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supersoldiersruined-me · 5 years

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Caelus

A/N: This is my entry (super late yet again) for @ruckystarnes Summer of AUs challenge! And for a lack of inspiration, the titlte is space in latin! loll I had an inital idea when I signed up but this honestly took me so long to grasp and then it just poured out! So here it is, thank you for being so patient love! 💖 Beta: babyboo @eyesfixedonthesun22 Warnings: language, smut, gay sex, mention of blood Word count: 5714 Prompt: Space AU, Stucky

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“Steve, you jackass! Come back!” There’s no point in yelling twice. Bucky knows. But his best friend is storming towards the recruiting line-up with a mighty will. When they had denied him to join the army, Steve jumped on every last occasion to prove himself.

Not two weeks ago, Stark Industries announced a new advanced project that would allow a select group of candidates to participate in a space camp tryout. They’d be secluded into experimental ships, given some basic training and then experts would monitor their behavior, their reactions to simulated situations. If they made it out alive - and sane - a month later, they’d be taken to Stark’s secret facility and given proper training and instructions. Every boy in New York reached out like little kids given the gift of their lives.

So Bucky is standing there in the busy streets of Brooklyn, arms up in disbelief. The sick boy was going to go against the odds once more. He was a foot shorter than the men around him. Arms frail, and thrown into an asthma attack once he reached the building. Security threatened to keep him out - much to his safety - but Steven Grant Rogers does not back down because of some disability.

“I swear to God,” Bucky mumbles under his breath as he begins to make his way towards the atroupment of testosterone.

“There’s no reason for me to be doing less than these men!” Comes as a shout out of Steve’s mouth. He’s red and Bucky isn’t sure if it’s the rage or yet another one of his problems surfacing.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go home,” he tries to reason with him.

“No Buck! Don’t you get it?” Steve turns back to the guard. “I’ll fucking die anyway! Might as well it be doing something important…” His face winces at the thought; he’d never mentioned his illness as something so weighing, so dark.

“Steve…” He brings his hand to his best pal’s shoulder as he tries to comfort him. “Your value isn’t measured with what you can do for the world. You take care of me and that’s plenty.” Steve sighs and accepts defeat.

“Fine,” he looks into Bucky’s eyes, tears of anger filling his own, “I guess we can go.”

They turn towards the street and start walking home. As he looks over his shoulder at the line of people still hoping to get a shot, he sees a strange man scribbling down a notepad, looking at the two of them leave with a smile. Round glasses frame his face, he hasn’t shaved in a week. From his outfit and his demeanor Bucky knows he’s German. He shrugs it off and turns his attention back to his friend, throwing his arm around his neck.

It’s a week later when a knock at the door startles the boys out of their sleep. It must be around three in the morning, as far as Steve can tell. He turns on the lamp on his nightstand and looks over at Bucky in annoyance.

“Jerks,” he whispers as he recalls the nights of torment the kids from the neighbourhood had him endure - it was the reason Bucky had moved in with him.

“Let me take care of it,” the dark haired man replies.

“Bucky, stop. I can take care of myself.”

“See, the thing is, you don’t have to.” He shakes his shoulder before walking over to the door. There’s a paper taped to it, bright and clear texts surround a pointy, metal ship image. There’s the Stark logo on it, and it makes him shiver in excitement.

“Steve…” He trails. “Get your ass over here.”

He hands him the poster and gives him a minute to read. It begins to tremble in his hands when he reaches the last sentence: “We are glad to announce that you have been selected to participate in an experimental camp supervised by the Stark Industries.”

There’s a place and time for them to be the next day, and they spend the rest of the night getting their luggage ready, along with making up stories and tripping out over the opportunity.

The rustic walls of brick have transformed into sterile steel. The floors are made of a plastic-like material - something easy to clean, Steve notices. It would be impossible to reach the ceiling and he’s wondering how they even managed to build this facility anyway. It’s highly distinct from the level of ingenuity of the current construction standards. The white building stands out absurdly in its secluded forest location.

Robots roam around, tacking and bolting steel plates to one another. Prototypes of deadly weapons are hung on the walls as they walk behind a seductive lady to what they presume is the reception. Their stuff, along with themselves, go through metal detectors - something they had only heard of until now - before making their way to a large office.

“Good evening, boy.” There’s a thick accent to the greeting, one that both can easily distinguish. “I hope we haven’t given you too much trouble.”

“Not at all, um...” Bucky begins, words failing him as he’s still processing the amount of discoveries they are about to do. He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping.

“I’m Dr. Erskine. Responsible of the Biological Enhancement department here at Stark Industries. This here is Lady Carter, she’ll be assisting you on your journey.” The voluptuous woman nods their way and it has them both swallowing hard. She has a confidence they had never witnessed, and it has them nearly humiliating themselves.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve manages to say as he struggles to gain composure. He hopes she doesn’t notice him drying his palms on the back of his pants.

“Likewise,” she says. Her British accent runs a shiver up Bucky’s spine.

“Now, we wouldn’t want to keep you up too late. If you please follow Miss Carter to your assigned pod. We’ll go through the logistics in the morning.” The German man hands them a pair of overalls; nothing flattering, Bucky thinks.

It takes only three weeks for the boys to be fully independent, allowing them to be part of the first team to launch the program. Their uniforms along with their tools and weapons get a significant upgrade. They’re already anticipating the look of their new quarters.

“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” Steve mentions.

“Really? After twenty-something attempts I would highly believe that you’d be given a chance,” Bucky answers with a hint of sarcasm. They both laugh until a voice requests them to be at the main quarter in the next ten minutes.

The spaceship is a hundred feet tall or so, its body is quite narrow and it feels pretty sturdy. They gulp nonetheless, this would be for real and they couldn’t just drop out with a snap of their fingers. The team of eight wait by the cabin door, ably putting on their masks and equipment.

“This is it!” Bucky shouts.

“We’ve been working so hard for this. Maybe a few years after this we’ll be able to finally see what Earth looks like from up there.” Doug, who’d been the fittest one of them until he took Bucky under his wing and made him an even bigger beast, contemplates the unimaginable.

“Remember when just last year they presented the concept of flying cars and it failed. Seems like they were either lying to us or they made phenomenal progress since then…” Bucky remembers his astonishment after the Stark Expo; he was always a fan of progress and technology used for the good of the population. This journey would be an experiment of a life-time.

“Alright everyone settle in.” The German accent demands over the intercom. The small group walks into the ship and find their respective seats. With his wit and quick thinking, Steve was assigned board commander. Bucky was in charge of the combat tactics. It felt like, for once, their lives had meaning and it was an honour to be going through this together.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Steve captures his friend’s hand in his.

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky answers. They feel the ship ‘shake off the ground’, and the team howls in enthusiasm.

Once the orbiting procedures are done, they find their way into their seperate quarters, each sharing rooms in teams of three, except for Bucky and Steve who have the room to just the two of them. They walk to the door as they chit chat. Their smiles fade when the door slides before them and they notice the size of the room.

A large window gives out to a realistic CGI galaxy. The moon roams by slowly and it’s enough to have them holding their breaths, eyes watering at the beauty.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. He turns to see his friend nodding at him, his lower lip bitten as he tries to hold in his emotions. “This wouldn’t have happened without your stubborn little head.”

“You deserve this as much as I do Buck.” They turn around and freeze at the sight of the one king sized bed that sits right in the middle of the room. Around it is a flowy drape they can pull closed - something to keep the sun out as it never sets, they think. At the corner of his eyes, Steve can see Bucky blush. His body shivers, his numerous dreams coming to his mind again.

“Is, um. Is that okay with you?” He asks.

“Yeah. Yeah it’s fine Stevie.” He walks over and sets his bag on a small bench. They begin to set their things in the abundant storage space. Neither of them talk for the next couple of minutes, too shy, perhaps. Too caught in their own fantasies to acknowledge their separate peaks at the one bed as they eyeball the distance that will be left between them.

“I’m exhausted. I’ll hit the showers and be right back.” Bucky is first to say, a foot already out the door.

Steve sheds his clothes, leaving only his briefs on. The sheets are the softest thing he’s ever touched. Everything is plushy and so welcoming. There’s Bucky’s sweatshirt on the left side pillow; he’s tempted to take it and wear it, knowing he’s always cold at night. But he only pulls it close and brings it to his face, feeling the material on his heating cheeks, inhaling the masculinity of his best friend. It’s inevitable he’s growing hard at the thought of being able to smell it directly from his neck. To have his head on his chest.

His free hand reaches under the band of his briefs, tentatively groping himself to try and relieve some tension. He loses himself in it though, and starts moving and twisting his hand faster. He’s staining his underwear but he doesn’t care. He knows Bucky’s hand would feel much better, much more unforgiving. There’s a pinch in his gut at the thought of teaching him all his sweet spots - or worse even, letting him discover them as he becomes a panting mess on this very bed.

“Shit,” he whimpers into the balled up sweater. His hips find a slow rhythm to go along his hand movements. His dick is out of its hiding spot by now; he’s big for his frame and he needs the extra room to pump harder. The door opens but he’s too lost to notice. There’s another muffled moan before he hears someone clear their throat.

“Steve, I-”

“Fuck! I’m sorry.” No no no! he thinks. “Buck I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine Rogers, just... Maybe finish in the bathroom?” He suggests with an uncomfortable smile. He’s scratching his scalp, looking anywhere around the room but the bed. When Steve doesn’t budge, he allows himself to look down. His friend had simply pulled the cover over his head, and he knows Steve is cursing himself for being careless.

“You can keep the hoodie, if you’re cold.” Steve nods no and doesn’t move. “Alright,” he adds before shuffling into his spot. He’s careful to stay along the edge of the bed, enough not to fall off but granting his friend personal space. He closes his eyes and tries to let his mind wander into sleep. It’s no use now that he’s seen his pal touching himself like that. Not that he’d never imagined it - he was much smaller in his mind though. He didn’t sound as heavenly either. Bucky had caught Steve jerking off already, their apartment being quite small for two people, but it was always discreet and he mostly had to spy on him to see anything.

The more he thinks about it, the more each scenario comes out clear. Steve had touched himself whenever they had been close, like when they got back home from the drive-in, or if Bucky walked around shirtless after a rather intense training. Steve had touched himself every time he felt bothered with Bucky’s presence, and fuck if that wasn’t something he’d dreamed about.

He inhales deeply before shifting to face Steve. His hand slowly lifts and comes to rest on his friend’s shoulder, which surprisingly relaxes under his touch rather than tense up.

“Bucky, it’s late. I’m sorry, okay?” It’s a half plead, half demand as the physical effects of his actions still haven’t dissipated. Bucky knows from the speed of his heart when his Stevie is nervous of agitated. Or in this case aroused.

“No. I’m sorry Steve.” Without turning completely, Steve gives him more of his attention. His silence is enough to note his questioning. “I should’ve realised before.”

“Wh-what do you mean, Buck?”

He answers with his body rather than try to explain his thoughts out loud; Bucky could be the clumsiest person when his mind got hazy. His hand moves to Steve’s chest, and in a swift pull he brings him closer. Close enough to kiss along his shoulder, then up his neck, until his nose tickles the base of his scalp.

“Buck,” Steve shivers.

“Let me. Please Stevie,” he says, his breath warm on the poor boy’s frigid body. When he doesn’t feel a protest, he lowers his hand onto his stomach, takes extra time just under his navel before he ventures under the waistband of his briefs. He’s perfectly hard under his touch, it takes a longer stroke than he anticipated before his thumb can reach the soaked tip. Steve hums deep in his throat. Bucky’s hip jerks forward in response. He’s already a mess and he’s only been touching him for a few seconds.

“Yes,” Steve whimpers. It earns him a soft bite to the shoulder; tender action meant to stifle a moan. “Bucky, don’t hold back.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear this,” he answers.

He’s got Steve on his stomach as soon as he’s done answering, a low grunt escapes his lips when he kneels over Steve’s legs, admiring the boy’s slender body. He snakes his hands over his shoulders, over his arms. He feels every inch of his skin as if he’d seen it for the first time. It feels new, strange even, to be able to give his pal what he’d always dreamed of; but it’s the best sentiment he’s ever experienced. From the soft moans he can pull from Steve, Bucky knows he’s enjoying this as well. Once the muscles under his touch have gone slack, he proceeds lower, kissing the trail he makes in the valley of his back. Steve jerks his hips up slightly when Bucky’s thumbs come to rest over his back dimples. He’s longing for what’s next; for the frightening act of intimacy.

“Bucky, you don’t-” He’s cut short in his suggestion by the inevitable. He moans Bucky’s name over and over every time his tongue flattens over his puckered hole. Bucky’s at work like a hungry man who’s just discovered the sweetest fruit. He licks and sucks and pokes intently at the flustered mess of man underneath him; and /he’s/ already done for. He’s rock hard in his own boxers at the way he can get Steve to squirm.

“Ja-james! Ah!” Steve’s got both hands fisting the sheet and his face flat into his pillow. He moves his hips along with the tactful intrusions. There’s a sticky mess already glueing his stomach to the mattress but he doesn’t care. If anything it allows for the lack of friction on his aching dick. “More. Please,” he pants.

He can hear Bucky spit but his rear is already too worn out from the previous actions to feel a thing. There’s a light poke, then a sting as Bucky’s slowly inching two fingers into him.

“So fucking tight, Stevie. God… You’re going to ruin my cock, aren’t ya?” His words send shivers up their bodies.

“All yours Buck,” Steve adds before choking on his words when he feels a third finger joining the others. “Always been yours.” With that said, Steve stretches back as best he can and brings a hand to the brunette’s hair. He plays with the curls, eyes fixed on the icy blues and his stomach tightens when Bucky leans into the touch. He moves his hand to his chin and pulls him up so their eyes are leveled.

“Will you let me take care of you now?” Bucky asks and regrets the way he phrased that.

“I can ta-”

“No, punk.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “It’s not about bullies anymore Stevie. I want you to feel wanted. Desired. It always pissed me off to see how the ladies treated you. They don’t know what they’re missing.” There’s a moment of silence while Steve turns around and sits straighter. His brows furrow but he doesn’t argue.

“Bucky, it’s fine. Those girls didn’t really have anything going for me, anyway.”

“So… Will you?” He’s still not looking at Steve. Afraid that maybe this was all he could allow himself to take. He ruined his chance, he thinks. But then Steve’s thumb comes to his chin and he’s forced to look up. The pretty blond is all smiles; the sweet pink on his cheeks warms Bucky’s heart. Steve dives in and crashes his lips to his friend’s. His boyfriend? Lover? He isn’t sure yet but that doesn’t matter for the night.

“Would that include letting me come before the morning?” There’s a gasp coming from Bucky as the question comes out, but he smiles and nods stupidly at Steve’s confidence. He pounces on him, their lips meeting again in a heated kiss.

“Only if it’s while I’m fucking that prefect little ass,” he taunts.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Steve answers.

The following nights are spent identically. Several years of hidden feelings are finally being rewarded and the boys know exactly how to make up for lost time. Most of their breaks are spent in their room, in the sauna or in the private lounge each team gets to share alternatively. Between trainings and meals, before, during and after showers. It’s an insatiable feeling to be wanted and taken care of, which never came easily to Steve until the very moment Bucky had his face between his hands and seemed to dwell into his eyes. Everything went on so quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, for Bucky soon found himself feeling guilty. Dirty. To be filling his needs with his favourite boy, while he knows he’s building a really fragile castle around them. To be imagining a life of happiness that had no place to be. Amongst the group, none seem to have caught up on their shenanigans. They were safe. Safe in the confines of this ship until the mission was over and they’d have to go back to being best buddies; friends since playground. It’s a thought that has Bucky’s stomach churning. He’d been glued to bed with a pounding headache for two days, and a raging boner he kept denying Steve. This has to stop, he thinks.

The curtains rush open, startling him out of sleep. Through the bright, manipulated daylight he sees Steve’s silhouette standing in front of their window.

“What’s up, Stevie?” His voice barely makes it out of him.

“I could ask you the same,” Steve accuses right away. He can hear Bucky fall back into his pillow and grunt.

“Care to explain…”

“You’re unbelievable.” He paces, his hands on his hips. “What’s so hard for you to accept? I thought you realised that we had been hiding these mutual feelings. I thought you were on my side, Buck. You haven’t touched me, haven’t even looked at me in the eyes for a week…”

The anguish in his voice has Bucky up on his feet in a second - he’s ready to lay down his point of view but Steve retorts faster.

“Look around! We’re in a fucking ship that’s meant to be in space, man.” His finger taps the glass behind him. “Everything around us is astonishing progress.”

“Yeah, simulated,” Bucky says.

“But progress nonetheless. Forget what people think. Gosh I wish this thing could take us to the future. Maybe things would have changed…” Bucky takes a step closer and he’s ready to fold. He wants Steve in his arms. Wants to keep his word and hold him tight. He reaches his arms out but quickly retracts when a sharp object flies over his upper arm.

“What the-”

There’s a rush of wind that sends a dozen more pieces their way. The back wall of their room is fractured, smoke coming in from the adjacent room, followed by a muffled scream. The strident screeching of metal makes it hard to focus. Alarms have gone off and an external team is running around, trying to find everyone.

It suddenly becomes hard to breathe but the medics have surged to rescue the guys who were stuck behind the flames. When Bucky turns around to grab onto Steve, he finds him lying on the ground, hands clenching his stomach and he swears that even through all the back-alley fights he’s never seen Steve’s face so contorted. A piece of steel bigger than his hand pokes out of a gash just under his left rib. Bucky knows not to pull it from him. He’d seen the consequences first hand on the field.

“Don’t move, don’t move.” He’s got a hand on his shoulder and the other beneath his head. There’s a glance around his body before he’s sure he can lift him up. Luckily, Steve’s about half the size of the guys Bucky had to carry in boot camp. He makes sure to keep the wound close to himself, and he heads towards the nearest door, the floor plan of the ship something he knows like the back of his hand.

“I got you Stevie,” Bucky says when he hears him weep.

Bucky’s fidgeting on the chair around the corner of two narrow hallways. His arm still burns from the alcohol-drenched bandage someone put on him while he was passed out. He turns to the one on his right. It’s bright from all the fluorescents and much too lifeless to his liking. The same nurse keeps shuffling through the different doors with a pad in hands. His head is about to explode from all the beeping of the life support machines and the aftermath of inhaling so much smoke. Someone at the end of the hall in front of him keeps coughing and Bucky’s throat is suddenly tingling. He’s a moment away from bolting up from his seat when Peggy walks out of the room.

“Barnes.” She has an apologetic look, but she offers a sweet smile. “He’d like to see you.”

There’s a blink before he can react, before blood goes back into his legs and he can head towards her. She reaches for his arm and guides him over, stopping just before the curtain around the bed.

“Now,” she begins. “We’ve had to um… They did someth-”

“He’s fine?” He practically screams.

“Yes. Yes James he is fine.” She takes a step back and stretches her arm to direct him forward. He takes a deep breath, flattens his shirt over himself as a habit and nervously pulls onto the edge of the curtain.

His heart skips a beat when he lays eyes on him. He recognizes the flowy blond hair; he wants to run his hand through it. But he’s taken aback when he gets closer. The under shirt they put on him is about to burst from the width of his shoulders. His jaw, man, his jaw is square and strong, just like the rest of him. He scans him up. Once. Twice. He thinks it’s the illusion of Steve being laid down, but he knows he’s gotten taller. Before he can wonder further a hand comes to his shoulder.

“Stark. What happened?” He asks, not taking his eyes off his friend.

“The infection spread like wildfire. His frail disposition made it impossible for him to surpass this. He needed a little...boost...if I can say so.”

“Well, a boost he got!” Bucky answers a tad enthusiastically. He sees Peggy smirk and his cheeks heat up. “Sorry,” he mouths.

“Yes. Well. We had this experimental serum going around for a while. A project run by Dr. Erskine. It was meant to help soldiers heal faster. Make their ability to bulk up easier. Let’s say we might have dosed up a little on him.”

“Is it permanent?”

“So far.” Peggy joins in.

“Did it... hurt?” There’s a new concern in Bucky’s voice. The same gut wrenching feeling he had whenever he found Steve beat up to the ground. He closes his eyes to keep the imminent tears from spilling out.

“Did it like a champ,” comes Steve’s voice next.

“Steve, listen,” Bucky begins as they walk into their apartment, bags of groceries in arms - the first one since they’ve been back from the mission. He’s walking behind him, still astounded by the two inches Steve has won. Their elbows bump as they walk around in the kitchen - they’ve yet to adjust to the two of them taking a lot of space; the conversation of them moving out into a new place was impending.

“Bucky, stop. I know you didn’t want to hurt me.” He means it, but Steve continues to set the things away without looking at him.

“I got caught off guard, Stevie. The lady asked the question but the tone in her voice made me uncomfortable. I should have s-”

“Yes. You should have said we were together. But it’s fine,” he adds. Bucky steps up and grabs one of the blonde’s hands. He brings it to his chest, over his heart, and his eyes begin to water when they get lost in his. There’s a synched deep breath before Bucky composes himself.

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s shoulders loosen at the small admission - he watches as Bucky kisses his fingers one by one before leaning into him. His lips come to his neck and Steve can’t help but shiver. The serum surely had enhanced everything.

“Why is it still so hard for you to acknowledge this,” Steve says as he rubs Bucky’s back. “Every time you say ‘friend’ my stomach flinches.”

“Strict family. It’s been coded into me when I was young. Every time I would hang out with you I’d get deathly stares at the dinner table.” Steve hugs him tighter. Bucky had never mentioned this before. Never said a word about being roughed around as a kid. He feels guilty. A feeling of remorse stikes through him as he recalls the numerous times he asked Bucky to pose for his sketches. Or when he needed a hand climbing somewhere and Bucky would hold onto him /just that way/. He didn’t know that his father was overlooking their every move from his office window. Didn’t know that his own mother was being lectured about their behavior.

“Plus, I still look at you and kind of freak out that I don’t have my little Stevie anymore. But you know… I’m really looking forward to what /this/ Steve can do.” He takes a step back to better look at him. His hands are on his hard chest, making their way onto his shoulders and he can feel Steve relax under his touch. One hand moves up to his nape before settling onto the side of his face; the other has made its way south, tracing every muscle on the way down.

“How about you knock some sense into me?” Bucky taunts, eyes dark and glimmery. It takes Steve out of his thought - pulls him out quite harshly in fact - but he lets the brunette palm him through the thick fabric of his chinos.

“But, Buck. We always-”

“I know. But I want to, baby. At least once…” There’s a soft whine along Bucky’s words and Steve melts into his embrace. Their lips stand close, waiting patiently for the right opportunity; though Bucky’s hand has made its way past Steve’s zipper by now. “For once, Stevie...please fuck me.”

It’s beastial. The way Steve picks his lover like he’s not heavier than a pillow. How he has him pinned to the wall by their room - they had finally started sleeping in the same bed, and eventually turned the spare room into a small art studio.

It takes a minute for Bucky’s hand to land onto the door handle, and another second for his mind to command it to turn it open. Steve’s grunt follows when it finally pries wide, allowing them to adventure further. Three steps later, Bucky finds himself thrown onto the stiff mattress, shirt gone missing while strong hands are already working at the button of his pants.

“Don’t break anything, Rogers.” He lifts himself onto his elbows to look down at the brusque man between his legs.

“The only thing I might be breaking is the bed,” he begins, his words muffled as he bites down on his tongue in concentration. He looks up at the headboard. Surely this was the first time they’d be intimate since ‘the change’. It most likely frightens Bucky more than it does Steve. A grin autographs his next words. “We need a new one anyway.” And with that he hooks his fingers into the waistband of both Bucky’s pants and underwear, and glides them off his thighs.

“Always so fucking hard for me,” Steve growls. “No wonder, you had /me/ on my back like that. I could get used to this view.”

“Don’t linger, Stevie.” Bucky’s words are low, but stern. His hips buck in agreement.

“Was I so whiny all the time?” They both chuckle before Bucky swats him on the chest.

“Only when I was balls deep in that fantastic ass,” he answers, both hands on the plump flesh he mentioned. The action causes Steve to grind into him - and he’d be lying if he said that wasn’t the plan all along. Bruises would appear on his shoulders the next day with how hard Steve’s biting down on them.

“I swear to God-" The enhanced man has his prey on his stomach in a flash, barely taking a breath of effort. He reaches forward to present two fingers to Bucky who gladly coats them in a generous amount of saliva. A hum rumbles into his chest when he feels them swipe over his hole, Steve taking his turn in exploring his man. The stretch is new, although Bucky had done this to himself in the past. The sweet tickling feeling of the intrusion is brain numbing. He's not sure he’s going to last. Surely Steve’s new physique could give more than he bargained for.

“Holy shit,” he cries when he feels the head of his dick press against him. They both moan when Steve inches into him with ease until his hips meet with Bucky’s ass and he stops, giving both of them a moment to adjust.

“Never thought it would be this good,” the blond grunts, eyes shut as he focuses on not painting the walls that so tightly envelop him. He pulls out just a tad, before pushing back in and establishing a smooth rhythm. Bucky contorts and mewls beneath him, his eyes go white as they roll to the back of his head.

“Like that, huh?” Steve asks. “I sure as hell fucking like it.”

Bucky can only make faint noises. Steves and ahs and what not escape his lips in the smoothest symphony Steve has ever heard. He’s fucking him relentless, unsure of how he can even get his hips to move this way as he never found himself in this exact position. But he’s going. And going. And he’s loving every moment, so much so that he’s not sure he can ever go back to the old ways. Inevitably him or Bucky would succumb. Both giving and receiving felt amazing, but he’d always be James’ little Stevie.

“You take me so well, fuck,” he adds.

“Ste-eve.”

“I know. Poor little face is all red and hot. You’re so close, love.” The praise comes naturally from Steve, but it seems to have Bucky blushing even more. He bends down and snakes an arm under Bucky so his hand can come around and hook onto his neck. His right knee spreads his legs even further, allowing him to bottom down into him; the head of his cock nudges that sweet spot and as if the words weren’t enough, it has Bucky pulsing and making a mess on the bed.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” He exclaims as he empties himself completely while Steve still pounds into him. He reaches back and grabs his lover by the head to bring him in for a heated kiss. A moment later it’s Steve’s turn to fall over the edge. He groans and shakes as he gives three more thrusts before pulling out and letting his seed splatter over the spent brunette’s back. Hot spurts reach up to his shoulders and onto his cheek. Steve is quick to lean forward and lick him clean.

“So good,” he says.

“Stevie, that’s your own cum,” Bucky replies with a shy smile. Who’d have thought Steven Rogers would be the kinky one.

“Mmm. And?”

“And… I want some.” They both chuckle before Bucky can grab onto the man’s broad shoulders and fetch what he wanted.

#rae'sausummer #rssummerofaus #challenge entry #my writing #stucky smut #steve x bucky #space au #stucky space au

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la-luthien · 5 years

Text

Dark Sublime

Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve is restless, sick endless existence marked with watching the fleeting nature of others’ lives. He wants to make a difference. You’re always there to remind him of the last of his humanity. Immortal AU

Warnings: slight angst, mentions of death

A/N: this is written for @ruckystarnes Summer of AU’s challenge. My prompt was Immortal AU. Thank you so much for the chance to participate! Hopefully you enjoy.

The air was crisp, just cool enough to nip at Steve’s nose as he walked along the crowded footpath, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. He always preferred to walk, even during the mornings when it felt far too cold to even bother crawling out of bed, but he lived for the slight ache in his ears from chill. Well, perhaps lived was not the best word, but it was the closest word for it.

He almost didn’t notice the lights turn green, but another pedestrian nudged him in their haste to cross the road. His head snapped up, nostrils flaring and heart beginning to pound as his senses kicked in and sent his body into overdrive. Pulling his hands out of his pockets, Steve sprinted onto the road, grabbing the woman who had just walked passed him and tackling her to the footpath on the other side just as a car ran a red light.

“What on earth?” she asked, sitting up bewildered and holding her wrist close to her chest. He cringed, looking at the way she held it on a funny angle, clearly broken. He was getting sloppy.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he replied, hastily pushing himself off the rough pavement and helping her to stand. All whilst ignoring the stares from other pedestrians. “You should go to the hospital and get that checked,” he said, before beginning to walk away. He quickened his pace with each step, trying to put a few blocks distance between himself and the lights.

“That was sloppy,” a voice remarked from next to him. Steve turned to glare at you, noting the smirk that was painted across your features.

“Screw you Y/N,” he replied, speeding up further to try out walk you. You only grinned in response and pointed at his jeans which were now sporting a rather large rip. He grimaced; his favourite jeans were now ruined. “For what reason do I owe the pleasure of your company?” He asked.

“Tony sent me to check on you, said that you’ve been getting restless,” you replied, pushing your cuticles back as you sped up to match his pace.

“I don’t need you to babysit me,” Steve scoffed, turning away from you and finally looking over his shoulder to scan the intersection in the distance. The woman was being helped by a young girl and her mother, all of whom looked quite shaken.

“Of course you don’t,” you answered, “But he’s worried about you.” You turned the corner down to another street, coming to stop by a motorcycle that was clearly Steve’s.

“As soon as I decide that I need space Tony’s always clucking after me like some overprotective mother hen,” he groaned.

Steve sat down on the motorcycle, tilting his head in a silent invitation to climb on. Neither of you bothered with a helmet, not even to keep up appearances after his little stunt. You settled behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso and holding on tightly as he kicked off the side of the road. You didn’t say anything, but he could almost hear what you would have.

***

“You can’t just keep chasing down trouble Steve!”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do Tony!”

“You know damn well that I can!”

“Can you two just stop!” You swung your legs over to side of the lab bench which you had perched yourself on upon arrival, tossing your hair over your shoulder and leaning back. Both men turned to look at you, having obviously forgotten your presence in the room.

“You can’t possibly agree with him!” Steve cried indignantly, “I don’t need either of you babysitting me!”

“It’s not that Steve!” Tony replied, matching Steve’s volume again, “You could expose us, and everything that I’ve spent years building along with it!”

“It’s happened before, we can always fix it again,” Steve answered, turning to leave before your leg shot out, stopping him from exiting the lab. He glared down at you, but you just stared back, unflinching, and did not remove your leg under his pointed glace.

The three of you remained still, a silent stare off ensued, before Steve’s shoulders slumped. He ran his hands through his hair, refusing to meet your and Tony’s eyes as he sighed, “There are people out there getting hurt, I can stop that.”

“I know you can Stevie,” you replied, removing your leg from Steve’s path. You fixed your eyes on your shoes, “But we can’t keep interfering, there are certain things we cannot change, and you’ll just burn yourself out.”

Tony gestured his hand towards the door to indicate that Steve was dismissed, not bothering to comment. Steve didn’t hesitate, charging out of the door and to his room. You slipped off the bench, tugged your sweater down and twisted it between your fingers, “I should probably check to see if he’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Tony grunted, already having turned back to his computer screen, clearly unimpressed at the turn of events.

***

Steve sat on the end of his bed, staring down at the three thick black lines that ran across his arm, tracing them meticulously in his head. Over and over he outlined them, before they began to dance before his eyes, twisting and melding into three distinct faces. Bucky … Peggy … his mother. One after the other until they overlapped and became one large swirling mass.

He was jolted by the sound of your voice and the feel of your cool hand as you pushed the hair out of his eyes. He didn’t look up, but the faces had become lines again. Somehow in all his years of staring, he had begun to associate the lines that marked his immortality with the deaths of his loved ones.

“You know I can see their faces in them,” he whispered, feeling the bed shift as you sat down beside him, “All the people I could have saved.”

“You did all that you could Steve,” you replied, lifting up his head to make eye contact. You reached out and smoothed the crease between his brows, brushing the frown lines away.

“But it wasn’t enough, it’s never enough.” His voice was breathless, quiet, and unsteady. Wavering with each syllable and falling limp from his lips. “I’m never enough.”

He heard your inhale, felt your eyes fixed on his face, so bright they seared him as he struggled to breathe. He hated and loved this, hated that it was always this side of him that you saw, hated that your touch made his heart clench and beat like a wild thing within his chest. Loved the way your small hands held his face gently, loved your keen stare that made him wake up and feel alive.

“You’re not God Steve, you can’t fix everything,” you answered finally, after what had seemed like forever, “And you shouldn’t expect yourself to be able to.”

A thick silence settled over the two of you, wrapping itself around your heads until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Do you remember what it felt like?” he asked, “The void?” The question slipped from his lips and fell flat onto the floor in front of two of you, it was not something any of you spoke of. A conversation too terrifying, too raw and exposed for anyone to face when on this side of the world. However, this time you must have felt that he needed this, perhaps to help ease the guilt, or perhaps to ease the pain of remembrance, because you slumped beside him.

“The void…” you trailed off, eyes empty and dark, no longer quite focused, “The void was alive.”

It was vast and empty, a yawning mouth that stretched endlessly out before you, like a great cavernous abyss sprawling as far as your eyes could perceive in the midst of that hellish gloom. It was restless, that much you could tell; it groaned, each breath rushing flush against your frozen cheeks.

Softly those exhales caressed you, before each inhale seemed to pull you closer, compelling your flimsy body to lean a little further and chance a peep into the great desolate space that swirled in agitation. Each intake more desperate than the next, is if it was breathing you in, devouring you before you had even tumbled over its edge…

It almost seemed, and perhaps your weak eyes deceived you, that if you stared into that billowing space for long enough, shapes began to form, twisting themselves into all sorts of whimsical patterns. Faces. Too many smoky, teared stained faces that screamed in anguish as they swirled around you. Reaching out, you grabbed onto nothing, slipping down into its inky depths, a cold breath that enfolded you, dragging your further down…

You had awoken, after how long you didn’t know, but you did know that you were somehow alive. That was the first of seven times.

They become the void, the people who die. Those like you and Steve simply slipped through, finding yourselves alive on the other side, a thick black mark streaked across the underside of your arm to show each time you evaded death.

Steve was silent, reaching out to push the sleeve of your sweater away from your left arm, turning it over to find the seven soupy lines that marred your otherwise flawless skin. His fingers trembled as he traced each one, the lines slightly raised, as you shivered and held your breath.

“Thank you,” a ghost of a whisper, and that was that. You slept together that night, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, skin flush against skin until you couldn’t be entwined any closer. He felt your steady breaths against his chest, your head snuggly tucked into him as he curled around you. He didn’t dream of their faces that night, but instead slept through the night in a state of perpetual emptiness. Still, it was better.

***

The music was pulsing, a pounding that palpitated off the walls and vibrated through the floor. How Steve hated these parties, filled with the sickly scent of cocktails and too sweet perfume. So many elegantly dressed bodies, draped in endless layers of silk, lounging around and sniffing indignantly at the night’s offerings. Tony’s crowd, well, more like their crowd, but Steve preferred to dissociate himself from those who spent their immortality in such overt displays of wealth.

There were varying degrees of skin scattered through the room, some arms firmly wrapped in cloth, thick lines hidden from any eyes. Some however attempted to show off as much skin as possible, which could only mean that their marks were bared. You were somewhere in between that night, dressed in silky navy number with a low backline that displayed the planes of your back. Steve was transfixed, eyes following your every move as you weaved through the fluttering crowd.

He had desperately wanted to ask you dance, but no one ever danced at these kinds of parties. Some unspoken rule that added another layer of stifling conformity, although Steve had also thought that it may have just added to the normalcy each of them so desperately desired. He was startled as a champagne flute was pressed into his hand, and turned to look at the mischievous glint in your eyes.

“I’m honestly a little surprised to see you here,” you said, taking a sip of your own champagne.

“Tony insisted that I show up,” he responded, following suit and gulping down a mouthful of the bubbly liquid. He spluttered, causing you to let out a laugh. He loved it when you laughed.

“How long is he having you do penance this time?” An all too serious tone to your voice that had him snapping out of his trance. You looked at him expectantly, running a finger around the rim of your glass.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” and that was that. No more room for any questions, a message clearly sent and received as you sighed and turned to walk away.

He wanted to reach out, wrap his fingers around your oh so fragile arm, but he didn’t. He watched as you made your way back to the bar, almost gliding, the skirts of your dress dancing behind you. He swallowed, watching the hollow of your back as you leaned over the bar, setting down the now empty glass.

***

A fourth line found its way onto his arm; he almost couldn’t bear the disappointment etched into your face, and he certainly couldn’t bear Tony’s fury. It had been an accident, at least, that’s what Steve told himself. He just couldn’t watch another hit and run, so he’d taken the brunt of the impact. Not that it had mattered, the man he’d attempted to save hadn’t fared much better.

He’d taken longer in the void, its harsh breath engulfing him as he fell for what felt like an eternity. He’d wondered if perhaps he’d reached the last of his extra lives, but like always, he’d woken up, lungs heaving for breath, in one of Tony’s sterilised medical rooms.

You were hunched in a chair by his bed, deeply asleep when he’d first come to. He studied the youthful planes of your face, the feathery eyelashes fanning across your cheeks. You always looked so peaceful when you slept, a luminescent glow that seemed to emanate from somewhere within your soul. Deep in thought, he missed when Tony cleared his throat.

“You’re on thin ice Rogers.”

But Steve already knew that. He stared at his hands, too ashamed to meet Tony’s eyes.

You stirred, eyes blinking as you sat up straight. The silence surrounding you rippled with accusatory and guilty glances, ballooning out from the two men in front of you. Steve flinched as Tony turned to leave, the ringing of the door slamming shut echoing after him.

“Y/N…” he said, but you cut him off, pushing yourself out of the seat and sighing heavily.

“When are you going to learn Stevie?” you asked, fingers reaching out to smooth back his golden hair. You traced the already fading deep bruises that marred his face, lingering on one that ran across his cheekbone.

“I just can’t let it happen, there people out there who need me,” he whispered, voice hoarse from choking back tears. His eyes met yours, as you continued your inspection of his face, fingers ghosting over a scar along his hairline.

“I know the others don’t think the same,” he continued, “I know why we do it. To avoid the pain of failing, but I need it Y/N, I need it. What am I without it?”

“I’ll always be a failure, I’ve got these lines on my arm to prove it, but I swear if I can spend the rest of my eternity trying to save those who can’t help themselves, then I’m doing something right. I’m just trying my best.”

“Stevie…” you breathed, reaching down to fold your fingers into his hand, “I know you are.”

“Kiss me,” he said, unblinking.

You leaned over to press your lips against his, eyes falling shut. His hands let go of yours and reached up to gently cup your face, thumbs smoothing across your cheeks and stretching behind your ears. He could feel his lips trembling, feel how you shook as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip. He felt the tears that tumbled down, dampening his face as they fell off his skin onto yours. Your hands clutched onto the hospital robe he was wearing, twisting themselves within the scratchy fabric.

The two of you stayed like that, lips moulding together and teeth gently tugging the other’s lip. His hands fell to your sides, enfolding you in a tight embrace until you were pressed against him, so that he could feel every shuddering breath you took.

That night was filled with more soft kisses and wandering hands once he’d been released from the medical wing. The warmth of two bodies intertwined with each other as he held you. You both knew what the morning would bring, the stifling harshness of an eternity to live whilst others so fleetingly dashed towards death.

Tony would find him another pointless, monotonous task to keep him occupied. More parties and champagne and unforgiving stars that represented the freedom he would never know. You would be there though, always by his side, soft hands that caressed his face and eyelids that fluttered shut with each of his kisses.

You would be there.

#rae's au summer #rssummerofaus #steve x reader #steve rogers

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marvel-medigeek-fics · 5 years

Text

Candid

This is my entry/fic/thing/whatever for @ruckystarnes’ summer of AUs challenge! I hope you enjoy and remember to check out some of the other submissions!

Summary: Two rival studios. Two impossibly competitive photographers. Two days of a candid war. A high possibility of a candid romance. *wink wink*

Warnings: none! (except some puns)

Pairing: T’Challa & Reader

Word Count: 1963

——

Friday. 8:07. Shutterfly Photography.

It was bound to be a slow day. Fridays are the slowest days, even without the lazy busy summer feel of the weekend of the 4th of July. You had a gig lined up for the Citywide Block Party that weekend, a celebration you looked forward to every year. Especially the food from the ice cream shop and the barbeque place downtown. Mmmmm.

The door opened just then, interrupting your salivating about the food. You recognized the person occupying your doorway. T’Challa from King’s Photos.

“Howdy,” he said, tipping his imaginary hat.

“What are you doing here, T’Challa?” you replied skipping the formalities for your rival.

“Such hostility!” he said in mock outrage, “I was checking to see how we were going to do the block party.”

“There’s no we in this,”

“Check your email,” he replied simply. You looked for a glimpse of snark, but all you got was a shrug. So you sighed and checked your email.

Once you had skimmed it, you looked up and narrowed your eyes at your rival. He narrowed his back.

“So…we’re doing this together,” you said finally.

“I’m afraid so. We all know what happens when we’re together.” He was no doubt referring to the fact that the last time you two had done anything together, you’d seriously bruised each other. With baseballs. On accident.

“Let’s just wing it.” You knew this phrase would irk T’Challa, which is why you said it, hoping to annoy him enough to make him quit the gig. But you also knew it was futile because T’Challa is not a quitter.

“Yes, let’s. Just wing it.” He replied, fighting to keep the scowl off of his face.

“Just messing with you, how about we just make our way around the park, photographing as we walk?”

“Much better than winging it. Adding to that, why don’t we try and take candid photos. The 4th of July is a pretty casual holiday.”

“Surprisingly, I really like that idea.”

—-

Friday. 13:38. Jackson Event Center Parks.

Armed with your trusty Nikon and it’s case filled with extra batteries, you made your way to the far end of the park. It was a perfect summer day, breezy and just barely hot enough to melt your popsicle. You snapped a few pictures of the people milling around and a few more of the band that was set up to play in about 20 minutes.

After walking around yourself for those 20 minutes, buying an ICEE from the stand, capturing the worker serving a little girl her ICEE, you finally found T’Challa.

“What is that?” he pointed at the cup in your hand.

“A strawberry ICEE.” you replied, taking a sip of the slushy drink.

He still looked confused, so you elaborated, “It’s a slushie. Come on, you should get one.”

You dragged him to the stand, stopping every few feet to snap another candid photo of people doing people things. A couple kissing at the end of a country song. A little boy presenting his mom with a fistful of dandelions. A braid train of three girls and a very talented boy. You were so busy with admiring the little moments you had captured that you didn’t notice T’Challa come up behind you, ICEE in hand.

“What flavor did you get?” you said, trying to distract him from looking at your photos.

“Orange,” he said, smugly looking over your shoulder. But you looked smugger.

In one fell swoop, you turned around, smeared the uncovered ICEE into his face and snapped a picture. But T’Challa was nothing if not graceful, and he simply wiped off the orange mess off of his face. And onto your bare arm.

He grinned, aiming his viewfinder and you and snapping, capturing your look of indignation and your hands blocking the camera in reflex.

“Payback,” he said grinning.

“Haha. This is a war now, Udaku.”

“Game on, Y/L/N.”

—-

Friday. 17:06. Jackson Event Center Parks Grandstand.

You had taken a lot of pictures over the course of the day, most of them not simple candids, but of the actual band you’d been hired to photograph. The band was the Decade Hoppers, a new band that you’d never heard of before. They were really getting into their music, so they were prime real estate for unposed, casual pictures. Their music was pretty good and without realizing, you’d begun bopping and grooving to the beat. T’Challa took advantage of the loss of stiff uptightness and snapped a bunch of pictures of your moves.

“Nice moves, Y/N,” He said, coming up to you, snapping a few pictures of his own of the band.

“Not my best moves, I’m a better slow dancer,” you replied.

“Oh, I bet, just like the slow dance in 8th grade where you smashed my toes so bad I couldn’t walk for two months.”

“I’ve gotten better,” you sniped back.

“Oh, I bet, so you’ll only break two of my toes this time?”

“Only one, if you buy me a milkshake first.”

“How about zero if I buy you dinner?”

“It’s a deal, T’Challa. There’s a dance tomorrow under the stars and the fireworks.”

“Sounds sparkly.”

“You love glitter.”

“Yeah, I’ll even wear a glitter tuxedo,” he said, walking toward another angle of the stage.

“You’d better!” you called after him, shaking your head at how quickly that had gone from insulting to taking you out to dinner.

—

Saturday. 9:43. Jackson Event Center Parks.

The second day of the 4th of July Block Party was always really slow in the morning, most people sleeping in or lazily eating pancakes from the cafes and coffee shops in town. You got a coffee from one of the food trucks serving breakfast. Very appreciated for everyone working at the celebration.

The coffee was warm, the air was still and there were no sounds except for the occasional banter of the food truck workers and the gleeful screams of the neighborhood kids. It was perfect and with the mere thought of that dance tonight with T’Challa, your heart was making little kicks of joy.

After finishing your coffee, you snapped a few pictures of the food truck workers sneaking kisses, a few of a volleyball game going on across the street and another few of the sun shining over the buildings. T’Challa appeared after you had snapped a terrible picture of the styrofoam coffee cup sitting empty on the table.

“Having fun?” he asked, trying to hold back his laughter.

“I am, actually,” you replied.

“Want to go have more fun and go to Grace’s?” he replied, subtly begging you to go with him to a place he hated to go in alone. Especially because his ex ran the front counter. He was justifiably scared of her.

“I would be happy to,” you said, standing up and taking his outstretched hand. In a second he would snap a picture.

“Still a war going on, you know,” he smirked.

“Oh, I know.”

—

Saturday. 10:25. Grace’s Coffee.

The bell rang as you came into the tiny coffee shop. You had vaguely registered T’Challa taking more candid pictures on the 10-minute walk over her, but you didn’t say anything. It was kind of cute.

You walked up to the counter, confidently and casually holding T’Challa’s hand just to tick Grace off. “Your usual?” you asked him, knowing full well you had no idea what that was.

“No, I’ll have french toast and a venti coffee,” he replied, a sudden boost of confidence coming over him as he relayed his order to Grace. “And she’ll have hashbrowns with another venti coffee.”

“$10.94, sir, it’ll be right out,” Grace said, looking like someone gave her buttermilk in her cereal.

When you had safely gotten out of Grace’s earshot and were sitting at one of those old fashioned diner tables, you whispered, “How did you know my order?”

He shrugged, “Lucky guess?”

You narrowed your eyes but seized the chance to take a picture of his sheepish grin and shrug. And then swiftly took another as the plates of your food slid into their places.

“Really getting out there in the cultures this week, T’Challa. Yesterday ICEEs, today french toast, what’ll it be tomorrow?” you remarked, trying to get a rise out of him.

“I’m more traveled than the president, woman, watch your mouth!” he said, waving a fork around your face.

—

Saturday. 20:13. Jackson Event Center Parks.

The night was beginning to wind down for the kids, but for the adults, it was just getting started. The snow cone stand was replaced with an alcohol truck and the music was relaxing back into sounds of the 70s, a stark change from the rapid pulse of the 90s.

The sun wasn’t even close to going down, but the dance floor was getting fired up. T’Challa had come up behind you and whisked you off to one of the still left food trucks. Barbeque.

“MMmmmmmm.” your mouth watered at the smell.

“Ready for my part of the deal?” T’Challa quipped.

“I’ll try not to stomp on your toes on the dance floor. I make no promises for getting barbeque, though,” you replied.

You ordered your usual, short ribs with extra sauce, very salty fries and an extra helping of mac and cheese. When you got back to the table T’Challa had told you to meet him at, he was waiting with an Oreo milkshake. “I thought dinner was the only part of your deal?” you questioned, digging into your food.

“This is part of dinner.”

“Then I promise to not step on your toes for the entire night.”

“That’ll be a hard one for you, Y/N, but good luck,”

—

Saturday. 22:19. Jackson Event Center Parks.

“I’ll take my dance now, Y/N,” T’Challa said, just as the very beginnings of the firework show had erupted across the sky.

You set your camera down next to his and made your way over to him. The sky was dark, but the fireworks gave off the perfect amount of light. Your hands fit perfectly together and from T’Challa’s smile, you could tell this was a positive revelation.

The song changed from The Cupid Shuffle to a slow song with very soulful guitar chords and you made your way across the dance floor. “I’m sorry I didn’t wear my glitter tux,” he said, swaying along to the music.

“You look great in what you’re wearing. I’m not even mad about the lack of glitter tux,” you replied, swaying back, making a conscious effort not to step on his toes.

The fireworks kept going off in the background, but all you could hear was his breathing, calm, poised and peaceful. And your brain telling you to kiss your rival. You wouldn’t, no matter how cute he was and how sweet he had been today.

“You look great too, Y/N,” he replied, his voice sending your brain back into kiss him, kiss him, kiss him rapid fire. “Happy 4th of July,”

And then he kissed you. Oh, holy macaroni. It felt so nice, you almost gave him a kiss back as soon as he pulled away. “Been waiting for this since the last time we danced and you broke my toes.”

“There’ll be none of that tonight. Just dancing in jeans and kissing under the fireworks,” you replied, smiling contentedly.

—

In the background of your first kiss together, the fireworks were still going off and the night was still young. Neither of you noticed the crowd behind you, cheering to the end of the fireworks. You both stood there, looking peaceful, beautiful and best of all, happy.

It looked perfect, from the memories and from the photos someone took on your Nikons, still sitting side by side.

#rae's au summer #rssummerofaus #fanfiction #au #tchalla x reader #mmgfics

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theweepingvulcan91 · 5 years

Text

Ruining away from the Circus

This is for @ruckystarnes summer of Au’s.

word count 1964

Warnings: Circus AU, Mention of sex, minor swearing

Pairings/Characters: Howard Stark x Idunn (my Oc)

Summery : Howard wants to go see this new circus in town with Edwin and Ana. What they don’t know is that there is a normal Stark Motive behind it.

“Jarvis? Are we busy today?”

Howard Stark said as his grip tightened on his newspaper. He had seen an ad for something he was very very interested in. Then again, he was always interested in beautiful women. The tall form of Mr. Jarvis appeared besides Howard.

“You always should be busy Mr. Stark. What crazy idea did you have this time?”

“Let's go to the circus!”

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Ana’s eyes were widened. It wasn’t often that Mr. Stark invited everyone out on an evening like this. She always loved the circus and was glad that Edwin had accepted Howard’s invite. There was something to be said about the circus environment. Looking back, she saw her husband holding popcorn and cotton candy as he followed behind her with Howard.

“Is there something you’re looking for Mr. Stark?”

Anna asked as she took some of the snacks from her husband. Smiling she saw his face widen into a mischievous smile. It was never a good thing when Howard Stark smiled like that. She thought as she helped Edwin find their seats.

“I just simply needed a break and wanted to enjoy the atmosphere.”

Howard looking out into the tent. He was searching for the beautiful girl from the fliers. He had hoped to be able to see her. There was something so majestic about the woman covered in plants. Ushering everyone into their seats. The lights dimmed as a man dressed in a fine-looking suit walked up into the center of the ring.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! I wish to welcome you to the Valhalla circus this evening. I am your ringmaster Odin!”

Odin’s voice boomed throughout the entire tent. His presence could be felt for miles as he spoke about his circus.

“Tonight, we have a very special show for you today. Such feats of magic and acrobatics for you today that will leave you breathless.”

Odin’s voice deepened as he heard the gasps of the crowds. Tonight, was special as it would be the first time his youngest son Bragi and his wife Idunn would be preforming their acrobatics.

“Now I shall present to you my wife Frigga and son Loki to dazzle you with their magics.”

Odin said with a boom as all the lights seemed to snuff out. A light blue glow could be seen walking into the center of the stage.

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“Are you ready Bragi?”

Idunn had asked her fiance wither or not he was ready for this. He was normally known for his poetry not his acts but Odin thought that it was time for them to work together. What kind of wife would she be if she didn’t learn to work with her husband? Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her green leotard.

“Of course, my love. It shall be fine.”

“You’ll pay more attention? I would hate you if I had to save your ass from death again.”

“Of course, of course...”

The vines on her leotard seemed to hiss as she patted it looking as her husband ogled at a passing Valkyrie. He was a man with a truly wicked tongue. Not that they hadn’t agreed to be open but there were times like this where she was angry with his lack of attention. Without thinking she pushed past him to watch Loki and Frigga. Blues and greens flashed across the skies in feats of dazzling magic. To most this was just a trick of light but to Idunn this was really magic.

“Lady Frigga and Loki everyone!”

The booming voice of Odin filled the tent once again as Frigga and Loki bowed. The roar of the crowd made Idunn’s heart flutter. She had done many acrobatic tricks on her own but this was the first time she would do this with Bragi in front of a crowd. She began to nervously pace as the vines around her unitard all but squeezed against her body in comfort.

“And now we shall bring you to the land of man and giants alike. Strength is what you shall now see! Welcome the greats! Surtr! Hyrrokkin! Skadi! Suttung! Thor! Vidar! Tyr! These are the strongest that the Vallhalla circus has to offer!”

Idunn smiled as she watched the towering men and women make their way into the ring. Looking at the crowds her eyes paused on an excited looking man. Howard gasped as he saw how huge these being were. There was something to be said about their giant stature.

Looking out at the night's crowd Howard was on the hunt for something. He was here for a reason and he was desperately searching for it. His eyes widened as he saw a young-looking woman in green watching him from behind the curtain. That’s Her...

Howard thought as he felt a nudge from Ana. Letting out a roar of forced excitement he couldn’t help but smile. Edwin shook his head as he looked down at his employer. This was the face of a man who saw a pretty woman. If his face could speak at the moment it would speak of dread as it was going to be a busy after party.

“Those are the beautiful creatures with the strength of the giants everybody!”

Odin boomed as did the crowd. They had been truly dazzled by their great feats of strength. As they shuffled out of the ring Idunn began to fidget. Now it was time for her and Bragi. Taking a deep breath, she made her way up towards the acrobatics platform. Looking around she smiled seeing that Bragi was actually at his post.

“Now ladies and gentlemen it is time to be amazing by a wonderful pair of acrobats. These two have been across the far reaches of the world learning how to throw themselves about to dazzle and amaze you. I’m so confident in their skills they will not even need a net. Put your hands together for Bragi and Idunn!”

The lights flashed on the platforms above. Idunn’s green unitard was shimmering under the lights as she posed in a graceful way. Bragi looked around and smiled as he was looking to all of the ladies in the crowd. Grabbing the bar that was handed to her Idunn sat at the wide bar and sung. Wrapping her legs around it she contorting her body into a beautiful teasing dance. As she swung, she waited for Bragi to swing so that she may catch him. Running off he swung a few times before looking at Idunn. It was time for him to throw himself towards her. His eyes never leaving hers but for a moment as he had timed the jump poorly and missed her hands.

The crowd gasped as he went headed for the floor. Idunn swore as she took the vine from her costume and whipped at Bragi. The vine seemed to grip against his body tightly as she pulled him up. Trying to keep her anger silent she pulled the vine up towards her as she took hold of his hand and held onto him. His bar was thrown towards them as he grabbed it and continued with his minor tricks.

Howard like the others gasped as Bragi went falling into the ground. He was flabbergasted at how strong and beautiful this woman was. He truly needed to see her now more than ever. Getting up he made his way towards the back of the tent hoping someone would help him find her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damn it Bragi!”

Idunn all but swore as she pushed her lover hard. There hadn’t been a fire so deep in her since Loki had messed with her apples. Her eyes swirled with a anger that was deeper than the abyss.

“You seriously couldn’t pay attention long enough to do your ONE JOB!”

She pushed him to accentuate the last two words.

Bragi sat there taking his lumps. He knew all too well he had ruined his lover’s show. He had done things that he swore he’d never do again. Led mind strikes again. He thought to himself as he reaches for his love.

“I’m...”

“You aren’t sorry Bragi! You constantly keep doing this. You don’t care about anything that I do. You only care when you need my sexual embrace...I can’t stomach this anymore! I can’t look at you!” Idunn stormed off taking her shaking vine with her. Rubbing her hands gently on it was as if she was trying to comfort the thing.

“I’m so sorry little one. You’ve never had to take so much weight before. Stupid Bragi....fucking idiot...ruining my performance...”

“I thought you did amazing...”

Howard maneuvered through the canvas to stand in front of her. Even though she was not as big as the others in the circus she was still a bit taller than the man in front of her. Looking into his eye she was confused. He seemed familiar somehow.

“I would have been far better at my job if I had a partner that wasn’t intent of sleeping with every female in the crowd.”

Idunn’s tone icy and bitter as she spoke of Bragi. Gently coiling the vine, she whispered and kissed it before tucking it under her arm.

“Have you thought of doing your own routine?”

Howard closed the gap between them as he watched her mutter to her plant. “Odin will not let anyone other than Baldur do a single routine. I’ve thought about getting the girls together to do some acrobatic dances and he said it would just “sexualize a family affair”. Part of me wishes I could just settle down with someone who would let me teach my dance without question.”

Idunn stood now inches away from this stranger. His eyes were filled with wonder as he couldn’t stop gazing into her eyes. Reaching down she studied his face. His name was on the tip of her tongue as she looked deeply into his eyes.

“There you are Mr. Stark!”

Edwin said as he stumbled up behind them. Idunn’s eyes widened as she heard his name. She couldn’t believe that this man...was the richest man in this city.

“Howard Stark?!?”

Idunn gasped as she felt indecent now. She had been so informal with him; telling him her desires. Shaking her head, she looked at the ground.

“I’m sorry sir if I was disrespectful in any way.”

Her voice hitched as she tried not to die of embarrassment. Howard smiled as he reached his hand up and brushed it against her cheek.

“You were ravishing. And if you feel you weren’t...well It isn’t something dinner wouldn’t fix Ms. Idunn.”

“Would you really have such a simple carny be at your side? What will other’s say?” “To Hell with others. I came here because I thought you were the most enchanting being in the cosmos. I shall not leave until I get to know you better.”

Idunn’s body reacted towards his hand. Nuzzling against his fingertips she let out a soft sigh. She couldn’t believe after all was said and done this playboy billionaire was interested in her. What for she couldn’t quite understand, but the interest was there.

“Of course, she will!”

Odin boomed walking behind Idunn. Resting his hand on her shoulder he looked down at her as if to say “think of the circus” and smiled at Mr. Stark.

“We will have her ready in fifteen minutes. She isn’t needed for the rest of the show.”

Idunn sighed as she looked at Howard. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted nothing more than to flee and he could see that. Grabbing her hand Howard ran off with her following behind him.

“Where are we going Mr. Stark?”

“Anywhere but here...and please call me Howard.”

He said as they weaved their way out of the circus.

#rae’s au summer #rssummerofaus #circus au #howard stark

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

Text

A World of Our Own Pt.01

The Big Boom

08/05/2019

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 8,630

Masterpost Warnings: language, dead bodies, Bucky’s lower back dimples

Prompt: Castaway AU

A/N: This is for @ruckystarnes ‘s Summer of AUs Challenge. I’ve had this idea in my head since I signed up but wasn’t sure where to start or how long to make it and I think it’s now officially been established that one shots are nearly impossible for me to do. So, here’s another mini series. Not sure how long it will be but I do have a beginning, middle, and end in mind. I hope you like it and as always, if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

The cabin is quiet. Save for the jumble of white noise that deafens you to everything but the subtle ding of the seatbelt sign.

There’s a comfort in the clouds that roll past your window, obscuring all the world beneath you as you slice the heavens in the mass of painted aluminum.

Alone, you booked your ticket, boarded your plane, and sat until you fell asleep. You were in the air when you woke up only a few minutes ago.

Wiping at your sleep heavy eyes, you scan the seats beside you, in front of you, and behind you. All of them are empty.

For one paralyzing moment, you remember all of the horror movies and TV shows were people disappear on planes. The Langoliers sticks out vividly and you fumble to reach up and press the call button.

You wait only a minute before a smiling stewardess with soft corn colored hair pulled up into a tight and neat bun moves towards you then politely leans in. She smells like pastries. Cinnamon and vanilla, soft bread and glaze.

“Yes, ma’am? Is everything alright?” She asks, sweet honey like voice that sounds so put on you almost scoff but it’s her job to be as customer service friendly as possible.

“I-Am I the only one on the plane?” You wonder, eyes drawn into narrow slits as you consider the woman and look for signs of possible body snatching.

What if she’s an alien?!

“Oh.” She gives you a more genuine smile, laughing lightly as she shakes her head. “No. There is a gentleman sitting a few rows up and to the left.”

You push yourself up almost frantic, craning your neck to see this mystery flier and spot a dark chestnut brown head of hair carefully pulled back, his body slumped against the window he’s sitting next to.

A sigh of relief slips through your lips.

“Why are there only two of us?” You wonder, curious as you’ve never flown on a plane with only one other passenger.

“I’m not sure.” She admits, brow kindly furrowed despite the deep tone of curiosity in her voice. “All of the seats were paid for but only you and the gentleman over there came aboard. We waited until the last possible second, but we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Oh.” You reply lamely, your mind racing to think of reasons every other person on this flight wouldn’t show.

Had there been an accident? Something big that had prevented people from getting to the airport?

It seems highly unlikely. What other reason could there be though? Had sixty people all woken up late and missed their flight?

“Can I get you something to drink?” The woman asks.

“Oh, no. Thank you. How much longer do we have? How long was I asleep?” You wonder, staring up into her sharp green eyes.

“We’re not even halfway yet.” She smiles, the more she speaks the more she settles into genuine friendliness. “Eager to get home to someone?”

“No.” You reply lamely, sadly. The ceaseless cavity of the empty plane suddenly too quiet. “No one. You?”

She nods. “My husband and little boy will be waiting for me when we land. I’ve been in the air for almost three weeks.”

How nice.

“Sure you don’t want anything to drink?” She asks again, hand gently placed on your forearm.

It’s soft and warm. A tender gesture as she watches your expression for betrayal of thirst.

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

“Alright. We’ll be serving your dinner in about an hour. If you’d like seconds when the time comes, just let me know. We’ve got lots of paid for food that won’t get eaten.” She curls her lip, a wry smile at the free food then moves back down the aisle and disappears behind a deep blue curtain.

Fifteen minutes later she comes back. She escorts you into first class and allows you to sit wherever you’d like. You pick a window seat on the right side of the plane and quickly glance out to see if you might see land.

Instead you spot water in the breaks of the heavy clouds the plane is currently soaring through.

Water?

You look for the stewardess again, heart beating heavily as a small bit of panic creeps in. You aren’t supposed to be flying over any oceans.

Distraction from this red flag comes in the form of the stewardess moving back into the first-class cabin with the man from before trailing behind her.

He’s tall, wide, with broad shoulders, thick hips, thighs the size of telephone poles, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, dark almost black t-shirt underneath a thick black jacket. He’s wearing a black cap over his long brown hair, a plain black backpack on his back.

He keeps his head down, avoiding your gaze but when the stewardess stops beside where you’re sitting and gestures to the seat next to you, he looks up at you.

He’s wide awake, despite the slumber he’d been in. Steel blue almost ice-like eyes bright and alert. His jaw is fuzzy with a five o’clock shadow and his hands are covered with black leather gloves.

He must be cold.

The square line of his jaw, straight nose, deep brooding brow accompanied by his stunningly fit physique, set him apart from all other men you’ve ever seen.

He’s gorgeous. Handsome in a roguish kind of way. He looks familiar but you’re not sure why.

You give him a timid smile, friendly but unsure.

Stern eyes turn to the stewardess before he moves around her, through the two center seats, and sits down on the left side of the plan as far front as he can. He takes his backpack off and shoves it underneath his seat before pulling his hat down low and probably going back to sleep.

It would be foolish to feel offended by this snub because he doesn’t know you so why should he sit next to you but you do feel offended and you exchange a look of surprised upset with the stewardess who is blushing deep pink at her failed attempt to make her two charges sit together.

“I didn’t want to sit with you either.” You grumble, knowing that he probably can’t hear you over the roar of the plane.

“Sorry.” The woman says but you shake your head. “Dinner?”

“Please.” You nod and she disappears one more time.

She takes forever.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

As you’re about to rise to check on your food, the seatbelt sign above you illuminates as a ding disturbs the otherwise silence of the plane.

“The pilot has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. It looks as if we are headed into some rough weather. Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated. Thank you.” The stewardess says, her voice tight with tension.

You quickly do as she says, glancing out of your window again as the previously gray clouds darken into a threatening purple.

The man to your left does the same, eyeing the curtain suspiciously when there’s a sudden jerk as the plane falls a foot.

You gasp, grabbing the back of the seat in front of you and the arm rest on your right. It shakes again, the pitter patter of heavy rain added to the hum of the plane. Thunder shakes it as the bloom of lightning flashes outside your window.

It all happens so quickly that your mind has little time to make sense of it all.

The plane shakes and throttles, jerking up and down, left to right. It hurts your joints and makes your teeth click as you clench your jaw in fear.

More than once your eyes wander to the man on the left side of the plane and he looks at you too.

Something in your eyes—probably the paralyzing terror you’re feeling—prompts him out of his seat.

“You okay?” He asks, voice smooth and rich.

It makes you feel better but only for a moment.

He makes his way towards you surprisingly agile and when he settles into the seat beside yours, he fastens his seatbelt again and turns to look at you, placing his right hand over your left which is currently clutching your arm rest.

“It’ll be okay.” He says. “Planes are very safe.”

Liar. Your mind reels. You nod, hoping more than believing he’s right.

The plane suddenly drops several feet, moving fast and throwing your body up out of your seat to hover for a few seconds. The stewardess on the other side of the now swaying curtain is seated in her own seat, fastened in, screaming at the top of her lungs.

This isn’t normal!

The man beside you wraps his right arm around your shoulders and helps to hold you steady, but the two of you are being pulled and jerked in every direction as the plane continues to shake and tumble.

“We’ll be okay.” He nearly shouts beside your ear, but you barely hear him over the roaring of the plane as it suddenly shoots forward, angling downwards as it starts to plummet.

The lights begin to flicker and then completely shut off making the lightning storm outside the only source of illumination.

You reach over and fist the man’s jacket, clinging like a child as the plane loses power.

There’s a sudden explosion behind you to your left and you feel the sudden rush and pull of powerful air, heat, flame…fire? In the air?

You huff in panic, breathing fast and shallow as the cabin pressure changes and your head begins to feel dizzy. Like a swirling vortex you’re pulled deeper into darkness as the man beside you pulls you closer.

There’s a loud click and safety masks fall from the ceiling. You’re too terrified to reach for one and instead look up at the handsome man.

There are worse ways to die than staring at the face of a beautiful stranger. He also meets your gaze and frowns before reaching up to grab a mask.

He ignores protocol and begins to put it on you, but you black out just as the thick yellow cup closes around your mouth.

The tremulous call of seagulls pull you from oblivion. You aren’t ready to wake up and yet consciousness comes upon you anyway.

Clinging, wet heat chokes you. It weighs your body down, suffocating your lungs into a gasping breath. You’re also wet. Clothes heavy and damp like you’d been swimming in your clothes.

Something hisses and your mind sounds a warning.

Snake!

You scream, sit up, and search for the threat.

It hurts to look around. It’s bright and you blink against the light of day.

The sun almost seems to shine straight down on you, though you don’t see the warm yellow of summer. Instead the light is filtered. Bright but darkened by layers and layers of cloud cover.

“Hey! Wake-Finally. Hey, get up.” That previously soothing voice says.

You turn in search of it as your memory comes flooding back.

You’d been on a plane. Nearly alone. It had started to rain. The plane had begun to shake and then fall.

As you look around, you see an endless white sand beach. It extends to your left. To your right. Curving around as if it extends out to the ocean before you, teal blue waters made whiter by the black storm clouds that paint the horizon.

“Get up.” The voice says again, and you turn around to look behind you.

He’s there, sans jacket, dark gray shirt clinging to his toned torso as he lugs what looks like a five-foot section of the plane you’d just been on. It’s cut and torn as if someone had taken a saw to it but more wild and without the precision of a defined man-made cut.

You see two windows and several seats still attached to the cracked floor.

Had the plane actually crashed?!

“Grab those carts.” The man tells you, gesturing with his chin at two silver food carts to your left as he disappears into a split in the dense tropical green.

Palms line the edge, rising high and then twisting and bending in wild angles. Huge ferns litter the bases, emerald conifers fill in the gaps. You can see pretty magenta, white, and yellow flowers throughout, and the occasional dry brush. All of them swaying dangerously in the chilling air of the coming storm.

You’re not quite sure why you listen but you crawl onto your knees then slowly get to your feet, swaying from side to side for a moment before you find your footing and trudge through the wet sand towards the carts.

It takes all your strength to pull just one up along the beach towards the tree line. You nearly make it, giving your cart one last grunting pull before you fall onto your bottom, hands slipping from the handle you’d been holding. The man emerges, hustling down to the other cart and lifting it up onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers.

He sighs when he sees you sitting, gaping with your mouth open at his display of strength.

“Move.” He shoves your hands away, nudges you out from in front of the cart with his knee, then takes hold of it and drags it the rest of the way through the trees.

You’re slightly affronted by the pushing, but you get to your feet and in stunned silence, take another look around you.

Where’s the rest of the plane? Is all that’s left the bit you’d seen the man carrying? What about the pilots and the stewardess?

Her husband will be waiting. Her little boy.

“Hey.” The man says again, startling you into a small jump as he pulls your attention back towards the trees. “Come on, unless you wanna try your chances out here when the hurricane hits?”

“H-hurricane?” You squeak, but he doesn’t wait for you and heads into the trees.

Fear pulls you after him. Stumbling as you race to catch up to him, you turn your eyes to the floor of the tropical jungle to move faster.

You look up to find him again and see nothing but black as you crash into his chest.

You gasp, hands reaching out to keep yourself upright. He grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him so that you can find your footing.

“Keep up.” He orders, then releases you to follow him.

“Wait.” You complain, he’s moving too fast.

Your floor length navy floral summer dress seems like a silly travelling outfit choice now, and you hike up your skirt to keep from tripping over it. Though, you’re thankful for the thin racerback spaghetti straps. This heat is unbearable.

Even with that, it takes all your strength and energy to keep up with him. You also realize that you’ll have to make a choice. Keep up and fall or stay upright and fall behind.

You fall twice.

The second time, you stab your hand with a sharp black rock, hidden beneath the large serrated leaf of a fern, also scraping your knees through your dress on solid ground.

Your hand bleeds and you wince, scurrying back onto your feet before you lose him.

For the second time you see black and crash into his chest.

“Ow.” You gasp, accidentally stepping on his foot but your weight seems to mean nothing as you scramble backwards off it.

He reaches for your wrist again, this time angling your right hand up to look at the fresh wound on your palm.

“If you get hurt, you need to say something.” He chastises you then bends down, takes hold of the bottom of your dress and rips a long piece of the thick blended fabric.

“Hey!” You complain, surprised by his grabbing your skirt.

Frowning at your protest, he shoots you a small glare but then wraps your hand up with the strip of fabric.

“Hold that tight.” He instructs and suddenly you’re very aware of the lack of carts.

“Where are the carts?” You wonder, looking around for what must be the food and drinks.

“I already dropped them off.” He says, which is impossible.

“How-?”

“Come on.” He says, sliding his right hand down into your left.

He curls his fingers around it, holding tight as he sets off again, moving slower as he pulls you along.

You’re silent the rest of the way, nervously glancing around at the trees. Wondering if maybe you should be more worried about wandering into the jungle with a strange man.

The walk from the beach takes about five minutes when the trees suddenly part to a small clearing. The torn-up bit of the fuselage that you’d seen him carrying into the trees is set up against two trees. Most of the curve is still there and he’s angled it so that it can almost shield from all directions but most especially the top.

The two carts are indeed already here. Pressed against the last exposed side of his makeshift shelter to cover it from all sides but one. The end, to be used—you assume—as the entrance and exit. The windows are angled so that they provide sight straight up to the sky.

“Get in there and get one of the bottles of Vodka and clean your hand. In my backpack you’ll find some bandages. Wrap it up.” He points at the fuselage and lets your hand go.

“Where are you going?” You gasp, turning to look at him as he moves back towards the beach.

“I saw some bits of the plane we might be able to use to make some tools. We have maybe two or three hours tops before that storm hits and we’ll need something for when we go to the bathroom.” He’s thinking so practically.

He’s sprung into action so quickly despite the swaying trees, the air whipping against your bodies, or the strange cracks and animal cries coming from the jungle around you. You’re still wondering what happened to the stewardess and the pilots.

Are they also somewhere around the jungle? Is this an island? It must be.

He turns to leave again, and panic drives you towards him. You reach down and take hold of his left arm. Having been expecting warmth, you’re slightly stunned when you feel cool metal. You turn your gaze down to it, noticing for the first time the sleek black bionic arm.

How you hadn’t noticed it before when he’d wrapped up your hand you don’t know but now you can see it. All the way up to the bulging metal bicep.

You’re thrown for all of a split second before your eyes are blazing into his, “Please don’t go.”

He looks at you, taking in your scared expression then pulls his arm from your grasp but only so that he can take your right hand, holding it more gently as your cut is there on your palm.

“You’ve been so brave until now.” He observes. “I need you to stay that way.”

“What happened?” You ask, desperate for answers.

“I don’t know. The storm blew us off course, but the explosion is why we went down.” He explains.

“Explosion?!” You cry, remembering the big boom behind you right before you’d passed out.

“We can talk about this later. Right now, I need you to be brave for me again. Can you do that? I have to go get what we need before the storm hits.” His reasonable tone is what prompts you to nod.

He looks at your wrist and points at one of the black hair ties you always carry there.

“Can I borrow one of those?” He asks.

You pull your hand from his grip and peel off the first one and hold it out to him.

“Get inside the fuselage. I’ll be back in a bit.” He tells you as he quickly sweeps his hair up into a high bun.

“You’ll come right back?” You ask, so afraid of being alone here where no one will know to find you.

“I’ll come right back.” He promises, then moves to head out again.

“What’s your name?” You ask him, hoping that maybe if you know his name, you’ll feel more comforted that he’ll return.

“James.” He tells you. “James Buchanan Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky. What’s yours?”

“Bucky…” You repeat the name quietly, clinging to the way it tastes as you speak it. “Me? I-I’m Y/N.”

“I’ll be back, Y/N. Get inside.”

You nod and finally obey, moving to the entrance then drop to your knees to crawl in. The space isn’t small by any means, but it is low and close to the ground. You can sit up straight inside with plenty of space overhead but neither of you will be able to stand inside.

When you turn around to look outside, Bucky’s gone.

The hurricane lasts three days.

Bucky keeps you in the shelter as the storm rages overhead. You’re absolutely terrified. The tempest tears trees up by their roots and you tremble with fear as you hear the distinctive creak and crack of large thick trunks being torn apart.

When it passes, Bucky’s survival instinct truly kicks in filling him with a relentless drive.

He takes you down to the beach, hand in hand, slowly waiting for you to step over the mish mash of foliage and jungle debris.

It’s hotter than ever, even more so after such a big storm, and you have to stop several times to catch your breath.

“You okay?” He asks, waiting patiently despite the energy you can see him nearly levitating with to begin running around doing his own thing.

You’re in his way but he’s trying not to let you see it.

“Yes.” You gasp, skin dewy and sticky from the compressing wet air that labors your lungs.

He releases your hand.

“Sit.” He orders and you gratefully do as he says, finding a small fallen tree to perch yourself on.

He gives your dress a glance then moves towards you and with that sleek bionic arm of his, he tears at your dress to make it shorter.

“Hey.” You reply, startled.

He rolls his eyes at you, frowning at you with a look of exasperation, full pink lips puckered with his disapproval.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just in the way.” He quips, then holds out the excess fabric and begins to tear strips for what you assume is makeshift bandages.

He pulls his backpack—it’s surprisingly still intact after the plane crash—around and stuffs the fabric in before giving you another glance.

You flinch as he reaches out, tracing with his right thumb the length of your lower lip. You can feel the pull of his heated skin against the chapped mess of your lips.

Once more he delves into the black abyss of his bag and pulls out a large bottle of water.

You know now that it’s filled from a small flowing stream close to the fuselage, and the only reason he’d chosen that particular spot for the shelter is because of the close proximity to that wide stream of fresh water.

“Here. Don’t drink too much or you’ll make yourself sick.” He instructs.

“How does someone get sick from drinking too much water?” You ask, slightly irritated but you take the bottle and begin to guzzle it down.

“Don’t-” He sighs, “Ugh, whatever. Make yourself sick.”

He gets to his feet and offers you his hand again. With a quarter of the water gone, you rise wincing at the pain in your ankles and the soles of your feet but happy with the slosh of liquid in your belly.

Your feet burn and ache as you put your weight on them. Your attempts not to wince fail and Bucky looks down at them.

Self-conscious, you shift uncomfortably trying to hide your sandal covered feet underneath the green ferns that cover the ground.

“Come on.” He pulls you along again, water bottle sloshing in your free arm as he pulls you slightly faster but still slow enough that you can maintain your balance.

As the beach comes into view, the dark skyline in the horizon seems to be fading, turning more blue than gray.

The water shines like turquoise jewels, bright and pretty. This beach, with its white sands, curving palms, and beautiful clear waters is the very definition of paradise.

A dream destination for any vacation seeker. And yet, you hate it. You’re stuck here. No modern amenities. No escape. Just Bucky.

He releases your hand. He’s already talking, pointing down the long length of the beach to your left and then your right but you only hear a buzz in your ear instead of the words that he speaks.

You stumble forward, staring out at a section of shallows about fifty feet out into the water where the cockpit juts out, nose in the air, windows somehow still unbroken. About twenty feet in further, the section of the plane you’d been sitting in sits halfway submerged, torn apart from the front during the crash.

“Y/N!” Bucky nearly shouts, two feet in front of you, shoving himself into your line of sight.

You tear your eyes away from the front of the plane and search his gaze for the fear that you’re feeling, the hopelessness.

“What?” You ask, voice choked.

“I need you to walk the beach, look for anything that might have washed ashore that we can use.”

“The black box?” You ask, stepping towards him. “Did you find the black box?”

Bucky breathes in slowly, watching your composure fall apart.

“It was destroyed in the storm.” He explains. “The first one. The stewardess and the pilot had been going on about how it was malfunctioning before we even began to feel turbulence.”

“H-How do you even know that?” You demand, desperate for him to be wrong.

The humid island breeze whips your hair, somehow never drying your skin despite the constant flow.

“I have really good hearing.” His mouth is set in a tight disapproving line.

“But they’ll know where we are, right? They’ll just search the flight route.” You bargain.

“We…” He hesitates.

“What?” You demand, moving closer again, stopping right in front of him, chin lifted to stare up into his shifting blue eyes.

He searches yours too, looking for something. Sanity maybe.

“We were off course for a while. About two hours, I think. I’m not sure. I really was asleep before the stewardess moved us to first class, but we weren’t on the right flight plan.” He explains and all hope seems to fade.

You very nearly lose it right then and there, but Bucky’s hands come up to rest around your biceps.

“I need you to keep it together, Y/N. I need you.” He says, deep voice smooth and calm.

He needs me?

The words fill you with an odd sense of calm. There’s a whisper of truth in them and you’re sure he does need you but it’s not for survival. Not in the sense that you need him. How long would you have lasted without him?

A few hours that first day? The hurricane would have hit, and you would have probably died.

“Can you do that?” He asks, voice careful and gentle despite that same hum from before that he’s vibrating with to get started.

His patience is wearing thin and you can see his irritation returning.

“Yes.” You whisper, nodding small.

“Good.” He tells you, then pushes you back, forcing your knees to buckle.

He shoves you back until you’re sitting on the hot fine grains of sand.

“Wait here.”

As he moves to turn, you reach out and grab his metal hand, clinging to it tightly as your fear returns.

“Where are you going?” He ask, desperate.

Bucky looks down at your hands around his arm, a strange look of confusion in those dazzling blues. His five o’clock shadow has turned into a full-on scruff, hiding the chiseled square of his jaw, the small dimple on his chin.

His gray t-shirt clings to his torso still, the humidity making him sweat but he’s somehow also not as dewy as you are. His skin a bit drier. Not as shiny.

“I’m just going to swim out to the cockpit and the front of the plane where we were sitting. Your carry-on was on there, right? You moved it when we moved?” He asks, checking but he seems to already know.

“Yes.” You nod.

“Did you have shoes in there? Better shoes?” He eyes your sandals again and you shift your feet, once again self-conscious.

You think about the other two pairs of strappy sandals you’d had packed away in your checked luggage but yes, in your carry-on there was a pair of sneakers.

You nod, staring out at the water as it laps at the crashed nose of the plane.

“The pilots? The stewardess? Did you find them?” You ask, worried, your mind flashing with the kind smile and shining green eyes of the kind woman who’d set you at ease on the plane.

Her husband…her son.

Bucky takes a deep breath and squats down in front of you.

“I buried the stewardess down that way.” He indicates the beach to your left with his chin, eyes never leaving yours.

Sadness overwhelms you at the thought of her family, missing her, worried, not knowing that she’s already dead. They’ll search for her.

You look in the direction he indicates, eyes watering at the thought of her now motherless son.

“She was married.” You gasp, not realizing that you’re crying just yet.

“I know.” Bucky says, softly. Gently. Kindly. You look at him and search his now blurry face.

With a hard swallow, you tighten your hold on his hand.

“The pilots?” You ask, scared to know, desperate to find out.

Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t find anyone else. They might have gotten out before the plane went down. I blacked out shortly after you did and when I came to the cockpit was gone. I just barely got us out in time.”

So, Bucky saved you?

You are already highly aware that you’re still alive because of him but that initial plunge into the sea while the plane was careening out of the sky is the reason you’re still alive.

“H-How did we survive the fall?” You ask him, absolutely baffled.

“I’m stronger than I look.” He replies, a small subtle curve to his lips.

He looks pretty strong…

“Y/N, this is what I wanna do. I want to get you some proper shoes. I need to get as much supplies out of the front of the plane, electrical equipment too in case I can build some sort of beacon so that maybe someone might be able to find us.

“I want to get a nice big signal fire built here on the beach to keep lit in case a plane passes overhead or a boat out at sea comes close enough to see it. I wanna build us a proper shelter in the spot with the fuselage. Up off the ground so that when the inevitable wild animal comes around, you’re not on the ground waiting to be sniffed, gored, or bitten.

“I have a lot of work to do.” He finishes.

Everything he’s said sounds like brilliant ideas. Perfection, really, and your heart begins to swell. His words indicate an innate worry for you.

“Why did you save me, Bucky? In the plane? Before the explosion behind us when the plane had just started to shake, why?” You ask, searching his patient expression for truth.

“I-I don’t know, you just looked so scared.” He admits. “I know what that feels like.”

Bucky? Scared?

Questions flood your mind. Questions that you’re suddenly very eager to have answered.

Who is Bucky? Where was he going? What does he do for a living? He does kinda look familiar but only like a face you’d once seen in a dream. What would he have to be scared of? Where did he get the bionic arm? How did he lose his original one? How old is he? Does he have family waiting for him? A girlfriend? Boyfriend? A wife? Husband? Kids?

“Y/N?” He probes, sliding his warm metal thumb across the back of your hand, caressing the skin.

“Yes?”

“I kinda need my hand back to get all of that stuff started.” He confesses and with a surprised gasp you let his hand go.

“Oh, right.” You curl your own into fists, laying them on your lap while ignoring the stretch of the scabbing skin on your palm.

Bucky had already checked it this morning.

“Wait for me here, okay?” He asks, cautious with you.

You hate to see him go. The past four days on the island—three trapped in a small confined space with him—have been spent with Bucky at almost every moment.

He must also not like leaving you, or so you hope, because he turns to look back at you as he walks to the water.

He stops at the edge, just beyond the reach of the low-tide, and finally turns away from you to pull his t-shirt over his head.

You shouldn’t be thinking it. You should be focused on the realities of your situation. The dangers, the precautions you need to take. You should be making lists in your head of things to do for survival, to keep yourself alive on this island but instead you trace the exposed length of Bucky’s sculpted torso.

The muscles on his back flex and stretch against taut slightly pale white skin. God, I hope he’s single. You think wildly. And at the very least bi.

Wherever he’d been before he was on the plane, it had not been sunny. Definitely not a tropical island. The dimples on his lower back draw your focus and your heartbeat quickens as he suddenly begins to step out of his jeans.

You blow a soft rush of air through your chapped lips, reaching beside you blindly for the water bottle Bucky had given you.

With a quick gulp, you watch him wade into the glimmering ocean water, your eyes appreciating the ripples of his biceps, both metal and flesh.

Maybe it won’t be so bad being stuck on an island with Bucky?

Fuck Y/N. Get a grip. What are you thinking?

*****

Bucky lugs your carry-on up onto the shore, tossing it with ease down beside you as he pulls his now clinging briefs up a little higher on his hips.

He tries not to think about how exposed he is to you or anything else that doesn’t have to do with his and your survival.

He’s got one goal here. To get you both off this island in one piece.

Running his hand back along his wet hair, he smooths it, your hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist for when he’ll need it again.

“I’ll be back.” He tells you, watching you struggle to pull the bag closer.

His words pull that terrified stare of yours back to him, that inescapable look of need that had pulled him across the plane to you in the first place shining up at him from your battered, chapped, sun-burnt face.

You burn so quickly. He’ll need to find you some aloe in case it gets worse. Your skin is already cooked despite the short time the two of you have spent out in the sun.

Today it’s shining down brightly. Maybe he should have put you in the shade of a palm?

“Where are you going?” You ask him, your fear drawing him close to you.

You tilt your head back, stare up at his face.

He finds your helplessness annoying…but also refreshing. He likes feeling like this. Needed. Wanted. And he’s not blind. He can see the way your eyes roam over his body.

It’s nice to know he’s still got that to him too. He’s still human. Whatever it is that’s left of him. He still somehow has something to offer.

“Back into the cockpit.” He’s not sure that telling you why will really help or if it will make you cry again like with the stewardess.

He’s still recovering from the way that had made him feel. He’s not sure he can take feeling like that again so soon. He’s not even entirely sure what it had been.

It had definitely felt bad to watch you cry but he’s unsure of where it stems from. Is it discomfort with your vulnerability? Disgust at your weakness?

The Winter Soldier in him—the memory of his thought process that is very nearly gone—see it as such. Crying over a dead body? Useless. It helps no one. It provides nothing.

Bucky knows that’s not true. Grieving can be cathartic. He’s grieved before. Very recently he grieved over his time lost as the Winter Soldier. He grieved the loss of his best friend to old age.

Steve had made his choices. He’d lived his life. Now it’s time for Bucky to live his own.

Of course, crash landing on a deserted island had not been what he’d had in mind. Would Sam already be looking for him? Or…maybe he thinks Bucky ran off again?

“Why?” You plead, eager to keep him close.

His chest warms at the thought that you want him near. The fact that you’re not afraid of him, of his arm, is reassuring. He likes it. He likes not being scary.

This island is scary for you. Being stranded here, is scary for you.

“I found one of the pilots.” He admits, waiting for the words to register with you.

“Dead?” You ask, voice cracking.

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what are you going to do?” You ask him, pretty eyes searching his own stern expression.

He has to remind himself to be softer with you. You’re not like his friends or associates. You’re soft. Civilian. Gentility is what you need.

“Pull him out. Bury him next to the stewardess.” He tells you, and watches as your lower lip shakes.

You let him go and he makes quick work of the body. He doesn’t pull the pilot over to you and instead heads straight for the spot he’d buried the stewardess just next to the tree line where the sand shifts into soil.

It doesn’t take you long to catch up, but he tries his best to keep you from seeing the swollen, waterlogged body of the pilot. Dead eyes open to the world, though they no longer see.

You’re crying again, wearing your sneakers, kneeling a few feet away.

He doesn’t like the weight in his chest that your crying brings. He frowns, annoyed again.

It takes him half an hour to dig the grave and another half hour to bury the pilot.

He’d been the older of the two with graying black hair and deep umber skin, made pale and gray by the lack of life.

“The other pilot?” You ask him, turning your sorrowful gaze back on him and he’d prefer the needy one.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, tired of burying people.

“Bucky?” His name falls timid from your lips, unsure.

As he turns to you, he sees you holding out his pants.

“We’re gonna make it, right? I don’t know anything about surviving in a jungle. I don’t-don’t know how to help you.” You confess.

The disappointment in your voice is telling. You’re blaming yourself for not being more knowledgeable about surviving in the wild?

Cute…and understandable.

“Just do what I ask.” He orders, taking his pants from your hold gently then slipping them on, grateful for the coverage.

You give him his t-shirt but instead of putting it on he shoves it into his backpack. It would be smarter to wear it while he works but he’s not a regular human and he’ll be fine without it.

He doesn’t want to get it all dirty and sweaty as he does what he needs to do.

“Scour the beach.” You say, looking down past the graves towards the curve of white sand, jewel waters lapping at the shore.

“Yeah. Don’t go too close to the water.” Bucky instructs, fearful suddenly. “The water is in low-tide right now, but it’ll rise.”

What if you get too close? What if you get swept out to sea and you drown?

Fear like this Bucky has never felt. The charge he’s taken in ensuring your safety over the past four days is suddenly made clear. He cares whether you live or die, despite the denial he’s been forcing on himself.

Telling himself that he’s only trying to be nice isn’t working anymore. The thought of you walking away from him, being out of sight where he can’t keep a constant careful watch on you terrifies him and he can understand the look that you give him now every time he walks away from you.

“Maybe…” He begins, staring across the endless beach. “Maybe we should just wait to scour the beach together?”

“Why?” You ask, rising to your feet, planting your carry-on in the ground more securely.

“It might be dangerous.” He realizes.

“But you have things to do.” You tell him. “It’s just walking across the beach, Bucky. I can do at least that much. Especially now that I have my shoes.”

You’re taking offense with him. Does it sound like he doesn’t trust you to do such a menial task? He very nearly doesn’t but it’s not for the reasons you might be thinking.

You’ve proven you can take instruction, despite how clumsy you seem to be in this terrain. His lack of trust is in your ability to stay safe.

Since he’s known you, you’ve passed out, nearly drowned—though you still don’t know about that and he’s not sure he’s going to ever tell you—fallen and cut your hand, you’re dehydrated, you’re not eating as much as you need to, you’re scaring him.

Can he keep you alive? He must.

Reluctantly he nods. “Fine, but do me a favor and if anything even remotely scares you, scream for me.”

“How are you going to hear me?” You ask him, confused.

You don’t know he’s a Super Soldier. You seriously don’t know who he is, and he likes that more than he should.

“I’ll hear you.” He assures you. “Promise me, Y/N.”

“I promise.” You relent and then head down along the beach with heavy, clearly pained steps.

Your body must be aching, adjusting to the environment in harsh ways.

You’re so soft and fragile. He watches you until you’re small and his need to build you a proper shelter becomes overwhelming.

First things first; fire.

*****

You walk for hours. You stop only to take drinks of your water bottle and turn over what looks like something that might be useful.

You find small items, cups and seat cushions. A few wet blankets. A metal box shut so tight you can’t open it. Whatever is inside weighs a bit. A first aid kit. Two more small bags—carry ons that probably belonged to the pilots or the stewardess.

You pile everything on top of the bags, struggling to pull them back towards the section of beach you’d left Bucky on.

Above you, the sky is fire. Blazing red and orange as the sun begins to set. It makes the island cooler, almost cold compared to the higher temperatures of the day.

A large almost five-foot-high bonfire blazes in the distance but Bucky’s nowhere to be seen.

As you grow closer, the sky above you deepens to a bruised black, scattered with a shock of white stars as the horizon fades to pink and yellow.

“Bucky?” You call out, huffing and puffing as you pull the two bags to a stop.

You’ve had to stop and pick up the items you kept dropping and you’re exhausted.

Collapsing beside them, you suddenly remember your own carry on back by the makeshift graveyard.

You groan, fall onto your back, and stare back towards the spot, upside down.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice falls on you like a security blanket.

You’ve been with him non-stop since you arrived that at first it had been bliss to be alone. Silence, where no one is giving you orders or frowning down at your inability to keep up, had been nice.

As you’d walked further and further away from him, your fear began to grow, and you stole quick tense glances at the dense tree line. What monsters lurk inside? How will you die?

By the time you turned to head back, you were missing Bucky desperately.

You push yourself up, smiling at him, so giddy to see him it’s stupid.

He struts towards you, clean and bathed, wearing a tight white t-shirt, the same blue jeans, munching on something that looks like mango.

I hate him.

“What’d you find?” He asks, moving to look at your haul. “These cushions will work nice for sleeping on. We can put these together with the ones we have in the fuselage. We’ll have to share.”

He slurps up the sweet nectar of his mango, making your stomach growl and your mouth water.

With amused blue eyes, he looks at you and then huffs a very small laugh.

“Hungry?” He asks, then holds out the mango for you to take.

You grab it, shove it into your mouth and nearly moan around it as the juice hits your tongue turning bitter salt into sweet candy.

“Easy. We still have the rest of the airplane food back at camp. There’s plenty of food to stuff your face with. We need to finish that within the next three days. It’ll go bad by then.” Bucky says, grabbing the two bags in one hand, the first aid kit and the metal box in the other, leaving you with the cushions you’d found.

“Thanks. Wait, my bag.” You gasp, getting to your feet to follow him.

“I already took it back to camp.” He moves towards the trees and you follow.

You reach the small split that he’d first led you down, the one you’d stumbled and fallen over, cutting your hand. Bucky keeps walking but you stop, gaping at him then down at the ground and the surrounding trees.

“How-?” You begin but you’re so emotional, you might just cry again.

“I can’t have you tripping every time we need to come down here and we’re going to have to keep coming back to the beach.” He explains, but with no patience to let you have this moment, he walks on. “Come on. It’s getting dark.”

Bucky seems to have spent the day clearing a path about three feet wide. Rocks and boulders that had been in the way have been shoved aside, the green ferns that had covered the ground have been pulled up. Thrown aside too, the earth dug up so that a single dark path leads from the beach and as you follow him, all the way back to camp.

“Bucky…” You whisper, stunned and appreciative.

Then your eyes fall on camp. The fuselage has been lifted onto a platform built with the fallen trees from the storm. It looks very temporary but it much better than anything you could have done.

“Saved some time on the platform by using the tress that had already fallen.” Bucky explains. “At least this way we won’t be sleep on the ground. At least until I can get a better shelter built. Your bag’s inside. Put those cushions next to the other ones.”

“Do we need a better shelter?” You ask him, desperate to keep your roots on this island shallow.

You’re no Gilligan. You’re not planning on living here.

“Just in case. We don’t know how long we’ll be here. Better safe than sorry.” He makes sense.

You have to crawl up the two-foot-high gap from floor to platform since there is no ramp but you’re so grateful for the elevation that you don’t complain. Why would you?

A cleared-out path to make walking to and from the beach easier for you. An elevated shelter so that no animals will easily reach either of you. Cushions gathered and lined up to make up a narrow makeshift bed.

There’s a roaring fire a few feet in front of the now elevated fuselage, a small metal panel placed over the open flame with two plastic plates full of airplane steak and white rice, a side of mushy carrots and green beans on top. There’s two pale rolls of bread also warming up beside the plates.

Bucky has indeed been busy.

You do as he says, making the bed slightly bigger and it actually looks like it might really be big enough for two now. Still small. Tight. You’ll have to sleep right beside each other.

“Grab a change of clothes.” He says, and you do as he instructs, grabbing a new pair of underwear, a pair of jeans, and a plain white t-shirt from your carry on, subconsciously thinking about his own white t-shirt.

You meet him by the fire.

“Ready?”

“Where are we going?” You wonder.

“Follow me.”

He leads you around a small thicket of trees towards the spot you know the fast-flowing freshwater stream is.

When he stops beside it, your eyes are drawn to the four-foot-deep hole disrupting the flow of the water. The hole is lined with large shining green leaves, made dark by the fading sunlight. You can see clearly enough however to understand that Bucky has built you both a tub of sorts.

The water flows in, fills the tub, and then continues to flow down along the stream keeping the water moving.

“Bucky…” You gasp, once again stunned by the work he’s put in, in one fucking day!

“I’ll make it better over time. The leaves will have to be changed in a few days at least until I can find something that’ll last a while longer. I’ll see if I can find some plastic or tarp. The back of the plane is still missing. There might be something in there.” He explains. “Will you be okay in the dark?”

There’s still enough sunset light that if you bathe quickly you can get back to the campfire before it’s completely dark.

“Yes.” You smile, the first since you crashed here. “I’ll be fine.”

Bucky smiles back at you, wide, pearly whites on full display. He’s even more handsome than you realized, and you already knew how good looking this man is.

“Good. I’ll go finish with dinner. Hurry back.” He says, then turns to head back.

“Bucky,” You call, eager to thank him.

“Yeah?” He turns to you, still smiling lightly.

You can’t help yourself. You move towards him, the pull of safety and security overwhelmingly seductive.

With a push onto your toes, you press a quick soft peck to his bearded cheek. The dry, cracking skin of your lips must feel like a scorched desert against the somehow soft flush of his skin.

He doesn’t pull back though, and he doesn’t complain. He lets you hold that kiss for two seconds before you fall back onto your feet to smile up at him.

“Thank you. For everything….so far.” This journey is just getting started and you’ve been very little help.

“Go on.” He says, stern but the warm glow of his eyes is kind. “It’s getting dark.”

He leaves you there, feeling protected. Secure. And maybe slightly less fearful about the journey that you and Bucky have found yourself forced on.

With Bucky, maybe it is possible to get through this.

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daredevile · 5 years

Text

Illuminate [1/5]

Summary: James Barnes, an upcoming artist in Brooklyn lives a routine life. It’s all sunshine and rainbows until you show up at his building, hesitantly becoming his roommate.

Warnings: Not Steve approved language

A/N: Hey guys! It’s my first time writing an AU and this one’s for @ruckystarnes‘s summer of AUs. Nearly had a heart attack when I almost deleted this entire post just after finishing. Also, I apologise if it sucks. Hope you enjoy!

“Hello? Mrs Potts? This is Y/N. I saw an advertisement for your apartment, I would like to have a look if it’s still available,”

And that’s all it took for you to end up in front of a modern building, right in the middle of Brooklyn. Logically, you knew that the rent in this particular area would be sky high, however, desperation got the better of you. Before you knew it, a stylish woman dressed in white greeted you with a warm smile, her unwavering, straight posture resembled one of a businesswoman’s.

“You must be Y/N,” She waited for your assurance, stretching her hand out, “I’m utterly delighted to see you, it’s been ages since James had had a roommate,”

“Roommate? I thought I would be living alone,” Your eyebrows shot up. Sharing an apartment was already not too high on your list, but sharing an apartment with a guy, that was rock bottom.

“Oh no, honey, it’s mentioned on the flyer,” Mrs Potts noticed your hesitation, placing a hand on your shoulder as she guided you to the elevator, “Don’t worry, James is an absolute sweetheart. He’s quite easy on the eyes too,” She winked.

Hope filled your mind, and with Mrs Potts’ descriptions of James, maybe sharing a living space with him won’t be so bad after all. She continued rambling on about the apartment’s amenities, but all that whooshed out your head when you stepped inside the lavish area. The first thing you noticed was the abundance of paintings all across the apartment, some hung on the walls, some placed on the paint-splattered floor. You were completely mesmerised, recognising the classics—Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet—whoever James was, he must be filthy rich to afford all of these.

“James is out of town, he’s returning this evening,” Mrs Potts stated, watching you observe the art, “He’s an aspiring artist, and a great one too. Unfortunately, he hasn’t gotten his big break yet,” Her phone rang interrupting your conversation, “Well, what do you think? I mean, if I had known you were coming earlier, I would have asked him to clea—“

“I’ll take it,” You interrupted, “It’s great, thank you, Mrs Potts,” A wide smile erupted on the woman’s face upon hearing your words. She threw her arms around your shoulders, gleaming.

A couple of tiring hours later, you were done shifting your things into the apartment. Just as you plopped down on the couch with a satisfied sigh, the door burst open, revealing one exasperated James Barnes. He took notice of your presence with a curt nod before turning his attention to his phone.

“Um...hi?” You extended your hand, “I’m Y/N, your new roommate,”

“Hi,” Ignoring your hand, he walked towards his easel, preparing his art supplies.

Annoyed at his lack of communication, you turned your attention towards the masterpieces on the wall, “Did you do these? They’re amazing,” A look of awe displayed on your features as you faced his back.

“Yeah, yeah,”

“It must have taken forever,” You gushed, not paying attention to the phone in his hand.

“Mhmm, one second, Steve” James spun around, blue eyes meeting yours, “Hey sweetheart, I’m on a call, do you mind?” He gestured to his phone, a smirk forming as you blushed in embarrassment. He resumed his phone call, marching his way to his room.

“Ok, first interaction could have gone better,” You muttered under your breath, leaning against the wall. A soft, brown-furred kitten brushed past your feet, leaping on the couch with immense effort. You chuckled at him struggling before pushing his hind paws up, “What have we gotten ourselves into, Milton?” The cat cuddled against your arm, burying his head into your side.

The apartment glowed by the vivid pieces, each sporting its own story. The ones you didn’t recognise, the James Barnes originals, were quite random: a family at the park, a ballerina, a garden of flowers and many more exquisite pieces. Pieces of various sizes adorned by modern frames intricately placed on the walls. You hovered your fingers over one of them, ever so lightly grazing over the dried paint.

“Sorry, let me start again. I’m James Barnes,” His deep yet soft voice shook you out of your thoughts. His bright eyes followed your gaze, watching your fingers trace the texture of the piece, “A perfectionist who gets irritated when people touch his art, so please remove your undeserving fingers from the canvas,” The words quickly flowed out his mouth, piercing cerulean eyes observing your movement.

“Also, I’m not a big fan of crowds, so no parties, no loud, uncultured music, and,” He paused, focus shifting to the small creature, who was poking the plushy cushions on the couch, “No pets,”

“Excuse me? I’m paying half the rent. Milton isn’t going anywhere,” You retorted, frustration seeping through your body. You weren’t about to let a second-rate douchebag boss you around in your own house. You moved away, leaning against the paint splattered counter.

“Listen, sweetheart,” He stepped dangerously close to your form, a firm expression on his face as he spoke, “I’m the boss here. You either listen or beat it,” He placed his hand on the counter behind you, trapping your body between the table and himself. Your breath hitched at his proximity, he leaned closer, his nose millimetres from yours. In one quick motion, he swiped the coffee cup placed behind you and dashed into his room.

The cool Brooklyn breeze along with a perfectly made hot chocolate topped with mini marshmallows were the elements present that evening. James had requested absolute silence while he worked on his pieces, so you decided to hit the nearest coffee shop for a relaxing time with your friends.

“So, is she nice? Bitchy?” Natasha asked, sipping on her tea. She leaned against the velvet couch, perching her legs on the wooden table, “You better not ditch us for her,” She nudged Wanda’s shoulder, laughing at the immediate drop of your smile.

“Well, he is a jerk,” It was your turn to laugh at their awestruck faces, Wanda gasped in disbelief while Natasha snorted, “And don’t worry, I’m never ditching you guys,”

“No way! You’re living with a guy!” Natasha exclaimed, “Damn Y/N, never would have thought,” She clapped her hands.

“Don’t get excited, he’s just like the rest of them. Possessive, bossy and not to mention incredibly annoying,” You rolled your eyes, Wanda placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Come on, you just met him today, I’m sure he’ll warm up in no time,” She sent a warm smile, hiding her laughter behind her mug.

“Yeah, and soon enough, we’ll be crying at your wedding,” Natasha added, dodging away from the cushions you were throwing at her, “Would it be a summer one? No, you seem like the winter type,”

You nearly spat out your hot chocolate at her remark, “What! Never,” You exclaimed, “He’s already on my hate list. And he doesn’t like pets. Come on, that’s already a red flag,” You defended, glaring at the two of them and their shit-eating grins, “And, for your information, I am the winter type,”

“Girl, I already know what’s gonna happen. Don’t you watch movies?” Natasha stated as a matter-of-fact, a mischevious glint in her green eyes.

“No, James isn’t that kinda guy,” You shook your head, scoffing at the mere thought of a cheesy, romantic relationship forming between the two of you.

“Then what kinda guy is he?” Wanda inquired, watching your demeanour slightly shift with your thoughts.

“The one that’s a pain in your ass,”

Milton shuffled across your lap, tiny paws carefully treading on the soft furs of the couch. His quiet meows resonated through the apartment, you watched his actions closely. Moving in with James did not take off in the direction as you would have hoped, nevertheless, you had no choice. Putting up with his demanding attitude would be a small price to pay until you found another place. Slowly, your eyelids began to droop, feeling heavy due to today’s tiresome events. A few minutes after sleep had conquered your mind, a loud ring echoed from the kitchen.

“Fucking hell,” You muttered, rubbing your eyes in frustration. The noise was coming from James’ phone, one that he had conveniently left behind. Just as you were about to answer, it went to voicemail.

“Hey, Buck. Lara came, she dropped off a box of your stuff. I’ll swing by tomorrow morning, alright?” A masculine voice spoke, you caught the underlying tone of pity weaved into it.

“Buck?” Your eyebrows scrunched together as you stared at his phone, curious.

“Is that my phone?” The sudden voice broke the silence that filled the air, making you jump. James leaned against the wall with an amused smile, placing his sketchbook on the counter.

You blinked at him, trying to form a reasonable excuse, “No...I mean yes, but I wasn’t going through it. You got a call, so I picked it up, it went to voicemail and I listened to it and you came,” You blurted, moving away from his phone.

A smile tugged on his lips at your rambling, “Ok stalker,” He smirked as you scoffed. To his surprise, the kitten gently brushed past his legs, James scowled before looking back at you, “Thought I said no pets,”

“Thought I said he’s staying,” You retorted, yearning to wipe that stupid smirk off his perfect face.

“Actually, you said, ‘Milton isn’t going anywhere’,” He playfully crossed his arms, horribly mimicking your voice.

“First, I do not sound like that,” You stomped your foot, attempting to hide the tiny tug of your lips, “Second, you’re an asshole,”

James immediately held his hand on his chest, “Oh sweetheart, that struck my heart and here I thought we were becoming friends,” He feigned hurt, blue eyes burning into yours as he burst out into laughter. You rolled your eyes, walking away to avoid looking at his charming smile.

To be continued...

#rae's au summer #rssummerofaus #bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes #bucky fic #bucky series #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #mcu

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

Text

A World of Our Own Pt.04

Falling Hard

08/20/2019

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 3,790

Masterpost Warnings: Language, pining, incapacitated Bucky

A/N: This one is a little on the shorter side for me. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a chapter this short. Not much happens event wise but a lot happens. It really does. I hope you all like this chapter, I wasn’t feeling myself as a writer while writing this. Just being hard on myself I think. Anywho, let me know what you like about it if you feel so inclined. As always, if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work. xoxo

“Hey!” You point at him, glaring at him as he places his hands against the blanket you’d laid out for him. You’d made sure to put it in the shade, half on the small tufts of grass that edge out from the denser tree line and half on sand. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine!” Bucky argues.

“No, you aren’t, Bucky. I just wrapped up your calves and if you get up, I swear I’m not feeding you today.” You threaten, your chest heating up in anger as he drops back onto the blanket.

He laughs, then throws himself back onto the blanket and continues to chuckle.

“That’s my bacon. I killed it.” He argues, but he’s laughing so it’s a pretty flimsy argument.

“I don’t care. If you get up, I strike.”

“Fine.” He chuckles one last time, then turns those impossibly blue eyes on you, lazily rolling his head until he can do so.

They sparkle with jade at the very center. An ocean green that dazzles and reminds you of last night before your surprise visitor had shown up.

Had he kissed you? You want to ask him but…

“Okay. I got the logs placed down by the trough.” This new voice is less deep than Bucky’s but pleasant and accented.

You turn away from the section of boar you’ve been stripping fat away from, hands dripping with new and dried blood.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to ask.” You bite your bottom lip, staring with remorse at the other surprise visitor from last night.

The second pilot. Technically the Co-Pilot. He’s tall—like Bucky—with golden hair. Straw blonde, big lovely curls and waves, slightly outgrown because of the time spent on the island. His scruff is shorter than Bucky’s slightly darker than the hair on his head but only by a slight shade.

He’s still wearing his pilot’s pants, but they’re cut off. Torn into shorts by hand and the cut makes them fray.

He stands facing you, his previously white and now permanently gray button-up pilot’s shirt is drying on a low palm. His plain white t-shirt is also drying leaving him shirtless as he sweats with the workload you’d asked him to do.

Too much for him, you realize as he stands gasping before you. His chest rising and falling with his labored breathing.

He’s chiseled, like Bucky. Deep cuts that shape his pecs, abs, and arms. You’d have to be blind not to notice the utter Adonis that he is. He must have been very into working out before the crash.

He seems plucked from the deepest recesses of your dreams. The fantasy man that could never possibly exist in the world. That’s Ryan.

Unlike Bucky—who is so beautiful there is no way you could have even fathomed his image to wish for him— there’s also a slight sallowness to his muscles. They’re sturdy but Ryan looks more like you. He’s a regular human. Your bodies are not reacting so well to being on the island for so long.

There’s nothing particularly wrong with either of you, but your bodies have changed. You’ve gotten leaner, thinner. Only the muscles you use constantly are hard and supple.

Ryan looks at Bucky and then at you, hands finding his hips. He shakes his head, a small curve of his lips changes his face entirely. The deep speckled brown of his eyes twinkle with something you don’t recognize.

Amusement? He looks down at his feet then back up at you.

Is he blushing?

“Don’t apologize. I’m happy ta help.” His accent falls pleasantly in your ears and your lips smile back in reaction. “Was there anything else ya needed me for?” He shifts on his feet, fidgeting as his cheeks burn.

“Um…” Yes. Tons.

With Bucky out of commission you suddenly realize how much he does. However, Ryan isn’t Bucky and he probably won’t he able to do half the things he does.

“No.” You lie.

“Are ya lying? Because there’s a small twitch just there in the left corner of yer lip that tells me ya are.” Ryan teases, his smile wider and playful.

You reach up to touch that corner of your mouth then remember there’s blood on your hands so you freeze. With heated cheeks that have nothing to do with the scorching sun beating down on the beach, you look down at your sliced meat.

“You’ve done enough.” You assure him, stealing a glance at him.

He’s still smiling. Flirting shamelessly and you can’t fathom why.

Okay…so you’re the last woman in his world. Sure. But…

There’s a tug at your elbow and you turn to look at Bucky.

“Where'd you learn to make jerky?” He asks, and though he tries to focus on you, he steals a glance at Ryan. Eyes shifting nervously between the two of you.

“Back before the Snap my friends and I would go camping. It was fun. My boyfriend back then taught me how to do it. He loved camping. But…after the blip…well, they’re all older now. They’re doing their thing.” You try not to think about what you came back to.

Bucky sees the shift of sorrow on your face but before he can say anything, your co-pilot speaks.

“Oh, are ya making jerky with my pursuer?” Ryan asks, moving towards the two of you with slow but determined steps.

You look back at Ryan as he begins to kneel down beside you.

He’s on one knee when Bucky speaks again.

“Hey, there is something you could do. I usually gather some fruits around this time to have with dinner. Why don't you go do that so Y/N won’t have to?” Bucky suggests.

Ryan stops, looks from Bucky who's on your right but a little behind you to you.

Bucky should be out of reach, but he’s slid down on the blanket to sit at its bottom edge, legs mostly in sand so that he can reach out and touch you.

Hence, the tug on your sleeve.

“Oh. Is that true, Y/N?” Ryan asks you, curious.

“Y-yes. Of course. I-" You stutter.

“What? You think I’m lying?” Bucky challenges, his voice dropping in octave and his face as stoic as when you first met him.

There’s no reading his expression when he looks like that.

“No.” Ryan says, searching his face. “Of course not.”

He gives you a small tight smile then gets to his feet with a sigh and a slap to his knee as his obviously tired body braces on it to rise.

“Alright, I'll be back after I’ve grabbed some fruit. Which direction?” He stops, wiping his hands on the front of his knee length cut offs.

“That way. About five minutes of a walk and then three minutes in. You can’t miss the trail. We go there every day.” You smile at him, a heavy weight in your chest as he nods and walks the way you’ve pointed.

You wait until he’s far away enough that he won’t hear you speak.

“You don’t get fruit for me. Liar.” You chastise and turn to look at Bucky but he’s scooting even closer, butt on the sand as he wraps his arms around your waist.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering and fluttering like an excited hummingbird’s wings.

He doesn’t see the way your face is wiped of all sensible thought. Bucky’s got his face buried against the soft flesh between your stomach and back, just above your hip.

“Thanks for trying to corroborate my lie.” He says into your side, saturating your skin with hot breath through your shirt.

Your skin erupts into chills despite the heat of the day.

“Wh-why did you lie?” You let your elbow rest behind his head, hands held up because of the blood.

Bucky looks up at you, blinking slowly before he looks at the strips of meat you’re preparing.

“I’m not ready to share you yet. You’re my stranded partner.” Bucky declares, once more knocking the wind from your lungs.

Forcing yourself to recover, you clear your throat and look at him brazenly sitting on the sand when you’d taken such care to have him sit on the blanket.

“Why are you getting your bandages dirty?” You growl, pushing past the pleasant flips his arms are giving your tummy.

“You put me too far.” He states, matter-of-factly. “Move my blanket closer, please?”

“So, what happened?” You wonder, shifting in your seat beside Bucky.

He’s on his stomach, laying with his calves on your lap, elbows supporting his torso as he lounges and watches Ryan across the fire.

Beside his hands is a little pile of stacked banana leaf pouches. Really, they’re just folded three times with the sides tucked in to hold the jerky you’d made yesterday.

Finally, you and Bucky get to take the time to really know Ryan, a whole day after he first burst through the trees of your camp.

“With the plane?” He raises his eyebrows, accented voice also rising in pitch.

You nod, tearing your eyes away from him to finish unwrapping Bucky’s bandages.

“I couldn’t tell ya.” Ryan confesses. “I know that the black box malfunctioned about an hour in flight. Then the storm tore up the plane, but we would have made it if it wasn’t for that explosion.”

You glance at Bucky, his face half hidden by his curtain of freshly washed hair.

The flicker of guilt in his expression doesn’t surprise you but you wish he wouldn’t blame himself.

Even if he is the reason that someone blew up your plane, he didn’t do it himself.

He relaxes as you slide your hand down tenderly along the hard curve of his right calf. The pads of your fingers doing so subtly so that Ryan won’t see.

He doesn’t need to know about Bucky and the plane.

When his eyes meet yours, he softens, losing the harsh glare that his conscience had summoned.

“How long were we flying off course?” Bucky turns to Ryan, his expression kinder but still a little guarded.

“How did ya know that-?” Ryan begins, brow furrowed.

“I’ve flown before.” He admits and in surprise you look at him.

“You have?” Your own curiosity is piqued as you begin to adjust the collection of Bucky Barnes facts that you’ve filed away to paint a clearer picture of who he is.

This man so soft suddenly under your touch. He looks at you and nods.

“When?”

“You’re a pilot?” Ryan cuts in, curious too.

��Not exactly.” Bucky admits, shifting so that he’s on his side but you reach up and push him back towards the left, hand curling around the shockingly rock muscles of his thigh.

“I’m not done with you yet.” You scowl, and slowly he settles back onto his stomach.

“So, you did it the wrong way?” Ryan asks, clearly disapproving that Bucky probably learned to fly without getting a license in the process.

“I didn’t have a choice.” Bucky replies, his voice even and calm, unoffended by the accusation in Ryan’s.

“Oh.” You whisper, realizing when he must have learned to fly.

You turn your gaze back to his calves and slide both bandages away. Gasping, you finger the puckered pink line, nearly completely healed. You hadn’t realized just how fast his body healed. No wonder he never gets sick and still looks as healthy as he did when you crashed here.

You continue to trace the wound, pretty sure it won’t even scar, and realize you’re smiling when you look towards his face and find him smiling softly too.

“So, how long?” Bucky reiterates, tearing his blue eyes away from you and back to Ryan.

“How long did we travel off course?” Ryan clarifies, leaning back against a piece of palm driftwood that you and Bucky had found some time ago.

Scratching his chin, beard probably making him itch, Ryan screws up his face as he ponders.

“Abou’ four hours? Perhaps longer? It was honestly just one thing malfunctioning after the other. It’s like someone had planned for the plane to go down.”

Of course, someone wanted to bring the plane down. You’re not sure how into the fold you want to bring Ryan. He’s been very nice and grateful for Bucky saving his life the past two days, but you don’t know him.

You try not to let the time flying off course worry you. “What happened? To you, I mean. We crashed and you…?”

Ryan continues to scratch underneath his chin. Bucky watches the movement. You continue to trace the puckered line of skin on Bucky’s calves and he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to move.

“Well, I landed in the water. I don’t know how I ended up so far but when I came to, I was soaking wet, layin’ face down on the beach of a small cove. There was a cave there and at first, I was too terrified to go in but when the weather changed, I had no choice.

“The hurricane hit, and I retreated into just the entrance but as the water in the cove rose, I was driven further and further inside. I thought I would find some animal, y’know? Get attacked and die there but instead I found myself coming out in the jungle at the other end of that cave.

“It’s like a long tunnel. I stayed there for several weeks. Sleepin’ in the cave but usin’ the jungle to forage for food.”

He must not have found much. You look his body over again. He’s wearing his t-shirt at least but even through it you can see the bulging curves of his arms. He’s fit.

Desperately you try to remember what he looked like before. He must have been bigger. He could have only lost muscle mass on the island.

“Then a few nights ago that monster raided my camp.” He says, pointing at the piles of jerky Bucky wrapped up for you.

“So, you didn’t know we were here?” You wonder, ceasing your tracing to simply hold Bucky’s calf.

You’re so aware of each inch of skin you’re touching.

“No. I thought I was the only survivor. You two are kind of a miracle for me. I thought I was going to die on this island alone.” His confession is genuine. The sheepish look he gives you and Bucky in turn is full of hope.

The idea of being on this island without Bucky had been so terrifying, you can understand what it was he’d been struggling with and for three months! You’d have gone crazy.

“We should divvy up the jerky.” You give Bucky’s calf a squeeze and he grabs them in stacks of two before offering them to Ryan, you, and keeping a small stack for himself.

There’s an extra one and you’re about to tell Bucky to keep it for himself because he’ll need it. He does a lot of the work around here, but he holds it out to Ryan before you can.

You watch as Ryan’s eyes widen a little. “Oh, no. You should take it. If the things that Y/N has told me about the work you do around here, you’ll need it more than I do.”

“Take it.” Bucky insists, no room for arguing. “Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

Bucky’s accelerated healing, the peak condition he seems to stay in, his near relentless stamina—he can handle less food, but you really want to give him everything. Cook him a steak. Buy him some pizza. French fries. Toast. Pancakes. Omelets. Tacos. Roast. A big beer. Does he like beer?

“Do you like beer?” You suddenly gasp.

Bucky blinks, confused, eyes on you. Ryan, leaning over taking the offered jerky packet also stares at you in confusion.

“What?” Bucky asks, a quiet chuckle making his voice rumble.

“I-” You stutter, slightly surprised at yourself for just coming out with it. “Nothing. I’m going to bed.”

“Wait,” Bucky protests, moving to get up but you lift his calves and fold them up towards his butt which pushes him back down and he gives a small oof. “Y/N.”

You scramble up, eager to get out of sight so that you can fret and be flustered alone.

“Good night.” You call back towards the two men.

“G’night.” Ryan replies, still sounding confused.

“Y/N!” Bucky calls again but you duck into the fuselage where you can’t be seen.

*****

Bucky’s heart is still pounding.

Sitting across from Ryan, Bucky’s distracted state doesn’t worry him. He doesn’t care what Ryan thinks.

That look in your eyes when you’d asked him if he liked beer…it was just a question. A simple yes or no question that he could have answered quickly but there was more in that question. More behind it.

That nervous look on your face after. The way you’d run away. Bucky wants so desperately to follow after you, but he can’t. Last night had been torture. Tonight, will also suck.

With Ryan here, and you the only woman, things suddenly feel different. Sleeping with you in the fuselage means something different now that he’s here so he’s been sleeping out here with him.

“Have you two been together since the crash?” Ryan’s query pulls Bucky from his thoughts, his heart slowly settling.

“Yeah. We were sitting together when the plane went down.” Bucky nods, watching the new addition settle against the driftwood.

“You two seem close.” Ryan observes. “Really close.”

“Almost dying with someone can do that.” Bucky shrugs. “We are.”

“You think she likes ya?”

Bucky’s limbs freeze, his heart in sudden arrest. What is this guy asking? “Of course, she does. After three months together, it would be weird if she didn’t like me. I like her to.”

“No.” Ryan shakes his head, settling in on the floor, small blanket pulled up along his chest.

He yawns, shutting his eyes as he gives in and Bucky can see his body relaxing, muscles melting despite the hard surface of the ground. Ryan isn’t used to the work that you and Bucky have been doing, the routine you’ve got going.

“I mean, does she have a boyfriend off the island? A husband? Someone waitin’ for her back home?” Ryan clarifies and Bucky really didn’t need it but he’s glad to have it.

He’s very tempted to say yes. That you’re taken in some way officially. That Ryan can’t have you…but…

“No.” He shakes his head, “She’s alone. I think there’s an ex in the city where we were going but no one she’s currently with.”

“I see.” Ryan says sleepily, a slow stretch of his lips curling his golden beard. “Good.”

Bucky frowns.

“Good…” Ryan repeats, dozing off.

Bucky sits there, staring at their intruder because that’s what he is.

Running his flesh hand through his hair, Bucky stresses over knowing he shouldn’t resent Ryan. He’s like them. A survivor. Human. He knows that they need each other. He knows that he should welcome him and make room for him but…not with you.

You’re special. You’re his survivor buddy. That doesn’t mean anything does it? That doesn’t claim you as his own. Bucky doesn’t want to think it. He can’t let himself think it. It’s only been days since you found out about who he really is but with your reaction to that news, more than ever he feels pulled towards you.

But he has no claim to you! He can’t even call you his survivor buddy anymore because there’s more survivors now. There’s fucking Ryan!

“Damn it.” Bucky whispers, irritated and not completely sure why.

Ryan rolls away from Bucky, tucking himself in against the driftwood beside him.

This is his chance.

He props his leg up, resting his arm on his knee as he considers Ryan for a few more seconds.

Fuck this.

He gets up, moving silently towards the fuselage. He places each step carefully. Each movement calculated and readjusted until he reaches the fuselage.

Inside, he can see you laying on his side of the makeshift bed. You’re asleep, your face twisted into a small frown as you curl up into yourself.

You look so small, alone in your bed, and Bucky had only thought to come in and make sure you’re alright but instead he’s kneeling on the edge before he even makes the conscious decision to do so.

With a sleepy groan you turn towards him, sleepily opening your eyes to stare up at him.

“Whassa matter?” You ask him groggily.

“Nothing, kitty cat. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Bucky sighs, relieved that you’ve been sleeping since you left them around the fire.

He watches you blink slowly, sleep attempting to pull you under once again but you’re fighting it.

“M’fine.” You whisper, “’R you gonna leave me again?”

The way those words make Bucky’s chest cave in astounds him. It hurts but it also makes him wanna smile.

“No.” He quickly lays himself down, facing you.

You’re scooting towards him before he’s even completely down and he pulls you into his arms as you bring your hands to rest against his chest. You wrap your bare legs through his, pulling him closer so that he might wrap you up tighter.

“We’re gonna need two rooms in the hut.” Bucky realizes, whispering against your hair.

“You’ll be in mine, right?” You ask him, tilting your head up to look at him. “I don’t wanna sleep alone, Bucky.”

Frowning, Bucky watches your sleep dazed and sweet expression. His mind flashes with the nearly forgotten memories of a dozen different female lips pressed against his own and none of them had looked as tempting as yours in this very moment.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” He’s nearly ready to be heartbroken when you say yes, but then you wouldn’t be letting him hold you like this, would you?

“Why would I be afraid of you?” You ask, genuinely confused.

Bucky almost loses it when you reach up with your right hand to press it against his cheek, then bury your face against his neck. He can nearly feel your lips ghosting against the skin of his Adam’s apple and if you weren’t so sleepy, he might be tempted to admit what he’s been so reluctant to admit.

“You’re my Bucky.” You whisper, voice drifting off into slumber.

Damn it.

There’s no way he can keep denying this. He wants you. He needs you. You and your fragility and your weaknesses and your temper and your inability to listen when you’ve got your mind set on something.

Bucky knows that there’s no denying it anymore.

He likes you. He likes you a lot.

Holding you tighter, he finally relents, “You’re mine too, kitty cat. All mine.”

Buy Me a Coffee!

Forever Tag List - CLOSED! @jessieray98 @crist1216 @rainbowkisses31 @xxloki81xx @the-wayward-robot @quokkatrash @tiffanynguyen03 @basementcafe @kind-sober-fullydressed @moli1497 @badassbaker @awkwardfangirl2014 @shield-agent78 @supernaturaldean67 @sea040561 @jewelofwinter @this-side-of-midnight5 @sebbystanlover-vk @just4muggles @death-unbecomes-you @lilulo-12 @whosmarisaaarw @hiddles-rose @pandazlazykid @alagalaska @theonelittleone @xlittlestarling @moonlessnight14 @natura1phenomenon @pineapplebooboo @spaghettirogers @dsakita @sincerelytlh @booklover2929 @lovefreylove @just-trying-to-survive-marvel @vulpecula-minor @the-real-mary-jane @babytrollgirl @wildefire @fairislesheets @mother-of-fire-snakes @xrosegoldwolfx @queenoftheunderdark @mrsdeanwinchester19 @thefridgeismybestie @mcuwillbethedeathofme @peaceinourtime82 @baebeepeach @teller258316 @juustpeachy420 @libbymouse

A World of Our Own - CLOSED! @photography-to-all @badassbaker @when-bucky-smiles @kulteule @void-imaginations @hiken-no-stark @buckybarneshairpullingkink @littlemissporter @wintersgirl69 @the-goddess-of-mischief @guera31 @moonstruckhargrove @twentysomethingloser92 @mrsdeanwinchester19 @sarcasm-myfriend @hardygal69 @allonszassbutt @31shadesofbrown @marvelzme @postredetucora @blindedbyyourgrace17 @the-soulless-spider @let-bucky-say-fuck @aveatquevale- @loudherobanditgarden @cookies186 @mmyepic @wiplop @mrsgoodnight @i-fear-neither-death-nor-pain @minorchorde @space-helen @viarogers @creepylittlemarvelgirl @ultimatesadboi @mysticallandmaker @marvelrevival @wxstedhexrt @capwinterbarnes @jensfolly @past-perfect-future-tense @kiki5283 @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mightymissmarvel @bva14 @obama-mia @chubby-dumplin @the-yellow-girl96 @amazonianbeauty @chuumimi @fairytaleprincess8314 @katecolleen

Bucky Taglist @mood-pancakes @polar-bear-pjs @darkdragonpheonix @sebbbystaaan @lostinthoughts23

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

Text

A World of Our Own Pt.03

A Streak of Blood

08/12/2019

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 5,863

Masterpost Warnings: blood, gashes, wounds, slight angst, Bucky in boxers

Prompt: Castaway AU

A/N: I really don’t know how long I’m going to make this story. I kinda just wanna keep exploring it so please bear with me. I’m really enjoying this version of Bucky and I’m super intrigued by this helpless reader whose personality is less apologetic about it. She knows she’s a struggle but she owns it, I think. I hope you’re liking it. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Bucky sits with his back to you, back all taut and tense. His muscles tied up in nervous knots.

You’ve been staring at him for almost half an hour, saying nothing.

He plays back your reaction again. The immediate reaction because technically this thing you’re doing, sitting there, staring at him is still part of your reaction.

He’s finally told you the truth. After three months of learning to live with you, actually not minding it at all. He’d become accustomed to your voice in his ear, your warm usually sticky—with sweat—body pressed against him in the confines of the fuselage.

Your breath tickling either his neck or collarbone, or his back when you spooned up behind him.

Throughout the day, he'd made sure to only touch you when it was appropriate or what he likes to think of as relevant to the situation. But at night…when the two of you play the day over and wonder together, usually in absolute silence, whether you’ll be stuck on this island forever…he understands the need to feel him.

He’s needed to feel you too. You’re proof that the world exists beyond the shallow shores of the island.

So, at bedtime, when the jungle wakes up and the two of you settle in to sleep, he didn’t pull back when you'd grabbed his metal wrist.

You'd lifted his arm up and over your head as you slid into the crook between his arm and his side, pulling his arm around your shoulders as you let go and wrapped yours around his stomach.

At first he'd laid there, tense like he is now. Uncomfortable with the intimacy of your touch.

Then the next night it had felt less strange. Night after night you grabbed his metal wrist—he's still kind if…not surprised but something close to it, taken aback a bit but also touched that you don’t seem to fear his arm or pay it much mind. To you it seems to he just that, his arm—and wrapped it around your soft humid body until finally, around a month after you’d started doing it, he would open it for you.

He offered you the space against his side willingly. Almost looking forward to the skin to skin contact. He finds himself, even now, missing it.

He doesn’t really think it’s anything romantic.

Okay, yes, fuck—sometimes he watches you swim or work gathering coconuts or fruit and he stares at the expose plush flesh of your thighs or the curve of your back to your bottom.

He's only a man after all. Human.

He looks. Often. But he doesn’t touch.

However the urge to touch you is deeper than lust or like or love. It’s human and he almost needs the contact and conversation to function.

Which is strange because he’s been alone for a long time before. He’d craved the solitude.

With you…knowing you’re close by. He needs you. After three months of enjoying the ways you need him. He realizes right now, as you sit behind him, staring that he needs you.

He hopes that confessing the truth hasn’t driven you away. What would he do?

“Listen…” He finally says, voice low and gravelly. He clears it, shoving his nerves down. “…if you hate me now, I get it. If I hadn’t been on your flight you probably would have made it back to the States with no problem and you’d be home, safe. So, hate me.”

He thinks quickly, what can he offer you?

“I'll finish the hut and you can stay here on the beach. I’ll got to the fuselage but…can-" He hesitates. “Can I still come and eat meals with you? I won’t talk to you. I’ll just eat and go. And I’ll keep lighting the beach fire so you don’t have to.”

That’s not too much to ask, is it?

He feels off. Exposed. Vulnerable. He doesn’t like it.

He scowls, his brow dark, his eyes glaring at the muck of clay he’s almost got to the right viscosity.

“Or…never mind.” He nearly growls. “Forget-"

He feels soft burning fingers slide across the back of his bare shoulders.

He turns, almost desperately happy at your touch but he also doesn’t know what it means. He keeps his face stoic, despite the elation he’s feeling.

You squat down next to him, the rays of the sun shining down directly over the two of you. Here in the shade of the palms, the light flickers across your dewy skin making it look like it’s glowing.

Sparkling fish scales across your soft sweaty skin. You’re wearing your dress again. The one he’d torn and it rides up along your thighs. He wants to look—damn it, he’s having a guy moment because thinking about you pushing him away is making him want to appreciate your presence all the more violently—but he also can’t bear to turn away from your stern face.

“Bucky…” You begin, breath taken in and held as your pretty lips part.

Fuck. Bucky. Get it together.

“Yeah?” His own stoic gaze betrays nothing.

He knows how to keep himself closed off. How to pretend. Like a pro. Thanks, Hydra.

“S-Start from the beginning.” Your stutter is not from fear but uncertainty. Confusion. “Why have you killed a lot of people and who would be pissed enough to want to blow you to pieces?”

“Y/N,” Bucky looks back at his clay coated hands and tilts his head, shaking it slightly as he thinks about his story.

He’s never had to tell it before. Steve and Sam had known. The rest of the team either didn’t care or spent their time away and didn’t need to know.

“It kind of a long story. It could take forever.” An exaggeration but it’s his life. It feels like he’s lived it for ages. In a way, he has.

“Bucky,” You gasp a chuckle, your hand dropping from his back as you settle down on your bottom, straight on the heated sand and dirt. “We’re on a deserted probably uncharted island, with no sign of upcoming rescue. We’ve got time.”

Bucky turns his steel blue gaze back to you, searching your face for a hint as to whether you’re leaning more towards hating him or not but like him, you’re stoic.

“Right…” He inhales long and slow, then releases the breath as he begins to knead again. “Well, if I’m gonna start from the beginning, then I should probably start with when I was born.”

You frown. “What? Why does that matter?”

He can see in your expression that you think he’s being melodramatic.

He licks his lips, avoiding your gaze as he shrugs his right shoulder. “Because…I was born in 1917 so by record I'm one-O-six but because of the Snap…”

“You’re a hundred and two years old?!” Your voice squeaks as you slowly stand, staring down at him as he looks right back up at you and he suddenly realizes you too went through the Snap.

Had you survived or had you returned in the Blip too? He’s so fucking curious now but…you want to know about him. He'll have to be patient.

“How the fuck?!” You nearly screech in shock.

Bucky winces.

Bucky’s layering the crevices of the hut’s foundation with clay. Using his fingers then running the clay down through the long strips of bending bamboo with a new makeshift metal trowel.

This one is flatter, specifically made to spread the clay flat, like jam on toast.

He takes a handful of clay, smears it against the floor in a long slow line so that he can fill as much of it with clay as possible. He wipes the excess off on a piece of the torn-up suit he’d found in that one carry-on, stuffed into the waistband of his boxers, before flattening the trowel against the long lumpy line to smoosh it down into the split between the bamboo logs.

He twists around, scooping more clay into his hand out of the metal bucket he’d made when they’d first landed on the island, and turns to smear it along the next crevice only to find you laying on your stomach, feet swinging casually back and forth, crossed at the ankles. You’ve got your arms on the floor in a bow shape, one hand on top of the other and your chin resting gently on both of them.

He jumps, gasping quietly, not having heard you shift into place.

“Jesus…”

“When did you fall from the train?” You ask him, your eyes all pure and innocent, unaware of the scare you just gave him.

“Ffff…” He has to stop himself from swearing because you’re looking at him, eager for info. The twinkle in your eye is confusing.

What does it mean? Curiosity is what it reminds him off but what kind? He’s not sure whether you believe him completely yet about how he’d come to be Bucky Barnes again. Ex-Winter Soldier. Avenger.

Or, he would have been an Avenger had he gotten back to New York.

“Nineteen forty-five.” He says, voice cracking a little in his low tone as his heart evens out.

You’re surprisingly quiet. Like a cat. Scary.

A word that Bucky had never thought he’d think about you but ever since you sat behind him on the beach, staring daggers until you’d finally gotten up and asked him to tell you his story, he’s seen you with new eyes.

Wary eyes.

He’s lowered his guard around you so much since landing on this stupid island. He forgot what it felt like to be this accessible. When had the last time been? With Steve?

You narrow your eyes. Brow knit together as you roll your lips in to clench them shut as you think. He can see you thinking a million things. Or maybe just one.

I can’t trust that guy. Maybe? Bucky hates feeling like this. He hates not knowing.

He doesn’t like guessing.

Why can’t he just know?

“Okay.” You suddenly say, then get back up and head down the ramp he’d built, towards the large signal fire to start putting fresh dried fronds so that it’ll be easier to light when the sun starts to set.

This isn’t the last time that this happens.

As he’s walking back towards the hut, carrying two bionically crafted metal buckets full of water, you pop out from behind a tree, swinging around it like you’re lost in thought but your eyes meet his.

“Shhh…” Bucky begins but manages to stop himself again.

His heart races, water sloshing as his feet stutter to a stop. Watching you hold onto the palm with your right hand as you stare at him inquisitively, pensive. Concentrating.

“Y/N, I really need you to stop doing that.” He tells you sternly, face kept as stoic as possible so that you won’t notice his surprise.

How the hell are you sneaking up on him?

“Why didn’t you remember Steve?” You wonder, that brow of yours furrowed again as you wait for his answer.

“I…” He hesitates, thinking back to the moment he’d seen Steve on the streets in Washington.

It’s like a blurry watercolor. He remembers it vaguely now. That part of his brain so addled that he has to focus to remember the rocked expression on Steve’s face.

“Bucky?” Steve had gasped, completely nonplussed by the sight of his formerly thought deceased best friend. For some reason, Bucky remembers a smudge of gunpowder and soot from explosions on his cheek, and a soft dusting of it on the left side of his neck.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Bucky had asked.

He shuts his eyes for a second, trying to retain the memory. Clinging to the small details like the smudge to draw out the bigger picture.

“I was brainwashed, and Hydra had wiped my mind.” Bucky explains, opening his eyes to look at you, only to find you standing closer with your hands behind your back.

You’re staring up at him with those focused eyes. Unrelenting in their indiscernible sparkle. What is that?

“Why would they do that?” You wonder, voice sharp with annoyance.

“I guess it made it easier to control me. Nothing to hold me back, no personal attachments, no weaknesses.”

“Hm.” You hum, then turn and head back towards the beach leaving him itching to know your own thoughts.

*****

He’s walking back to the hut, munching on a banana, mouth full. His cheeks are completely stuffed. He turns to move around the large slate gray boulder, eroded along the bottom when the tide comes in, but you spring out from the other side so suddenly that he drops his banana and sputters around the white mush in his mouth.

He’s coughing, bits of banana flying out of his mouth as he places his metal hand on the boulder and hunches over, choking.

He can already see you talking but he can’t hear you over himself.

You don’t even flinch as a sticky bit of banana covered in his spit flies at you and lands on your cheek.

He gasps, flesh hand on his chest, struggling to move past the constriction of his throat.

“You okay?” You ask, brow furrowed in what looks like annoyance but also a small bit of concern.

“Eeehyeah.” He squeaks. “What were you saying?”

“You were captured in World War II?”

Bucky stares at you, his eyes trained on that muck of his banana on your cheek. He hesitates but then reaches out—and he fully expects you to cringe, pull away from him—cups the left side of your face and with his thumb quickly wipes it away.

“Er…yeah.”

“And Captain America—Steve?” Bucky nods at you. “Steve saved you?”

“Yes.” He replies with trepidation, embarrassed about spitting on you but also nervous about your question.

“Hmmm.” You reply. “Okay.”

You turn and leave him, staring down in slight depression over his now sand covered banana.

*****

All day you continue to jump out from hidden spots or from behind trees or suddenly poking your head over the hut’s foundation when he’s just reached the edge and scaring the shit out of him. Spouting off various questions about his story.

Nothing about just one particular thing. They’re all random so he can’t even decipher what’s got you so preoccupied. You ask about how he killed people, how many at a time, to whether he remembered how it felt to be taken over and whether he’d ever attempted to fight it.

You even asked him what his favorite place to have visited had been to date. Of course, Wakanda was at the top of that list.

“Nothing from when you were the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky had just shaken his head. He remembers the blood not the setting. The kill, not the people. When he’d explained that to you, you’d answered with another, “Oh. Okay.” And wandered off.

He tilts his head back, playing the day over and trying to decide whether this reaction of yours is good or bad. He honestly doesn’t know. He can’t tell. He’s completely baffled by you and he doesn’t think there’s going to be any resolution to his dilemma.

The water in the stream is cool and feels like bliss against his skin. Taking a bath right now had been a good choice. He’s been working hard all day and even though he can take the workload, he’s exhausted again.

Physically exhausted. A nice change of pace for his usual dire emotional state.

Tomorrow, he’ll start on the walls. Four of them. He’s not sure they need more than one room. They’ve already had to change in front of each other. He’s seen your body.

Quick nervous glances stolen at you to see if you were finished dressing or undressing over the past three months. Bucky knows the silhouette of your naked body by heart.

He licks his lips absentmindedly as he thinks about your figure this morning, no pants on, just your t-shirt. Standing on the beach in the glaring sunlight making your form black in shadow. He can’t see anything about it only the outline of it. Then you pull off your shirt and turn to toss it aside, twisting your body towards him to do so, exposing the hard, pebbled tips of your breasts.

What the hell are you thinking about, Bucky? He chastises himself, cheeks flaming underneath his beard.

He’d only seen the outline but damn if he doesn’t know what they look like. He’d gotten a good view that day you’d been upset about his admission to the unlikelihood of your rescue.

He climbs out of the tub, closes his eyes, pulling his pants on and then his shirt over his head as he stands there still slightly damp from his bath. He wills himself to stop thinking about your beautiful body.

It’s difficult. Three months on this island with you. Holding you when you sleep. Watching you during the day to make sure you’re safe. Listening to your lame jokes. Hearing you laugh and giggle and whine and cry. You’re all that Bucky already thinks about. That and rescue but you’re the most prominent.

Wanting you…sexually…Bucky wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t let himself think about it because it can’t happen. It won’t.

Just because you’re the only woman on this island with him doesn’t mean that you’ll sleep with him. Besides, it’s been so long since he’s been with anyone like that, Bucky wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he got you in that position.

Or any position. He thinks salaciously.

He growls. Hating the images that flash through his head because he won’t ever get to make them so why think about them?

Maybe two rooms would be best? Five walls. After what he’s told you, maybe you don’t want to see him.

Making a sharp turn on the balls of his feet, he makes to head back to the fuselage only to have you crash against his chest.

“Damn it!” He nearly shouts.

Your hands push him back slowly as his heart races in surprise again.

“Why do you keep doing that?!” He demands.

“You killed all those people because they made you do it, right? Hydra?” You ask, face tired, eyes softer but that sparkle still shines through.

Why do they look like that? What does it mean? Bucky’s so tired of you doing this to him.

“Yes.” He shoves past you, irritated beyond words at this seemingly endless barrage of questions. “This is getting really annoying, so what else do you wanna know? Get it all out. Let’s get this over with.”

He can hear you trying to keep pace with his long gait and he almost feels bad but he’s too upset. If you’re going to tell him you can’t be around him, he wishes you’d just do it quickly. All at once. What’s the point of asking him all these questions when it seems you’ve already made up your mind?

You haven’t talked to him once, except to ask him these random questions. You haven’t touched him all day, except for right now to push him away.

He’s already missing the way your body feels pressed against his side. The comfort that he hadn’t known he would need, lost to him because he couldn’t just keep it to himself that he was a former assassin.

“How did you get better?” You ask, breathless.

“The King of Wakanda and his sister helped me get the programming out.” He explains shortly.

“Why did they sever your arm?”

“It was already mangled up, they just cut off more.” Now she’s asking about his arm? Does she hate that too?

“Do you remember them? The people you killed?”

Here Bucky actually hesitates. He’d once told someone that he remembers every single one, but he doesn’t remember them all. Not really. He remembers the blood. The pleas for help. The satisfaction as the mission was over. Then the cold of his slumber.

Only a few faces stick out to him. The important ones. The ones that he can never forgive himself for. They were all unforgivable but some…some he could never make up for. It was too late.

He’d lost his chance. He can never tell him that he’s sorry now. That if he could take it back, he would. That he hadn’t meant to ruin his life. That if he wanted revenge, he understood and this time, Steve can’t stand in the way.

“Yes.” Bucky answers, because he can remember them. Just not their faces. Or their names. It wasn’t really a lie what he’d said. In his heart, they’re all there. Reminding him of the choices he never had a chance to make.

“Are you completely better?”

Bucky rounds on you, his heart aching painfully at this question with its implication that he might hurt you. The idea that he could be the source of danger on the island for you. How dare you!

After he’d done nothing but be there for you. Keep you safe. Feed you. Build you shelter. He’d helped you.

“I don’t know!” He shouts. “No. Yes, I could kill you. I could wake up strangling you. What’s the point of asking me all these questions, Y/N? You already know what you wanna do, so just do it and save us both the time.

“I’ll get my stuff and sleep outside. Give you your space. When I finish the hut, I’ll move you in over there and come back here.” He promises, then turns to head into the circle of flickering orange light of the camp by the fuselage.

He makes a mental note. Four walls.

A soft warm hand closes around his metal wrist and he stops, turning to see you looking up at him.

*****

You tighten your hand around his wrist, a terrible fear building inside of your chest.

You. Alone. Until the end of your days on the island.

“Please don’t leave me.” You beg, taking your other hand and wrapping that one around his metal wrist too.

All day you’ve thought about what he says they did to him and what he did, and you’ve tried to be scared of him but…it’s Bucky!

You shrug.

Bucky who sprung into action when you first crash landed on this stupid island and kept you safe during a hurricane. Bucky who carved and flattened out a path for you and made you a tub and taught you to fish with a spear and tried to think of every possible way to get you off the island even going so far as to send out something as silly as a message in a bottle.

Bucky who is building you a hut on the beach. Bucky who laughs at your lame jokes—"What’s black and white, and red all over? A penguin with a sunburn."—and doesn’t shame you after you’ve thrown a tantrum because you’re so tired of mangoes and bananas and those oranges that sometimes taste like limes that you’re pretty sure aren’t oranges but neither of you knows what they are.

He doesn’t judge you when you cry into his chest at night when you wake up and look around after dreaming you’re back home only to find that you’re still on the island.

Bucky your savior.

“I-I know that you think what you did was bad, and it is…killing people is bad but Bucky…you’re-" You take a shaky breath and step closer, sliding your hand down and intertwining your fingers with his.

His hand responds eagerly, wrapping your smaller hand up and squeezing it with just enough pressure. It’s just the two of you here. This is the truth that never leaves your mind. He’s all you have. And even if there were eighty other people on this island, you’re staring to realize that Bucky is all you’d want either way.

“-you're my hero, Bucky. You saved me. Over and over again. I would be dead by now if you hadn’t been here with me. I would have died that first night.”

He parts those pretty, pouty pink lips. He still looks so absolutely healthy thanks to what you now know is those experiments that they ran on him back when he’d been capture in World War II.

His body is slightly browner. A golden tan compared to the pale peach he'd been when the two of you had found yourselves stranded but it fits him well.

When he blushes, it nearly kills you, his steel blue eyes dazzle you on a daily basis.

No. You can’t live without Bucky. On the island? You’d die. If you ever get rescued…you just might beg him to let you follow him around because you’re almost certain that what you’re feeling…

No. This is about the island. Don’t, Y/N. Don’t think it.

“Stay with me. I don’t care what you did. All I know is what you’ve shown me and you’re my only hope. I need you.” You confess, which is not what you know you feel but close enough without the selfish demands that what you really feel would put on him. “I want you here. Stay with me.”

You watch Bucky’s upset face jump from relieved to shocked to touched, back to confused which is how he’s been looking at you all day, and then finally as you tell him you need him, he softens.

This is Bucky as you like him best. That sweet look in his eyes, those healthy lips curved up into a soft smile.

He tightens his hand around yours, flexing his wrist to pull you even closer.

It takes your breath away as you’re suddenly standing inches from his chest, but he releases your hand and wraps his arms around you, pulling you to him.

Impossible flutters fill your stomach, warmth engulfs your heart.

“Of course, I’ll stay with you.” He promises to your heart’s great relief. “Of course.”

You smile into his shoulder and inhale that earthy and spicy musk of his. Damp sliced oak with a unique and exotic tang that fills your body with the promise of its burn.

You wrap your arms around him, eager to go to bed so that you can lay in his without excuse.

It’s how the two of you sleep now and you need it like you need fresh water.

He holds you for probably too long, but you don’t care.

When he finally releases you, the two of you make your way back towards the fuselage, hands now resolutely kept to yourselves.

You cook the fish that you’d caught earlier in the afternoon, and the two of you eat in giddy silence.

When bedtime finally rolls around, Bucky lays himself down first. As always, he lays against the wall of the fuselage, one hand underneath the almost flattened travel pillows that the two of you had salvaged from the plane crash. The other hand rests on his thigh.

He’s gone ahead and pulled his shirt and pants off leaving him in his boxers. It’s too hot in the fuselage for lots of clothes. You quickly peel off your own pants but keep the sleeveless shirt that you’d cut from an old t-shirt on, then settle in beside him.

You lay on your back at first and stare up at the sky through the fuselage window. The sky is glittering with stars. You turn to look at Bucky after a few minutes, staring up at his sleeping face for a few seconds before turning back to the stars.

Usually you take his metal arm and wrap it around you but that’s when he sleeps on his back. He’s never slept on his side like this before. Not at first.

You’re not sure how to prompt his arms around you. You need him to hold you. Assassin or not, he’s going to be an Avenger. Or already is? Or working for them? Either way, he’s good. Of that you’re absolutely sure.

You’d known it before he’d made his confession.

“Bucky?” You whisper, afraid of waking him because he’s been working so hard today.

“Mm?” He asks, maybe not as asleep as you thought?

“We do need to talk about what happened on the plane at some point though.” You begin. “The bomb? And the fact that it was only us?”

“Mm.” He agrees, jaw growing more and more slack.

“Bucky?”

“What?” He asks, slowly, a slight hint of frustration in his tone.

He’s sleepy…but you can’t help it! You haven’t talked to him all day. You’d had other stuff on your mind before his admittance to his perceived responsibility in the crashing of the plane.

“Do-Do you want me to help you trim your beard? It’s getting long.” You reach up without thinking and stroke the left side of his face with your right hand.

You touch only beard but there’s a small inhale from Bucky anyway.

“Tomorrow.” He replies, slightly less annoyed. “Go to sleep.”

You take your hand back and turn to stare out at the sky again. For five minutes you lay in absolute silence, itching to ask him a million other things about the hut and what he’s planning on adding to it or if there will be two rooms—please don’t let there be two rooms—or if it’ll be just like here in the fuselage but with more space?

You wanna know if he liked the fish or if he’d prefer if you cooked it differently. Should you just keep working on the thatch for the roof or does he want you to help with the clay too? Is there anything else you can build or help make? You’re not that handy but you can learn fairly quickly.

If he’s willing to teach you, you can pick anything up. You just need to focus.

“Bucky?”

“Ugh! Y/N, go to sleep. I’m tired.” He begs, this time clearly annoyed.

“Sorry.” You sigh, turning onto your own left so that you won’t be tempted to talk again.

You shut your eyes, squeeze them tight and remind yourself that he did promise to stay with you.

He might find you annoying but at least he’s willing to stay with you. Put up with you and all the shit you must put him through.

With a shaking sigh, you will your body to relax and sleep.

“Why do you have to ask so many questions?” Bucky asks, wrapping his right arm around your stomach.

He pulls you back towards him, tucking you against his chest and nuzzles his nose into your hair on the back of your head.

His voice is so low, so deep, your stomach flips several times in nervous flutters.

“I’m sorry.” You repeat, whispering because he’s so quiet.

He suddenly knees your legs, pushing them up until you’ve got them folded, curling in against your body.

He pulls you closer, wrapping you up in both arms like a small ball, shaping his body to yours as he inhales deeply, then exhales slowly.

“Tomorrow, you can ask me whatever you want.” He promises, and for a split second, you think you feel the soft press of two plush lips against the nape of your neck.

Your heart goes into arrest as you try and figure out if that really happened. Did Bucky kiss you? Or maybe it just felt like it because he’s holding you so close?

“Sleep.” He orders.

You shut your eyes, and dream about whether Bucky had indeed kissed you or if it was only wishful thinking.

There’s a loud clatter. The sound of foliage being trampled.

Everything happens so quickly that it all happens both in perfect clarity and in a blur.

Bucky springs from around you, running towards the entrance of the fuselage, grabbing the spear by the entrance.

The sharpened metal from the plane glints in the dying embers of the fire as Bucky plants himself in front of the fuselage entrance protectively.

“Bucky?” You squeak, terrified.

“Stay inside.” Bucky orders and the next second you hear a loud keening cry.

It’s beastly but high pitched and it curls your bones into shards as fear makes your heart pound.

You hear other shouts. A man.

“Help!” He cries, loudly and you recognize the voice from the announcements before the plane had taken off after you’d just boarded instantly.

“Bucky!” You gasp, “The other pilot!”

“Stay here!” He calls to you as he takes off at a run.

He doesn’t get far as the pilot comes barreling through the trees, blonde hair disheveled and covered in muck. His pilot’s uniform is torn around the knees and ankles, his shirt sleeves ripped off. He’s dirty and beaten.

He doesn’t look nearly as good as you and Bucky do.

“What is it?” Bucky demands as the pilot turns and scrambles back away from the trees he’d just come from.

He’s headed right for the fuselage entrance and you’re already waiting at the edge.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, as he crosses into the shelter.

“What is it?” Bucky demands from him, but his question is answered just as he gets back to his feet.

That same wild, keening cry pierces the night, closer and louder. He’s suddenly thrown off of his feet, calling out in pain as he falls to the ground.

“Bucky!” You cry, terrified for him, because he has to be safe. Always.

He gets back up and as he turns around to face what knocked him over, your eyes find the frenzied eyes of a boar, large goring tusks stained red with blood.

You wheel back to the pilot who is shaking beside you in terror, but all of his clothes is dry. No red spots.

Bucky.

Courage floods you and you hurry to go to him, but he shouts at you.

“Stay back!”

You freeze as the boar comes barreling towards Bucky again.

This time he’s ready for it. He dives for one of the makeshift ropes you’d made from the various fabrics and palm fronds you’d been tearing apart and catches the boar around the back two hooves.

He dives on top of it, breaks his spear head off and then glides the glinting metal across the boar’s throat.

Vivid red splashes along the dirt as the animal’s cry is cut short. Bucky slides off it’s back and lays beside it, breathing heavily with the effort it took to hold it down.

You race to his side, heart thrumming wildly in your chest as your hands ceaselessly slide from his shoulders down to his arms, chest, sides, hips, thighs, and it’s on his calves where you find the deep gashes from the boar’s skewering.

“Bucky…” You begin, worried.

“I’ll heal, kitty cat.” He assures you.

He reaches up to stroke your left cheek with his right hand, inadvertently leaving a shocking streak of red boar’s blood.

“You’re so stupid.” You nearly growl at him, angry because he’s trying to play these cuts off.

You flatten your hands against as much of them as you can and frown at him.

“I know. On the plus side, we can have some bacon in the morning.” He smiles.

“I hate you.” You spit at him.

He chuckles. “I know.”

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

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A World of Our Own Pt.02

A Shift in the Wind

08/06/2019

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 5,768

Masterpost Warnings: Language, nudity, SNAKES, Bucky building things

Prompt: Castaway AU

A/N: 2nd part for @ruckystarnes ‘s Summer of AUs Challenge. This is really fun. I’m having lots of fun with this one. I knew I’d enjoy this AU but I didn’t realize how much. I hope you all like this second chapter. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work. xoxo Let me know what you think and what you liked!

Sharing a bed with Bucky is one of those things that in theory sounds like a dream come true.

He’s hot. He’s ridiculously stupid hot.

You have never in your life spoken to a man as hot as Bucky Barnes, much less been invited to share a small shelter and sleep on the same bed as one.

You know you’re staring.

The cling of moisture in the never dry air of the island coaxes small droplets of sweat from behind your ears, the small nooks and crannies of your body, making your freshly showered body feel sticky again.

Bucky’s sitting across from you on the other side of the fire, cross-legged, empty food trays piled up beside him for washing, he’d said. The light of the fire dances across his handsome face, licking and soaking up amber waves of light to make him more dazzling. Your gaze is trained on him as your mind forages for clues as to the man that he might have possibly been away from this deserted place.

Focused, he doesn’t spare you a glance, silver in the night eyes quickly moving from the supplies he’s gathered around him. Your eyes wander down to his hands, watching the purposeful movements with awe.

He’s holding a thin sheet of metal about the size of a small plate. He pulls a short thick stick from somewhere beside him. There’s a rattle of noise, telling you there are more in what must be a small pile out of sight.

He places the stick about a quarter of the way down the piece of metal and holds it there. With his right hand he holds it still, and with his left—the bionic arm—he makes a fist around the handle, the metal sheet sandwiched between the two.

With the metal now wrapped around the stick, he goes about bending and breaking the sheet, curling it in on itself and making what resembles an arrowhead with the tip cut away and made blunt.

“Here.” He says, holding the tool out to you.

You scramble forward, moving around the fire to his left to take hold of what he offers.

“Use it when you go to the bathroom. Make sure you dig a deep hole.”

“Dig?” You look down at the tool and realize he’s made you a hand trowel. “Oh.”

He goes about making another one, his gaze never meeting yours, so you just continue to stare.

For fifteen minutes you watch him work, feeling increasingly inadequate as he displays his ability to survive and overcome any situation.

What do you have to offer him? What can you do to help? You want to help. You can’t just sit by and let him take care of you.

You put your trowel down and reach for the dirty plates from your dinner. They’re plastic and will hold up for a while.

“I’ll go wash these.” You announce proudly.

Washing dishes is definitely something you can do.

“No!” Bucky nearly shouts, placing his hands over the pile to keep you from touching it.

You freeze, staring at him as he finally turns those steel blue eyes to yours.

“No. I’ll do them later.” He assures you.

“But I wanna help.” You explain, eyeing the dishes almost forlornly. “Let me help you.”

“No.” Bucky insists.

“Why not?” You ask, somewhat upset. This isn’t fair. You can’t just be expected to sit around and do nothing. You’re not completely helpless no matter what he might think.

Bucky looks at your hands still hovering by the dishes then meets your gaze.

“Go to sleep.” He orders.

You huff, drop your hands and grab your trowel.

Rising to your feet, you take off towards the tree line.

“Where are you going?” He demands, sitting up straighter and dropping his makeshift tools.

“To the bathroom.” You growl at him, “Or am I not allowed to do that either?”

*****

Bucky’s heart is heavy. Worry settles over it as he watches you disappear through the trees, completely miffed at him for keeping you from helping with the dishes.

It’s not that he doesn’t want you to help. The thought of you sitting by the stream in the dark washing dishes terrifies him.

Animals are drawn to water. What if you come across something and you get bitten or-

“AH!” Your voice splits the night, a scream of fear that rakes across Bucky’s bones making them shatter then turn to mush.

He’s up, barreling through the trees towards your fading cry when you crash into him, hands clinging to the sides of his shirt, face buried against his chest.

“What?” He asks, hands finding your hips as he tries to push you back so that he can get a look at your form.

Are you hurt? Did something attack you?

“What is it?” He demands now, patience wearing thin. “What?”

“S-S-Snake.” You stutter, terror in every tremor.

He sighs heavily, this time forcefully pushing you back so that he can look down at you.

“Are you hurt? Did it bite you?”

“No.” You squeak, shaking your head with quick tiny movements.

“Where?” The relief he feels knowing you’re uninjured is ridiculous.

“You want me to go back there?!” You demand, voice rising.

“Where’s your hand trowel?” He asks, and he can almost read the thoughts on your face as you realize that you’ve left it behind.

“Shit.” You whisper. “I’ll go get it.”

“We’ll both go.” Bucky insists, reaching down to let his metal hand slide into yours as he leads the way back through to where you’d come running.

He knows he’s close when you pull back on his arm, left hand clinging to his metal bicep while the right tightens around his hand.

He steals a look back at you. You’re staring with dilated pupils at a spot only a few feet ahead.

“You wanna wait here?” He asks you, and you nod enthusiastically.

He drops your hand, moving into the darkness, a muted silver gleam of light from the moon up in the sky the only source of light.

You wouldn’t have seen it. You would have walked straight for this spot and only when you’d stopped to squat down would you have felt the large brown snake. Slick scales glimmer up at him from under several ferns. It slithers towards you, though you don’t know it’s moving in that direction and quick as he can, Bucky leans down and grabs the creature behind the head.

“I found it.” Bucky tells you.

“D-Did you kill it?” Your fear is intoxicating.

Not in the sense that he likes you being afraid but that it fills him with a strange sense of purpose.

“No. I don’t think it’s poisonous. I’m gonna move it away.” He takes a step away but you’re there, clinging around his flesh arm this time, your hands still shaking.

“I’ll come with you.”

Bucky likes it better this way anyway. You with him.

He walks for five minutes, the snake in one hand. You in the other.

You draw yourself in against his side, clinging more in fear than in need. He likes it anyway.

Likes to be needed.

“You should have just let me wash the dishes.” You grumble at him and he smiles, huffing a small laugh at the bitter tinge of your voice.

Maybe you’re right? This is exactly why he’d kept you from doing it, in case you ran into something wild on the island, but he should have known that as prone as you are to accidents and danger, you would have found a snake either way.

“We’ll do them together. In the morning.” He clarifies.

“Deal.”

*****

“Will we both fit?” You ask, nervous as hell as you stare down at Bucky laying on his back as close to the wall of the fuselage as he can.

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, laying as flat and small as his big bulky body will allow.

“Yeah.” He promises, then reaches down to pat the space beside him twice.

His metal hand glistens in the dim light of the fire outside.

You’d both taken turns sleeping during the hurricane and even then, Bucky was up most of the time.

When you’d asked him why he hadn’t been sleeping much, he’d told you he didn’t need to sleep very often.

A lie maybe? You’re not sure. He looks plenty tired tonight though, after all the work he’d put in to get this little spot set up for the two of you.

It takes another minute for you to decide to just do it. Sleep next to Bucky. He’s practically a stranger but a stranger who’d done all he can to make sure you’re okay. He’s kept you alive and that means something right? You’re safe with Bucky.

Right?

Steeling yourself, you reach down and unbutton your pants. You have never been able to sleep in jeans. Your dress, yes. It felt like a nightgown. But jeans?

“What are you doing?” Bucky demands, voice hard and his eyes trained on your hands.

“I can’t sleep in jeans.” You explain and slide them down to the floor before stepping out of them.

Bucky looks away, staring at the wall of the fuselage, arms straining against his t-shirt.

“Sorry.” You tell him, then sit down on the makeshift bed of cushions. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can put them back on.”

It’s cooler without your pants too, your underwear are at least practical cotton panties.

“Just go to sleep.” He nearly growls.

You lay on your back, head finding the small travel pillows he’d piled up for the two of you to use.

Outside you can hear every creak and crack of the jungle. There must be other wild animals, besides snakes. Bores maybe? Might there be jungle cats? You can hear frogs and birds. The wild call of what could be a monkey.

The crackle of the fire is nice and reminds you that you’re safe.

“Bucky?” You keep your eyes on the roof of the fuselage, staring out through the window at the shifting trees to the black sky beyond.

“What?” He asks, voice calmer but still hard.

“What do you think happened?” You wonder, trying to think of what might have brought the plane down.

You remember Bucky mentioning an explosion. That big boom you’d felt…

“Do you think it was terrorists?”

Bucky scoffs, a bitter laugh. You look at him.

“Maybe.” He says.

“Why is that funny?” You ask, surprised by his reaction.

“No reason. Go to sleep.”

*****

A terrorist. A terrorist!

He’d been one of those once. A long time ago now but he’d blown up a few planes. He’d shot people. Killed people. He’d terrorized others just as the two of you have been terrorized.

Bucky turns onto his right side, facing the wall of the fuselage as he tries his best to ignore you.

Who could it have been? Hydra? Someone else?

Bucky is fairly certain that this had all been for his benefit.

“Bucky?” Your voice is softer, sleepy?

No. Just quieter.

“What?” He asks, voice still hard and almost angry.

It’s not your fault that you’re curious. He feels it to. He wants to know why this happened. Why are you two suddenly stranded together on this stupid island? Why does he have to take care of you? Why can’t he just catch a break?

Hydra, Steve, Wakanda, the Snap, now this?

Sam better be looking for him.

He doesn’t know if he can do this. For how long will he be trapped her with you?

Just a moment ago, Bucky had realized another danger to you; himself.

All this time for the past four days, his mind had been focused on getting a shelter built. Making certain that the two of you could withstand an extended period of time on this island because everything, all of the circumstances of your crash told him that the two of you would be here for a while.

Until you looked down at him and unbuttoned your jeans, slid them down along your soft, dewy legs…Bucky hadn’t seen just how alone the two of you are.

Man. Woman.

He’d taken a long ass look at the curve of your butt as it disappeared beneath the length of your t-shirt. The soft curves of your torso, the swell of your breasts, the smell of your honey musk drifting down at him, assaulting him with the feminine image of your bare body.

Not until that moment, had Bucky realized that you were in just as much danger from him as you are from the wild animals out in the jungle.

She doesn’t need you that way, idiot.

It’s taking every ounce of strength in him to let you lay there beside him, half naked, and he can’t even blame you for that either.

It’s hot as hell on this stupid island. If he wasn’t afraid of feeling your skin against his bare torso, he would have already taken off his shirt too.

“Why do you think they blew up our plane? It was almost empty.”

Bucky sighs, unwilling to tell you that the explosion had most definitely been in his part of the plane. Whoever had blown it up had most likely been aiming for him.

If that stewardess hadn’t moved him up to first class, he’d have been in pieces. Body torn to shreds by fish and sea-life by now.

“I don’t know, Y/N. Go to sleep.” He pleads, very near losing his temper with you.

He can feel the poke of your elbow on his back, the cushions from the seats they’d found enough to make a bed only just big enough for the two of you.

With him on his side, it’s easier. More room for you. He’s slept in worse places.

You’re quiet for a few minutes and Bucky hopes that you’ve fallen asleep.

“Bucky?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

“What?” He asks curtly, through his teeth, hands balled into fists.

“Everyone probably thinks we’re dead, right? Everyone back home? Two people and the crew go down on a mostly empty flight…it probably isn’t that much of a tragedy. They might not be looking for us, right?” He can feel your breath waft across the back of his neck.

You’re looking at him. Worrying about shit that you don’t need to be worrying about.

Getting through the next day is what you should be focused on. Not rescue. He’ll worry about the damn rescue.

“Y/N,” He begins, frustrated and angry, turning around to face you, “Will you just-?”

He meets your eyes, your quizzical brow all torn up by the tremor of your lip and the tears skating across your sun-burnt cheeks.

This pain in his chest is too much. He swallows thickly, trying very quickly to analyze and understand why it is that watching you cry hurts him the way it does.

Your vulnerability is what worries him, and he supposes that you crying like this, giving in to what must be your darkest thoughts is also a kind of failure on his part.

Without thinking he reaches up to wipe away the tears on your cheek.

You shut your eyes, lean into his hand, and his heart swells with his ache.

Maybe you don’t need him in that way. You probably have some boyfriend or something back home waiting for you…is that why you’re so sad that whoever is at home waiting might really think you’re dead?

He lays back down, this time on his left, and scoops you closer into his arms.

You readily give in, clutching tightly to the fabric of his shirt as he tucks your head down below his chin.

“We’re gonna be okay, Y/N. They’ll find us. I’ll make sure I do everything that I can possibly think of to get us off this island.” He promises.

He feels you relax against him and in minutes you’re fast asleep.

So, maybe you don’t need him in that way…but it does look like you need him in this way. And Bucky can live with that.

“What are you doing?” You demand, racing to catch up with him as he moves along the shoreline, looking for the break in the water where the current pulls out to sea.

“Nothing.” He lies, knowing that you’ll freak out again.

This is the fifth time in two months that you’ve thrown a fit.

So far, it had been a nice day. A relaxing day.

The two of you have spent all morning and part of the afternoon sitting on the beach in the shade of a palm. You’d been drinking fresh water, coconut water, eating sliced fruit—the plane food has long since finished and what they hadn’t eaten they’d had to get rid of on the other side of the island.

Bucky had taken the chance to look around.

This side seems to be the safer side. The opposite side of the island is all cliffsides and dangerous drops. He isn’t taking you anywhere near the other side of the island. Just thinking about you walking around near those sharp rocks and high heights fills him with paralyzing anxiety.

“Bucky!” You call out to him as he pulls ahead of you, knowing full well what you’re going to try to do.

He can hear you break into a run and he does too, moving to the edge of the beach and then with as much strength as he can, he flings the bottle out to sea.

As he does, you dive in front of him, throw yourself at him and he catches you around the waist as you make a swipe for the bottle but miss.

He holds you there against his chest, watching the clear glass drift out further and further into the dark depths of the ocean.

You squirm out of his grip, push him hard against his chest, and then stomp on his foot.

“Ow.” He complains, laughing lightly as you walk away from him back towards the blanket he’d laid out for the two of you to eat on.

“Jerk.” You growl at him, and you’re so cute it nearly kills him.

“Hey,” He calls after you, hurrying to catch up.

“Message in a bottle, Bucky? Really?!” You gripe, fuming.

Bucky watches the angry expression of your face and realizes that you’re genuinely upset. Not just that flimsy little pout that you give him when you want something he won’t let you have.

You’re seriously pissed at him.

He doesn’t like it.

“Hey,” He says again, this time reaching out to grab your wrist, yank you back until you turn to look at him. “I’m trying.”

“It’s been two months. And you think salvation is going to come from a message in a bottle?” You’re so flipping angry. Bucky has never seen you like this. “Do you even want to get back home?”

“How can you ask me that, Y/N?! Of course, I want to get back home. It’s all we’ve been working towards. But I-” No.

Shit.

Why did he start saying it?

“But you what?” You ask, flames extinguished as his usual confidence is replaced by uncertainty.

Speculation is never good for him. Especially not now. Not with you. Not here.

“Nothing.” He says, releasing your hand to move around you.

You don’t let him. You plant yourself in front of him, hands on his chest.

“What, Bucky? Please, don’t shut me out. What are you thinking?” You demand, voice rising with worry.

The humid air, turning chilled with the storm that’s due to roll in later tonight, whips your hair and his around tanned and sweaty faces.

The brine in the air seems coated to both your skins after so much time spent on the beach. You always seem to be glowing, your skin sticky, all the time. Somehow, Bucky doesn’t find it gross. He yearns to touch it…like now, when you’re right before him all fear and anxiety. Again.

He’ll never admit it. To you. To himself. He pushes the fleeting thought down deep where it belongs and forgets it almost instantly. Like it never happened, it disappears. He doesn’t want you.

“If-” You need to accept it. He’s been shielding you from it because he doesn’t want to hurt you. He doesn’t want to see the hope fade from your eyes.

He can’t hide it from you anymore. He has to start making long term plans and he can’t do that unless you know.

“If they haven’t found us by now, Y/N, I-I don’t think they’re going to.” He confesses and just as he’d guessed, the light dies from your eyes.

Your gaze drifts down to his bare chest. You stare for what feels like ages, processing his words as he can visibly see your heart break.

He still doesn’t know if you have a special someone waiting for you back home. He’s been too afraid to ask. Too afraid to get in too deep.

You don’t ask him questions and he doesn’t ask you any either.

Despite this barrier, he’s gotten to know you pretty well.

He knows your relentless. Once you’ve set your mind on something, you don’t let it go. You’re brave. He knows this because you’re always scared. You jump at every strange noise and every slither of a critter that passes by you, but then you gather your courage and either flick the bug, grab the snake and move it, or grab large sticks to make loud noises to chase away whatever might be hiding in the dark.

You’re funny…but not because you mean to be. The jokes you’ve told him to pass the time have been pretty bad. You’ll never work in comedy, but you make him laugh.

You’re not afraid to show your emotions. For Bucky, who keeps everything so carefully bottled up, this is the most refreshing.

Like that first night sleeping together in the fuselage, when you’d fallen to pieces because you’d realized how unlikely it would be for rescue to find you, you’ve given in to your upsets and random moments of hysteria. You let it all come rushing out and you don’t hide behind any pretense.

If you’re angry, you throw your fits. You make sure that Bucky knows you’re angry.

When you’re happy, you laugh and playfully tease him, poke him, make him laugh.

When you’re sad, you cry. You look for him. You want the comfort he offered you that first night and Bucky gives it readily.

You need him and he likes to give you what you need.

Bucky worries when you’re quiet. When you go an entire day without saying anything, but he realizes that on these days you’ve given in. You’re trapped on this island and you have no hope of ever getting off.

That’s the look in your eyes right now.

“Y/N?” Tender fingers tickle their way up your forearm.

“I think I’m gonna go for a swim.” You tell him, finally meet his eyes, and he sees the defeat in them. You turn and move away from him, walking down the beach as the white-hot sunshine beats down on your slumped shoulders.

“Y/N…” He hates that his confession of truth put that defeat there.

However, he can’t keep waiting for you to accept it in your own time. He has to get started on a real home for the two of you. It might very well still be temporary. For all either of you know, rescue might come tomorrow.

But the fuselage is too small. He’s found some more cushions and he can build you two a proper bed. Maybe two beds but he kinda likes having you close and judging by the way that you cling to him sometimes when you sleep, you do too.

He already knows where he’ll build the hut. It’s a spot further down in the direction you’re walking, close enough to the beach that should any ships pass by the two of you could light a large signal fire. Keeping one lit all the time was impractical.

He’s already planned where he’ll build a new tub. Better than the first one. Deeper maybe. Wider. He knows that technically you could bathe in the ocean but he’s not sure what long exposure to saltwater will do to his arm. With no one to service it out here, he has to be careful.

There’s a lagoon about ten minutes away that he considered moving you to since it would be highly convenient, but the lure of the beach is too strong.

Even with this loss of hope, he knows that you’ll never stray far enough to give up on rescue.

Bucky follows, his own shoulders slumped with the depression he’s pushed you into.

He watches you stop by the blanket and just stand there for several minutes as he catches up and takes a seat.

His eyes are on you, staring up at you as you wallow.

“Y/N?” He checks, and his voice brings you back to yourself.

You reach down and unbutton your pants, push them down to puddle stiffly around your feet.

He waits for you to step out of them before pulling them over, too used to you stripping randomly to react to it like he had that first time.

He freezes however as you pull your shirt up and over your head, bare breasts out for all—okay, it’s just him—to see.

You drop that on the blanket too before you turn and wade out into the jeweled water.

He swallows hard, watches the water overtake you. You disappear for a moment and then rise, giving him his breath back.

He stares at your bare back, reaching up to run his hands through his hair. He yanks on it a bit, willing himself to stay seated.

You’re grieving the life you’d known. You don’t need him swimming with you. You need solitude. He could see it in your gaze.

He shifts on the blanket, pulling against his own jeans, made tight by the shock of your naked form.

Unexpected. If you hadn’t caught him by surprise, he wouldn’t have been so affected by it.

He’ll know now for next time. He can ignore this feeling if it comes up again.

*****

Bucky lets you swim for a long time.

You don’t care why. You don’t care when you walk back up to the beach and he’s waiting with a fresh blanket. You don’t care that he doesn’t avert his eyes as you walk to him naked. You don’t care that he doesn’t seem to care that you’re naked.

You don’t care that he looks just as sad as you feel. You don’t care about anything but the fact that rescue is never going to come. You are stuck here on this island. You’ll never go home.

You’ll never have a cup of coffee again. No more pizza. No more fast food of any kind. No chips. No snacks full of yummy sugar. No ice. No air conditioning. No movies. No books. No internet!

At least one thing won’t change. You’re still single as fuck.

That will never change.

“Are you listening to me?” Bucky’s asking.

His irritation with you pulls you out of your funk a bit.

“What? No. What did you say?” You ask, not really sure how to behave now.

If it’s really you and Bucky forever, it would be nice if you could admit how attracted you are to him but…he’d just seen you naked and he hadn’t reacted at all.

This’ll be okay. You’ll just have to live out your life with Bucky platonically. No big deal.

“Nothing.” He sighs. “Come on, let’s get you dried off.”

It takes a month for you to feel whole again. Whole for being trapped on an island, anyway.

While you recover from the utter devastation of saying goodbye to the world you once knew. Bucky builds you a home.

How the hell he knows how to do it, you have no idea but watching him work is mesmerizing. Not only because he’s always shirtless now, but because he works with such skill that your questions about who he’d been before the crash are what begin to pull you out of your funk.

He builds a foundation using thick palm trunks first, a tall one. He leaves one day and comes back a few hours later with armfuls of bamboo that he cuts and shapes making what looks like a floor about three feet up along the foundation. He makes this floor about three bamboo trunks thick.

Another day he comes back with more and begins to form the bones of the walls. On a different day he comes to you with dried palm fronds and shows you how to layer them and braid them together. Where to find more so that you can keep making them while he does his own thing.

He guides you at first but then you can make them on your own. Thick strips over and over again until your hands are full of tiny scratches and nicks from the work.

While you make what you assume is the thatch for the roof and Bucky messes with some type of dirt that he keeps hauling in from the jungle in large bent metal buckets that he’s made with his bare hands, you find your voice again. Your curiosity too tempting to ignore any longer.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?” He grunts, tipping the bucket over into a trough he’s built with leftover wood and bamboo, lining it with thick leaves to keep it from leaking.

He reaches in and mixes the dirt in, watching it turn a pale peach color.

His beard is getting thick. He hasn’t trimmed it since you began your mourning of the modern world.

“What did you do before we crashed here? Did-did you have like a family? Wife? Kids?” You allow yourself to forget the desperate interest you’ve had in this particular bit of information for a bit.

Right now, all you want is to know the man you’ll be living with for possibly the rest of your life better.

“No.” He tells you, turning to look at you as he wipes at his brow.

He’s got his hair pulled up with the hair tie you’d given him. Jeans sitting low on his hips.

“Would you just take off your pants? It’s too fucking hot, Bucky.” You gripe at him, having been telling him to wear something else while he works for the past several days.

He frowns at you and removes them, tossing them up onto a part of the foundation where they can hang.

He’d found more men’s underwear in one of the carry-ons you’d found on the beach almost three months ago. Boxers. Some pajamas. A suit that he has no use for. He’s already torn it apart and made useful things with it.

He goes back to work.

You do too.

“Not even a girlfriend?” You repeat, watching him add more dirt to the mixture.

“I didn’t have time.” He huffs a laugh.

You smile, knowing that he’s only laughing because all the two of you have now is time.

“Me either.” You admit.

He stands up straight, hands on his hips, marking them up in what looks like a clay of some sort.

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” He asks, brow furrowed with thought and the sun that gleams down at you two from the sky then dances off the crystalline waters of the ocean to blind you.

You shake your head. “No. I-didn’t have time.”

It’s not an outright lie. Truth is, you weren’t the greatest with getting relationships started.

Guys online and at home were always complaining about being friend zoned but you know for a fact that it happens to girls too.

“Actually,” You laugh stupidly. “That’s a lie. I-I did have time I just…all the guys I was into either had girlfriends…or boyfriends sometimes. I was always kinda stuck being their friend. I’ve dated just…not recently. It was kind of annoying actually. Couldn’t seem to get past that friends stage.”

You look up to meet Bucky’s gaze as he stares at you clenching his jaw. Flexing it with what? Anger? Frustration?

Deep thoughts for sure.

“So, who did you have waiting?” You ask him, eager to move on from your lack of romantic ability.

“My friend Sam.” Bucky smirks then goes back to work. “Friend might be a bit of a stretch. He’s a co-worker too. It’s all kinds of complicated.”

The smile on his face is bright, happy, wistful. “Sounds like you two maybe didn’t get along?”

“We have our moments.” Bucky says, nodding. “You-”

He stops, staring at you, still bent over with his hand in the muck of clay.

“What?” You ask him, sitting up straighter, lowering your hands and the fronds you’re working with.

“Do you really not know who I am? Or have you just been being, you know, polite about it?” He asks.

His question confuses you. You’re not sure what he means, and you try to think about an instance in which you may have offended him or betrayed any bit of knowledge that you really and truly don’t have.

“Do you watch the news at all?” He wonders.

You shake your head. “After nine-eleven, TV has just gotten more and more depressing. There’s always been tragedy in the world but it’s just different somehow now. I don’t want to wake up and wonder if the world is ending every day.”

Bucky squats down by the trough, staring at you with that impossible furrowed gaze. Shining blue eyes searching your face for a lie that he won’t find.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes.” He says.

“I know that.” You smile, shaking your head.

“My friends call me Bucky.” He continues, looking away from you and down at his hands in his mixture for what you think must be for the walls of the hut.

“Yeah?” You nod. You know that already too.

“The world also knows me as The Winter Soldier.” He says, stealing a glance at you, before he kneads his clay again.

“So?” You ask, voice faltering slightly because that sounds slightly familiar though you’re not sure why.

“And I’ve killed a lot of people.” He admits, as if you had never interrupted to begin with. “And I’m almost certain that the reason the plane crashed, the reason we’re stuck here, is because someone was mad enough about that to try and blow me up.”

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