketchbook, and you untangle yourself from Bucky and take Steve’s place.  He pushes the book into Bucky’s hands and insists, “Keep going.”

Bucky wants to question it, he really does, but the sound of your pencil scratching against the paper and the feeling of his best friend’s chin on his shoulder convince him that, maybe, he does not need to know. Not now, anyway. So he reads; he reads until Steve is shivering from the quickly disappearing sun and must go to bed, but you have not moved save for the satisfied, toothy smile you wear as you admire the sketchbook.

He shuts the novel. “Whatcha got there?”

“Nothin’.”

“Y/N…”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.“ You set the sketchbook aside and resume your cuddles. You take one of his hands and kiss it. Bucky presses his lips to your temple, and his breaths tickle your ear when he speaks.

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Stevie knows.”

You stay quiet, and Bucky knows you well enough to wait for you to elaborate.  

“I asked him to help me with something. It’ll all be revealed tomorrow. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, lovebug.” You reach up and card your fingers through his hair, and he hums in appreciation. It’s peaceful like this, the stars watching over Bucky, you, and the rest of the city.  “I love you, Bucky.”

“I love you too.” He squeezes you once and you snuggle deeper into his embrace, linking your fingers with his other hand. “We’re going to sleep here? Okay. Are you warm enough?”

“Mhm, you’re warm,” you say, and promptly fall asleep.

Looking down at you, your soft snores rumbling against his body, Bucky’s sure he’s the luckiest man alive. You’re fast asleep by the time he closes his eyes.

Tomorrow comes, and you are not beside Bucky when he wakes up.  Neither you nor the sketchbook are anywhere in the apartment, and Bucky’s seriously wondering if you fell off the fire escape until you walk through the door, completely nonchalant. He wraps you a tight hug, making sure not to squish the sketchbook, which he supposes to be the reason for your disappearance. 

“If telling me you’re a magician is the secret, I don’t think I like it very much,” he mumbles, and you laugh.

“It’s not. I can show you my card tricks to prove it,” you say, releasing Bucky and knocking on Steve’s bedroom door. “Here’s the secret.”

You settle into breakfast with the boys, and pass out three sheets of paper. They all have the same drawing:  you and Bucky, reading, with Steve leaning on Bucky’s shoulder and looking at the book. It’s Steve’s drawing and your shading.

“It turned out great, Y/N.”  Steve bounces giddily.

“Yeah it did! Thanks again for the help, Stevie.” He pats your forearm. “The library’s photocopier works magic,” you wink at Bucky, but he’s too engrossed and he misses it.

What he thought was entirely Steve’s work has yours; the most noticeable parts being your definition of Bucky’s nose, jaw, and collarbone.The sketch is black and white, but all Bucky can see is colour.  He can see Steve’s hair shining, the last rays of light hitting it and turning it golden; the beauty of your hair behind your ear; the blue in his own eyes as he listens, his whole face relaxed.  

Below it are the words:  My home, and my family.

“I love it. I really do, this is amazing.” 

Steve signs his name on all three, and passes the pen along so you and Bucky can do the same. Bucky decides this is the picture he will bring with him.

“I brought it overseas, and you’d know better than me where it ended up. Steve’s a hoarder, by the way.” He glances at the blond, who is admiring the trees a few hundred yards away. “He kept his sketchbook and I framed the new photocopy. It’s on my desk.”

The morning he leaves, you are not crying.  He can see it brewing under the surface, in your shuddering breaths when you think he can’t see, and he’s aware you will cry with Steve later. Right now, he is thankful.  Otherwise he’s not sure he could walk out the door or remotely hold it together here. You are strong for him and that is nearly everything he asks of you.

“James Buchanan Barnes. If you think I won’t be here the moment you come back, I’ll smack you.”

He kisses you, hard. He tries to give you all the words he has said before, the ones he cannot say, and the ones he is about to say.

“I love you so, so much,” he whispers.

“I love you so much, Bucky. Be safe, please.”

“Don’t you dare forget about me.”

“I could never. I’ll be waiting for my lovebug to come home.” You seal your promise with a tight hug and one last kiss. 

Tuberculosis, they told him, got you a year after he left. He supposes it is good, great even, that you never heard the stories of what he would become.

The next thoughts frighten: what if you saw it from heaven? Angels are omniscient, right? Will he have a chance at the afterlife with an angel?

Bucky wants more than seven minutes in heaven with you. He wants it more than anything.

The tears are forming hot and fast now, and he blinks, letting a couple slide down his cheeks, pause on his jaw and continue down his throat before he wipes them away. He swallows hard and collects himself.  You were strong for him, he can be strong for you.

The breeze passes through again, this time warmer.  It swirls around Bucky, running its fingers through the tendrils of his hair, slipping underneath his arms and caressing his cheek.  The air flies straight through his ribs to hug his heart just like you did when you curled up next to him.

It is then that he knows: whenever the serum wears off, in two weeks, in five years, in a hundred—when it does, you will be waiting for your more-than-seven-minutes together in heaven.

Bucky presses a lingering kiss to your name and then traces the epitaph.

“Goodbye, my lovebug.” 

Bucky stands, letting his fingers trail along the headstone curve, and reunites with Steve by a grip on his shoulder. They stay like that for a long time. The sun sets.

A home doesn’t need to be a house, and family doesn’t need to be related. I’ll never forget home.

{epitaph credit to this pin} 

A/N: thank you for reading❤️ 

TAGS (open!):  @wndas-romanoff  @whyisbuckyso @buckys-fossil  @bootypoppinbarnes @fxckmebuck @langinator @seeyainanothalifebrotha @secondstartotheright-imagines @canumoveyourseatup-no @the-renaissance @miraisnotavailable @winchesterandpie @supernatural-girl97 @aekr

[mercedesbarnes]

Some Enchanted Morning

Summary: You find love at first sight with Steve.  

Pairing: Steve x Reader

Word Count:  2,308

Warnings: none

A/N: this is for @bladebarnes‘ 2k Writing Challenge! My theme was ‘love at first sight’ and I ended up exploring a spin on it...hope you enjoy :) 

Friday, 7:15 pm

Everyone prays.  Everyone has their reasons, too: wanting to be closer to a religious figure, for protection, hope, or the last slice of pizza. Whether they know it or not, they pray.

Including you, devoutly, for the L train to hurry its metal butt up.  

All you wanted was to get home to Brooklyn, and as that wouldn’t happen without having faith in the being that controlled the rails, you urged the oil gods to make the rails smooth and quick and whatever else the metal butt needed to move fast.  You had to take the L train, but if you could help it, you didn’t want to take the L.  Here’s to hoping your prayers convinced it to come on time. 

Your week had gone terribly. Today worst of all. A stockbroker on Wall Street, you had a high-stress job to begin with, and then add in the impatient dealers and buyers wanting to get their trades in before the long weekend and it became almost unbearable.  You’d never been so happy to yell TGIF to your coworkers the second the clock struck seven and you could leave.  

“Finally,” you mumbled as the L train glided into the station, two minutes behind schedule, better than usual. Few people joined you on the train so it was easy to fall into the seat of your choice. You debated resting your overworked head against the grimy window but decided against it. Of course, to add on to the week, you had forgotten your headphones, so daydreaming would have to pass the forty-five minute commute.

You couldn’t deny New York was a pretty fantastic city, its transit system notwithstanding; the view while crossing the bridge into Brooklyn was stellar. However, the further the train got away from the city of bright lights and no sleep the more you could feel yourself relaxing, a smile even appearing for the first time in hours.  That smile stayed on while you stepped over the threshold of your apartment, inhaling the scent of home that you missed so terribly.  You felt better, but not quite good enough, so you texted your boyfriend seeing if he wanted to come over for a late dinner.

Spaghetti was boiling on the stove when Steve let himself in, whistling.  Your face lit up when you noticed him toe off his shoes and approach you for a much-needed hug.

Another prayer of yours: that he never runs out of hugs. Somehow they make everything better.

“Hi honey.” Steve pulled you into his side while you stirred the pasta and he pecked your forehead. “How was your day?”

You groaned in answer.

“That bad, huh?”

“So bad...I’ve never been happier to be home. Rumlow was breathing over my shoulder all day about the new account I picked up, and he only stopped after I threatened to staple his tie to the desk.  God,” you exhaled, going over to the sink to drain the pasta, “please give me the strength to do it one day.”

Steve’s chuckle echoed as he moved to the next room to set the table. “I don’t know why he’s the favourite in your office, he sounds like a jerk.”

“He is. Please ask my boss that at the next holiday party, if you do I’ll do anything you want.”

Steve poked his head through the kitchen doorway to look at you with a goofy expression. “Anything?”

“Mind out of the gutter, Rogers!”

“You said it, not me,” he winked, his playful grin disappearing.  Once they were cool, you scooped up the noodles and poured tomato sauce over them. You handed Steve a plate when you sat down at the table, him picking up his fork and twirling the spaghetti immediately.  Looking up, he laughed when you tossed your napkin at him.

“I meant going to see the exhibit at the Smithsonian you’ve been talking about!”

“Are you sure?”

You tried to look away to stop a laugh from bubbling up except he was so cute you couldn’t help but tug at his arm for a kiss. It was one way of not having to fully answer what he asked, plus he missed your lips before. Steve had been here fifteen minutes and you already felt a thousand times better, an effect you always appreciated about his presence. You hoped you did the same for him in his times of hardship.

“Yes. How are you?”

“I’m good! I had a lunch meeting today at the best coffee shop, I have to take you, you’d love it.  The guy I met was from Redwing Designs and he was very interested in working with us…”

He launched into the details of his firm’s upcoming building deal and you listened intently.  Architecture was a fascinating topic when Steve talked about it; his whole face lit up and his eyes sparkled when you asked follow-up questions about a particular topic.

You talked happily through dinner and the clean-up, before settling in to watch the show you’d started together. You snuggled up to his side and watched him flick through the Netflix guide. Season 4 had promised to be even more dramatic than the previous ones and you both were excited to see it play out.

“Oh, Y/N, about the Smithsonian: I do have a couple free passes...wanna go?”

“Now?” you asked, taking hold of Steve’s arm and squeezing it.  “It's closed, hon.”

“Not now,” he confirmed, resting his hand on your hip to bring you more into him. “It’s up to you, but tomorrow works.”

“It does for me too, let's go!”

“But we should be there early.”

“Okay.”

“So you’ll get up?”

“Definitely. I bought a loud alarm clock.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“...what time does it open?”

Being cute must be a gift for him, for he was even when bashful. “Six thirty.”

You blinked.

“I know, I know, but it gets busy,” Steve said, pressing a quick kiss to your lips to prevent you from reaching for your phone and checking the opening times to see if he was serious. “It’s a really popular exhibit.”

“Not a problem, Stevie, we’ll go before the crowds.” Your hand rested on his chest to trace random patterns, knowing how much it would mean to him if he was the first one in line. The exhibit was right up his alley.

“It’s a date.”

His fingers ran through the strands of your hair and he started the show. You watched many episodes, possibly too many, since both of you began drifting off in the middle of particularly drama-filled scenes. You’d have to rewind, but Steve was so comfortable and he’d have to move to get the remote. Not an option if you could help it.

“Y/N, hon. It’s late, I should get home,” Steve murmured, shaking you oh so gently. You stopped his sleepy limbs from leaving and looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Stay the night, please?”

He nodded, a smile stretching from ear to ear, one so bright it beat the television. “Okay.  Let’s go to bed, we might get sore necks here.”

“Sounds good,” you yawned while standing and pulling Steve to his feet. He enveloped you in a great big bear hug and you stayed like that a minute, using each other as a headrest until you felt yourselves about to fall asleep standing up.

”Let’s not fall over...that might make us more sore.”

You made a noise of agreement and let go.

Steve had clothes and a toothbrush at your place so your night routines were quick and simple.  While brushing your teeth you poked your head into your bedroom, where he was settling under the sheets. You observed while he fluffed with the pillows, making a face as he fiddled; after a few moments he switched the one on his side for the one on yours.  

You knew your bed. He had just made sure you got the fluffier pillow.

If it was possible to melt like an ice cube, you would have been a puddle on the floor. How did you get so lucky to be dating him? He even let your wear his sweater to sleep, even though he might not get it back right away. 

Since you weren’t made of ice, you melted into his embrace instead, nuzzling your face into his shirt and grasping at his back to get him closer.  

“Thank you for dinner,” he said in a whisper close to your ear.

“Thanks for coming. You always make everything better.”

“Anytime, Y/N, I’m always here for you.”

“And me, you.”

After you adjusted the blankets so he wouldn't get cold you both said your goodnights and immediately fell asleep, curled into each other.  

Saturday, 5:36 am

There should be other methods for waking up. Alarm clocks were rude and persistent, two qualities that your least favourite colleague possessed and that you couldn’t stand as a duo.  Therefore, alarm clocks were almost as bad as Brock Rumlow. They only won because you could press a button to make them be quiet, a luxury you were not afforded when dealing with the human counterpart.

You felt around the bed for Steve, the result being warm sheets and no body. Frowning at the air temperature when you sat up and put your feet on the floor, you pulled the hood of Steve’s sweater over your head and opened your bedroom door, eyes still closed.  A promise was a promise. Meaning you needed to get ready for the museum and by extension it meant getting up.

There was a benefit to sleeping at your apartment: you’d mastered the art of walking from your bed to the coffeemaker without having to see.  Your mental map allowed you to do this without bumping into furniture, so you didn’t slow until you heard the music that grew louder as you approached the kitchen, music that you were pretty sure was 2000s-era Shakira. Yes, it was ‘Hips Don’t Lie’.

Opening your eyes, you were greeted to your very first sight of the morning, of Steve meandering around your kitchen, a whisk in one hand and a bowl in the other while he stirred pancake mix and mouthed the words of the song. His hair was sticking up in all directions and he was in a t-shirt and boxers and he was dancing.

All you could think was:

I love him so much.

You leaned against the doorway, hands in sweater pockets and amused eyes on your boyfriend.  At the chorus he turned to the pan and poured the mix, the whole time swinging his hips; it was a movement that did everything to accentuate his booty-fullness, if that was even a word. If not then Steve was the new definition. A sweater paw had to cover your mouth when he threw his head back to hit a perfect high note after he flipped the pancake.

The longer you were the audience to this one-man performance the bigger your smile became, and the bigger the realization of how in love with him you were, until you couldn't help but pad over and slide your arms around his waist.  

“Who the--? Y/N?”

“Morning, Steve.”

“H-how long have you been up?”

Somewhat reluctantly he put the spatula down and turned so he was leaning against the counter. You stepped between his legs so he wouldn't wiggle away and ran your hands down his sides.  

“Long enough to see you moving your hips like Shakira.”

His face reddened and oh my, did you love him. “I thought you were asleep. You weren't supposed to see, I was making breakfast...” A finger pointed between a vague direction of your bedroom and a pile of fresh pancakes, yet now his mouth didn't seem to want to work. It was opening and closing without any sound coming out.

“Hey,” you said softly. To get his magnificent blue eyes to meet yours you ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. You loved him deeper than the cracks in your ceiling, more than morning coffee, and you thought you would burst if you kept those feelings inside. No matter that you hadn't said the words to each other yet. Right now you were so full of love for Steve Rogers that you almost didn't care if he didn't say it back.  “I love you.” 

His mouth did the thing again and with a sheepish half-smile, “Even after that show?”

You nodded, grinning. “Hips don’t lie, and yours told a story I’d like to be part of.”

“Your chapter is the best one,” he whispered, a full smile decorating his face as he brought you chest to chest. “I love you too, Y/N.”   

Both of you said it a couple more times, trying out the words that tasted so sweet on the tongue. You felt so giddy you could fly to the Smithsonian, and it was all because of the man in front of you, who you loved and who loved you.

Steve reached over and turned off the stove so the last pancakes wouldn't burn, and then said he loved you. You added them to the heaping plate, said you loved him.

Personally, you thought the pancakes wouldn't need syrup--the three words would be sweet enough.

Shakira looped again, and you burst into giggles; the song must've been playing for quite a while before you got up.  Steve quickly joined in when you asked him if this was true.

“Yeah. I’m a dork.”

“You're my dork, and I’m yours.”

“Awww.”

He pushed off the counter and took your hands to start dancing again, in which you eagerly took part. The performance definitely wasn’t as good as Shakira herself, but hey, it was early and fun. All good.

So maybe love at first sight does exist. But it doesn't have to be the moment you meet a blind date, or meet someone you’ll see at work. It doesn't even have to be the moment you lock eyes with a stranger across the room.

For you, it was at 5:45 on a sleepy Saturday morning where the very first picture of your day was Steve dancing and singing around in your kitchen. He was love at first sight. And that was much, much better.

Tags (open!): @wndas-romanoff , @canumoveyourseatup-no , @fxckmebuck , @langinator , @seeyainanothalifebrotha , @secondstartotheright-imagines , @the-renaissance , @miraisnotavailable , @winchesterandpie , @whyisbuckyso , @supernatural-girl97 , @bootypoppinbarnes , @sanjariti , @aekr , @rotisserierogers , @stevnsbucks , @engineeringgirlcve 

[mercedesbarnes]

The Five Things You Know, and the One You Don’t

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2567

A/N:  back for round twoooo…..I feel like we all need some Bucky fluff right now

“Dammit!”

You lost your second out of four lives in this Nerf war, thanks to someone—someone most likely named Steve.  He’s a sneaky one. It’s pouring outside and nobody was in the mood to do anything productive, naturally the first suggestion had been a Nerf war.

“Y/N, you will be avenged!”

Pietro vaults over the couch, very action movie-esque, which would have been impressive if he hadn’t been shot right after.

“Oh. Sorry, I’m out,” he sighs.  

“It’s okay, I appreciate the backup,” you say, sending your teammate a smile. By your count, it was only Bucky and you left on your team, versus Steve, Sam and Wanda on the other.  You weren’t sure how many lives each of them had, but you all promised to be honest.

“Y/N,” Bucky hisses. He waves his Nerf gun in a complicated circle.

“What?”

“Shh!”

If there was a way to see your face, it would read ‘???’.  A floorboard creaks behind you, and Bucky grabs your wrist and covers you until you’re safely behind the bar. A spark runs down your forearm but you attribute it to your socks shuffling on the carpet. 

He turns to you. “Didn’t I tell you the code?”

“No, it looked like random flailing—“ You raise your gun over the bar and shoot Wanda.  

She slouches. “How’d you know?”

You point behind Bucky. “The floating red stuff around the bullet about to hit him gave you away. How many more lives?”

“None.” She lowers her voice. “Sam’s got one more, but Steve’s got all four. Hurry, this game’s gone on long enough.”

Bucky mumbles ‘Steve’ under his breath and rises to go hunt for his best friend. It’s a good match, Bucky has all his lives too. Sam is yours. You tiptoe around the floor searching for any place that might house Sam.

“Oh, Bird Man,” you coo, knowing the nickname riles him up, “come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Just as you suspected: a poof from a gun misses your elbow. Bending down to pick up the foam bullet, you smile. Based on the trajectory, Sam was hiding behind the bookshelf.  Quietly, you sneak up on him and bombard him with foam before he can retaliate. Good ol’ physics, who knew it actually comes in handy?

You feel the spark again the next morning while getting your coffee, but this time you’re nowhere near a carpet.

“There’s my partner in crime!” Bucky announces when he sees you, “Have I told you about her?”

“Multiple times,” Sam says, clearly miffed, he’s swirling his tea bag more than usual.

“I’ll tell you again.  She kicked ass.”

“Is this coffee bitter, Sam?” You took a sip. “No. It must be you.”

Bucky throws an arm around your shoulders. His touch burns where your tank top can’t cover, and you have to concentrate on breathing properly. It’s like you had just come back from a run, your breath is completely knocked out of your lungs. Bucky’s holding onto you so his legs don’t give out from under him from the speechless look on Sam’s face; he’s laughing and declaring that you made his day.

First; he touches you and you light on fire. Your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin.  The burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs.  It’s so hard to breathe. You’re suffocating daily.

“What’s up with you?” Nat asks, “I was talking to you and you zoned out.”

“She’s drooling over Barnes,” Wanda replies, nudging you lightheartedly. You confessed to your crush on Bucky at the weekly girls lunch. Wanda wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, Bucky is over there, and yes, I happen to be staring in that direction, but I wouldn’t call it drooling.”

“You’re so smitten! Y/N, I can see it even without my powers.”

“He doesn’t know, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

Bucky’s on the patio, settling in a chair to play cards with Steve and Pietro.  You were staring at him, more specifically at his chest, since he had just emerged from the pool. Each droplet of water was having the time of its life trying to find its way through the maze of muscle definition, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away.  You’re starting to get hot and bothered imagining your fingers as the droplets.  

“Hey,” Nat murmurs.  

She jerks her chin at the guys. Bucky is waving at you to come over and greets you warmly when the three of you pull up seats at the table and Pietro deals you into a game of blackjack. You’re sitting two seats away from Bucky; here he’s barely a head tilt from being in your immediate vision, and you have a full view of the six—no, eight pack. Yikes.

You don’t want to get caught staring, but you can’t not stare.  Cruelly, the universe dips the sun lower in the sky, and its rays spill on Bucky like a goddamn spotlight.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you swear under your breath.

“Bad cards, Y/N?” Nat asks, and you jump on her excuse, nodding. You notice her subtly pointing down to her abdomen, then up at her face.  It’s a silent way of saying, ‘his eyes are up there.’

Bucky stretches to grab his towel, and you can feel yourself blushing when his muscles twist and contract. At the same time, Pietro makes a joke and Bucky’s smiling in that cute way where his nose scrunches. It’s too much too much–

You put on your sunglasses.

Second; it hurts to watch him. He shines. He’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes.  It’s hard to look at him.  It’s even harder to look away from him.  You’re going blind.

Two days later, you’re sitting on a bar stool tugging at the hem of your dress.  Nat swears it makes your legs look a mile long when you walk, but you’re tired of standing and are in dire need of a drink. Preferably something strong.  

“Tony, is your floor strong enough to handle this many people? I’m genuinely concerned,” you ask when Tony whizzes by, his arm around Happy Hogan, who is looking a little too happy.  You have to duck when he tries to hug you, claiming you’re too pretty to be sitting on the sidelines.

“Yeah, I designed it, it’ll even withstand Banner if someone pokes him. Stark guarantee.”

“Come dance with me!”

“I’m okay here, Hogan, but next party, alright?”

Tony chuckles and guides his tipsy friend over to a couch. Once he’s sure Hogan has a water bottle to sober up with, Tony hops on stage. “Introducing our entertainment for this evening!”

“Here’s your vodka cranberry.” The bartender hands you a glass as a gorgeous woman walks up to the microphone.

You thank him and take a few sips listening to the woman singing a slow ballad. You scan the crowd, looking to see if Hogan likes the music, but then you see him. It’s common knowledge that if you are looking at someone you can hear their voice better, though with you it’s like your ears are always plugged in to the Bucky Barnes Radio Show.

“Stevie, when do these things end?”

“Late, Buck. Around two.”

“In the morning?!”

You want to unplug the microphone so you can hear Bucky better, his baritone voice is heaven to your ears.  As the singer hits an impossibly high note, you wonder why people are clapping, impressed. Why is anyone listening to this, this noise when he’s speaking?

Struck with a sudden idea, you down the last of your drink and weave your way around the mesmerized guests. You squeeze past two middle-aged men—who, if you’re not mistaken, invented Google; they’re probably smart as hell, but they seem to like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, so you can’t give them too much credit—and find yourself behind the two supersoldiers. You poke the brunet’s bicep.

His bored face lights up at the sight of you.

“Y/N!”

“Hey, Bucky? Want to go play Monopoly?”

His reply was instantaneous. “Yes, absolutely. I’d love to play Monopoly with you. Bye Steve.”

“Bucky no—“

Bucky takes your hand and you’re around the corner before Steve can finish.  

“You’re the best, Y/N,” he says, and the butterflies in your stomach flap their wings to the rhythm of his words. “I was dying in there.”

“I know the feeling.”

An hour later, you’re losing. Badly. Despite being from the 40s, Bucky is annoyingly good at real estate.  You count forward three spots and land on Boardwalk, one of his properties. Slowly, hoping he’s not paying attention, you move your piece four spots, bypassing the danger of triple hotels.

“No, no, that’s four, not three!”

“Did I roll a three?”

“You did.”

You cover the die nonchalantly.  “No, I didn’t.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and suddenly it’s a war, he’s trying to pull your hand up, and you’re trying to keep it down.  To nobody’s surprise, he wins, and the number three is revealed.

“Mwahaha,” he grabs at the last of your pitiful money pile, throwing the coloured bills up in the air. “You’re bankrupt!”

The floor-to-ceiling windows around you show the stars, twinkling magnificently bright in the clear night sky. But Bucky’s singing We Are The Champions and he’s messing up the lyrics and he’s completely off-key and you’re positive it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Third; your ears are tuned to his voice. You could pick him out in a sea of thousands. His voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. His voice makes everything else ugly.

Bucky’s eyes should be a crayon colour, you decide.  

He has a habit. Whenever anyone says something ridiculous, Bucky looks to you like you’re the camera in The Office. And when they say a ridiculous paragraph, he widens his eyes in disbelief, pursing his lips to avoid cracking a smile. This happens a lot when Steve’s feeling particularly adventurous. It’s in these moments where time seems to slow, and you wish it would stop completely so you can study his eyes longer. Bucky has a myriad of blue that swirls to create a whirlpool of taunting winks and irritated smirks.  The wrinkled smile lines and long, dark eyelashes accentuate it perfectly.

After all, if you email Crayola, you better have a description.

Your favourite shade is when he scrunches them up from laughing.  They’re so blue they literally glow, as if they repel light instead of absorbing it.  You’re rooted to your spot when this happens.  Like you’re on a ship, and those eyes, blue like an ocean sea, are begging you to set sail with them, to cast your doubts away and leave the mainland behind.  

You’re writing this fantasy into your journal when you realize how deep you are: you’re not on the ship anymore.  

Fourth; the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in.  He is turning you into a cliched love-wrecked being. You’re drowning, always sinking. Down, down, down.

Screaming wakes you from sleep.  Throwing off your covers, you don’t have to follow the heartbreaking sounds to know they are coming from Bucky’s room.  When you knock, you find that the door opens at your touch.

“Bucky?”

Bucky is thrashing in his bed, the covers pushed down at his feet, the sheets underneath him dark.  Your eyes rake over his anguished face; he’s sweating, and fighting some sort of invisible monster. Recently you’ve been helping him with his nightmares and you can tell, it’s a bad one tonight.  

You climb onto the mattress and nudge him gently. “Bucky, wake up.”  Nothing happens, so you shake him harder then duck as his metal fist flies at your head. It hits the wall with a sickening crunch, and this is what wakes Bucky up.  He sits up, gasping.

“Y/N? Oh my god.” He reaches out like he wants to lift you up from your flattened position, but before he does, he sees the dent in the wall and recoils.  The anguish turns to horror, and you can’t tell which one is worse.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

You take his hands from behind his back and intertwine your fingers. You push his chin up so he meets your eyes.

“I’m okay, don’t worry.”

“I nearly hurt you.”

“The key word here is nearly,” you soothe, “Let’s get you into new clothes.”

You slip over to his wardrobe and open his drawers to find another shirt.  When you turn around, Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands.

He’s in pain, and you feel it too.  You are also angry, angry at the world, because they victimized him; angry at Hydra, because they caused Bucky to feel this way. You want to track down each and every person who hurt him and rip them apart in increasingly creative ways, but you settle for collecting Bucky in your arms and wiping away his tears.  

During your nights with him he’s confided in you the process of getting over his guilt and the fears that still haunt him.  It didn’t happen right away, oh no, it took time to show him you would stay no matter what.  Knowing Bucky, truly, bad and good, past and present, it could never push you away. Nothing could. You’re here for the long haul.

You’re lying on your back when he calms enough to fall asleep.  Bucky’s torso is on top of yours, hugging you, and his face is angled so you can feel his breaths on your skin; you’re satisfied when you confirm they’re even. Playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, you glare at the ceiling like it’s going to come attack Bucky too.

“No more. Don’t try anything.  Or else you have me to deal with,” you growl to the world.

You’ll fiercely protect this man with everything you have, with every word, every muscle, every breath. Adjusting your hold on his back, you match your exhales to Bucky’s and drift off, mentally making a note to take him to the zoo soon.  He loves feeding the penguins.

Fifth; you know him. You love him. Through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him. You’d never leave. You love him. Till death do you part.

Bucky wakes to a rhythmic beating sound.  

Opening his eyes, he sees he’s lying on you, over your heart, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards. Bucky recalls last night. Not the nightmare, no, because you chased it away—he remembers you.  You being here for him, you saying the words of affirmation he so badly needed to hear to calm down, they further solidified the place he had carved for you to be forever in his life. He was so nervous and scared that you’d leave once you saw what he was capable of, but you stayed, and here you are.

On an impulse, he kisses your temple and you smile in your sleep. You’re so beautiful, he thinks.

Bucky watches your eyes move under their lids, and he wonders of what you’re dreaming. Hopefully it’s something good. You deserve it; you deserve the world, in his mind.

The sun is not yet up, so he relaxes again. He’s so comfortable and you’re so lovely, Bucky never wants to move. Your heart, with every beat, pumps into him more peace, and more clarity.

Bucky’s sure of one thing. It’s the one thing you don’t know.

Sixth; he loves you, too.

{insp}

still new, still small, still really love you all

@fxckmebuck @buckyywiththegoodhair @avengerofyourheart @bovaria@wndas-romanoff@thejamesoldier @caplanbuckybarnes @papi-chulo-bucky @buckybarnesismypreciousplum@redgillan  @seeyainanotherlifebrotha @langinator @secondstartotheright-imagines

[mercedesbarnes]

future writings :)

I was tagged by the spectacular @sanjariti 💕 thanks carolina! 

List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you like then tag some friends to see what they’re working on: writing, art, gif sets, whatever.

Lovebug 

Pairing: largely 40s!Bucky x Reader 

Sneak Peek: “You’re somethin’ else, Bucky Barnes, really.” 

Room Four

Pairing:  Bucky x Reader

Sneak Peek: Missions weren’t vacations, you knew that–nevertheless, that knowledge didn’t stop you from checking tripadvisor.com every time you received an assignment. The handful of reviews for this particular motel had been positive; as always there was an internet troll or bad-tempered guest, but overall good. Now that you were here, though, you found commenters forgot one crucial piece of information.  

Untitled Piece for Manu’s Writing Challenge

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Prompt:  “I wasn’t paying attention and I ran into you but I looked up as I did and accidentally kissed your cheek, I’m so sorry”

An Apple A Day (for Blade’s Writing Challenge)

Pairing: Steve x Reader

Prompt: Love at first sight.

I’m tagging @modestlyconfused @winterssmiles @bootypoppinbarnes @whyisbuckyso  @canumoveyourseatup-no  and anyone else who wants to share! (PS. tag me if you do!)