Text
You Lifted... the Axe?!
Just a little drabble. Part 3 of 3. It's just a funny old-school Avengers Tower fic.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (like, normal, but strong)
Word Count: <500
Summary: You're picking up. You put Stormbreaker away. It lets you. The Avengers get freaked out.
Trigger Warnings: It's just... humor. Idk. He calls you sweetheart?
Author’s Note: This is Part 3. There is actually a one-shot to follow! Cause I like the idea of a sentient weapon with sorta a crush on you.
Part 1: You Lifted the Couch?
Part 2: You Lifted... Me?
Masterlist
The living room looked like a post-apocalyptic man cave.
Blankets everywhere. Empty mugs on the coffee table. A pizza box balanced on a lamp. A throwing knife stuck in a ceiling beam.
You stood in the middle of it all with a trash bag in one hand and a rising sense of judgment in the other.
Movie night was last night. The team had dispersed by morning, but by noon the next day, the mess had not.
You sighed.
Steve’s shield was leaning against the couch like a fancy frisbee.
Tony’s gauntlet was half under the table.
And Stormbreaker? Dead center of the rug.
“Why does no one put their crap away?” you muttered. “Weapons everywhere.”
From the kitchen, Bucky didn’t even look up. “Careful, sweetheart. That ‘crap’ includes a very sentient axe.”
You rolled your eyes.
First: the shield. You hefted it, and carried it to the rack labeled Cap’s Stuff.
“Thank you,” Steve called from down the hall.
“Clean up your own mess next time,” you said sweetly.
Next: Tony’s gauntlet. It whirred at your touch.
“Don’t put your hand in it,” Bucky warned.
You rolled your eyes, of course you knew better. You lifted it by the base and set it on the shelf labeled Not a Toy. The lights activated as you stepped back.
Then: Stormbreaker.
It lay in the middle of the room like a divine Roomba someone forgot to dock.
You crouched beside it.
“…You’re not gonna zap me, right?” you murmured. “Please and thank you, Stormy.”
You lightly touched the handle with one finger. When nothing happened, you gripped it with both hands.
You braced, lifted with your legs, and picked it up. It was heavy, but not unmanageable. You slung it over your shoulder like awkward gym equipment and carried it to the corner.
You patted it. “There. Much better.”
You turned, and the team was staring.
Steve’s jaw was open.
Tony looked vaguely betrayed.
Nat froze mid-sip.
Sam whispered, “Nope.”
Thor had gone still.
And poor Bucky looked like he needed to sit down.
“…Did you just call it Stormy?” Sam asked.
You blinked. “Yeah.”
“You asked it for permission,” Steve said.
“And it let you,” Tony added. “No sparks. No explosion.”
“I said please.”
Thor stepped forward, cautiously. “You… spoke to it?”
“It seemed polite.”
“And it responded?”
You shrugged. “Didn’t fry me. I took that as a yes.”
Bucky stared, arms crossed and jaw tight.
“You picked up a sentient Asgardian weapon. Gave it a nickname. And it liked you.”
“I’m very charming,” you said. “Also, everyone here leaves their stuff around like frat boys. Somebody had to clean up.”
Thor looked at Stormbreaker like it had cheated on him.
Sam muttered, “I’m gonna need therapy.”
Bucky just leaned in, voice low and a little shaken, “Sweetheart. I love you. But you’re terrifying.��
You grinned. “Love you, too.”
Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess
247 notes
·
View notes
Text
Beneath the Chandelier
A new fic-let
Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x you (plus sized/curvy wife! reader)
Word Count: <1000
Summary: Your Congressman husband leaves you alone for a moment at a gala. You get approached and propositioned. Your hubby doesn't much like that.
Trigger Warnings: Bucky being a little violent to a man who shows you unwanted attention. You receiving unwanted attention, namely a hand on your hip.
Author’s Note: This is Part 1. Part 2 tomorrow, but both can be read as stand alone.
Masterlist
The ballroom shimmered under antique crystal chandeliers, golden light dancing off velvet gowns and polished cufflinks. You moved through it with practiced elegance, your custom dress hugging every curve, the slit high enough to spark interest and the neckline low enough to command attention.
You weren’t hiding. Not in your skin, not in your marriage, and certainly not in your place beside Congressman Bucky Barnes, the most devastating man in Washington, in your humble opinion.
His arm was looped through yours, and for a while, you let him guide you through the crowd like something precious. When a staffer approached with an urgent update he pressed a kiss behind your ear and murmured, “I’ll be quick.”
“I know,” you replied, smiling up at him. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re never alone, doll,” he said, with that subtle glint in his eye. “Just temporarily unsupervised.”
You watched him slip between towering columns and aides in tuxedos, disappearing into the background buzz of political gossip and expensive perfume.
You turned back toward the bar, the champagne cool against your hand as you sipped and surveyed the room. You’d barely had a second to yourself before a man sidled up to your left. You recognized him vaguely as someone from Bucky’s donor circuit. He had a power suit and lazy confidence, the kind of man who saw everyone as a commodity.
“I always thought Barnes had a good eye,” he said smoothly, leaning against the bar. “But now I’m thinking he’s greedy.”
You arched a brow, not moving an inch away. “Greedy for what?”
That earned a smirk. “For keeping you all to himself. I’d be more than happy to take you out for a spin.”
You turned your body slightly to face him fully, shoulders square, posture regal. “I'm not interested.”
“Come on.” He dropped his voice. “You’re telling me a woman like you doesn’t get curious? Doesn’t want something on the side? Someone who knows what to do with all… this.” He looked up up and down appraisingly.
You smiled tightly, but there was nothing warm behind it. “You're making a mistake.”
But still, he didn’t back off.
In a practiced move disguised as casual charm, his hand drifted downward. His fingers brushed against your hip, bold and heavy, with the clear intention to linger. He meant it to be a quick brush, subtle.
But he wasn't quick enough.
Because the moment his palm landed on you, a cold voice rang out,“Take your hand off my wife.”
Bucky’s voice didn’t rise, but it still cut through the room like a knife.
The man startled, instinctively pulling back, but not fast enough.
In one fluid motion, Bucky was at your side, stepping between you and the donor so quickly it felt like he’d always been there. One hand braced gently on your back. The other...
On the man’s wrist.
Tight.
Too tight.
The donor winced, trying to jerk away, but Bucky held fast. Not visibly aggressive, but dangerously close.
“I said,” Bucky repeated, quieter now, leaning in, “take your hand off my wife.”
“It’s off, Jesus—” the man hissed, squirming.
“No,” Bucky said, tightening his grip, his voice almost too calm. “See, you took the liberty of putting it there. Now I am taking the liberty of removing it. And if that hand ever touches her again...”
He leaned in, the words brushing the man’s ear like a loaded gun cocking behind it.
“—you won’t have one left.”
The man paled. “Look, I didn’t mean—”
Bucky slammed him against the marble column behind him with a quiet thud. It wasn't enough to break bones, but it was more than enough to rattle him. It was enough that the room stilled and heads turned.
You didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You just stood there, watching your husband do what he did best: protect what was his.
“She said no,” Bucky growled, hand still at the man’s chest. “That’s where it ends. But you kept going. You thought her body was something to negotiate.”
He let go suddenly, the man stumbling, wheezing slightly as he straightened his wrinkled jacket and attempted to recover the scraps of his dignity.
“You’re going to apologize,” Bucky continued, eyes like polished gunmetal. “Right now.”
The man looked at you, humiliated. “I apologize.”
You raised your glass slightly in acknowledgment. “You should.”
Bucky stepped back, not far, but enough to let him pass. “Now walk away.”
And the man did. Fast.
People pretended not to stare, but they were all watching.
Bucky turned to you, the storm already gone from his face, replaced with something warm and so heartbreakingly soft it made your chest ache.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, brushing your waist as if to erase any trace of where another hand had been.
“I was always okay,” you said, touching his chest. “But it’s nice to be reminded what happens to anyone who forgets who I belong to.”
His eyes darkened again, but this time with hunger.
“You belong to yourself,” he said. “I’m just the man who gets to worship you for it.”
You slid your hand into his, letting him lace your fingers together.
As you left the ballroom together, heels clicking, heads turning, whispers rising, you didn’t look back.
This would serve as an important reminder to society.
You were the wife of Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.
You were his fire.
And he was the man who’d burn the world down to keep you lit.
Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods @ficmeiguess
135 notes
·
View notes
Text
You Lifted... Me?
Just a little drabble. Part 2 of 3. It's just funny stuff.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (like, normal, but strong)
Word Count: <500
Summary: You saw it on Instagram. A girl lifted her boyfriend onto the counter. You want to try it out.
Trigger Warnings: You lift bucky onto the counter. He likes it.
Author’s Note: Part 1: You Lifted the Couch. This is Part 2. Part 3 tomorrow.
Masterlist
Bucky was half-asleep, leaning against the kitchen counter and chewing a piece of toast with bleary eyes.
His hair was a mess, dog tags swinging lazily against his bare chest. He hadn’t even noticed you walk in. The morning sun was warm through the window, the room smelled like coffee, and everything about him was completely relaxed.
You smiled to yourself. This was gonna be too easy.
You stepped in front of him, kissed his chest to distract him, quickly braced your hands under his thighs…
And before he could register what was happening, you lifted him in one clean motion from the floor to the counter.
He went straight up and you placed him gently on the countertop, like a particularly grouchy houseplant.
Bucky made a very undignified noise.
It started low, confused, and then shot up into a high-pitched yelp that cracked in the middle like a pubescent teenager.
“YNN—GAHH?!”
The toast fell from his mouth. His arms pinwheeled once before he caught the edge of the counter in wide-eyed shock.
You stepped back, grinning. “Morning.”
He stared at you, blinking fast, like you might vanish if he didn’t focus.
“You—what—you just—did you just lift me onto the counter?”
“I did,” you said, pleased with yourself.
He looked down at where he was sitting, then back at you. “Why?”
You shrugged, “Saw it on Instagram.”
Bucky’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Some gym couple,” you added, grabbing your mug from beside him. “She just walked up and lifted him. Looked fun.”
“You lifted me.”
“Yeah.”
He blinked again. “Off the floor.”
“Mhmm.”
“While I was eating toast.”
You took a sip. “You were relaxed. Easier to balance.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “You can’t just do that.”
“But I just did.”
He gave a weak laugh, still stunned. “I made a noise.”
“You did.”
“A bad one.”
“It was kind of cute.”
He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “You can’t keep being hotter and stronger than me. There’s rules.”
You stepped between his knees, reached up, and pulled gently on his dog tags until he looked at you.
“You know I’m not stronger than you,” you said. “I just wanted to see if I could. That’s all.”
He was quiet for a second, eyes scanning your face like he wasn’t sure which emotion to land on.
“I didn’t think I’d like it,” he said finally.
“Oh?”
“I loved it,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “But I’m also, like... reevaluating my entire identity.”
You leaned in, kissed his cheek. “You’re still the intimidating one.”
“I squeaked.”
“You did.” You said, smile widening with fondness.
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods
257 notes
·
View notes
Text
I LOVE THIS TROPE TO DEATH
you pulled this off so well girl i CAN'T
The Place No One Knew
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (implied)
Warnings: mentions of past violence, light injury/battle aftermath. concealed family, mild swearing
----------
The mission had gone to hell somewhere between Prague and the extraction point in Bavaria.
First, the comms dropped. Then the rendezvous was ambushed. Then came the slow, creeping realization that every safehouse they had access to—S.H.I.E.L.D.-linked or otherwise—had been compromised.
They were scattered. Exhausted. Injured. And Bucky was out of time.
“We’re two hours from blackout,” Natasha said, pressing gauze to Clint’s side in the cramped backseat of the quinjet. “Where the hell do we go?”
“Can’t risk hotels,” Sam muttered, pacing. “Can’t even risk Fury’s fallback sites if they got into the directory. We need a place off the grid.”
All eyes turned to Steve.
But Steve turned his eyes to Bucky.
And Bucky’s heart clenched.
He had avoided this for six years. Built every brick of his life around the lie of distance. The lie of solitude. He’d built it to protect them.
His fingers hovered over the comms. He said nothing.
“Buck?” Steve asked quietly, a question laced in the syllables.
Bucky exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that tasted like surrender.
He didn’t want to do this. But if he didn’t—if he hesitated—they’d bleed out, or worse.
He thumbed the encrypted panel on his watch and hit a button he hadn’t touched in six years.
> SEND SECURE COORDINATES > CONTACT NAME: YOU
The message was simple.
“Coming in hot. I need you. I’m sorry.”
He swallowed thickly. Then turned to the others.
“I have a place,” he said. “But no questions until we get there.”
You were in the middle of slicing strawberries for Ivy’s lunch when the message came through. Your watch buzzed twice—a silent, coded alert you hadn’t seen in years.
You didn’t hesitate. You dropped the knife.
Grant looked up from the puzzle on the rug. Ivy had paint streaked across her cheek. You crouched and gathered them both close.
“Hey, loves,” you said, brushing curls from Ivy’s forehead. “Change of plans. We’re going to play a special game today.”
Grant looked skeptical. “Does Daddy know?”
You kissed the top of his head. “Daddy’s on his way.”
The quinjet touched down on the far edge of a forest clearing—hidden, shielded, off every radar they knew.
The team filed out slowly, confusion thick in the air. Sam was the first to speak.
“This is not just ‘a place,’ Barnes. This is a goddamn enchanted cottage.”
Tucked into a grove of tall trees, the little cottage looked like something out of a fairy tale. Stone and ivy, with a porch swing creaking gently in the wind. Flower beds. Wind chimes. A toy scooter lying on its side in the grass.
Natasha’s brows rose. “You’ve been hiding in a Pinterest board?”
But Bucky didn’t laugh. His chest was tight, pulse frantic. He heard the front door open.
And then—
Small feet pounding across the wooden porch.
“DADDY!”
Two voices. High-pitched. Familiar. Unmistakable.
Sam froze. So did Clint. Bruce blinked.
And then two children launched themselves at Bucky with joyful force—arms around his waist, burying their faces in his coat. One boy, one girl.
Six years old. Maybe.
Bucky dropped to his knees and wrapped them both up so tightly he shook.
“I got you,” he whispered into Ivy’s hair. “I’m here. I got you, starshine.”
“You smell like smoke,” Grant muttered.
“I know, bud,” Bucky choked out. “It’s been a long day.”
The Avengers stood in stunned silence as you stepped onto the porch. Still barefoot. Calm, but resolute.
“Inside,” you said, voice steady. “You’re all safe here.”
Inside, the warmth of the home settled into their bones. It wasn’t just off the grid—it was alive. A real life lived here.
There were kids’ drawings on the fridge. Tiny shoes in the entryway. Matching mugs labeled Mama Bear and Papa Wolf. Blankets. A cat with no shame sprawled out on the armchair.
Tony would’ve had a field day if he were still here.
Natasha leaned against the wall, observing everything. Bruce stood awkwardly by the kitchen.
Clint was the first to whisper: “He has kids.”
Ivy padded past them with a fistful of crayons. Grant offered Sam a toy truck without a word.
“They’re real,” Steve confirmed softly. “And they’re everything.”
In the back room, you knelt beside Bucky, who had one hand tangled in Ivy’s hair and the other holding Grant’s fingers like he might lose them if he let go.
“They weren’t supposed to know,” Bucky whispered hoarsely.
“They were never going to stay in the dark forever,” you replied, brushing his cheek. “You did what you had to. You protected them.”
“I just didn’t want to bring war into their world.”
You paused. “But you are part of this world. And they need to know that, too.”
Outside the door, Sam stood listening. Just long enough to realize—Bucky hadn’t been hiding because he didn’t trust them.
He’d been hiding because he didn’t trust himself.
Dinner was quiet. Strange. Too many people in a space meant for four.
You laid out whatever you had—grilled cheese, tomato soup, fruit and cheese for the kids. Ivy insisted on showing Nat her glitter collection. Grant curled up beside Bruce and asked if he liked dinosaurs. (Bruce did.)
Steve sat beside Bucky on the porch steps after the kids were in bed.
“Does it feel good?” he asked, nudging him.
Bucky didn’t answer right away.
“I thought if I kept them separate,” he said slowly, “I’d be keeping them safe. But I can’t do this alone anymore, Steve. I can’t carry two lives. It’s breaking me.”
Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then let us help.”
The next morning, Clint built a swing set with spare wood from the shed.
Sam helped you hang a new set of blackout shutters on the windows.
Natasha taught Ivy how to braid rope. Bruce fixed the broken solar charger.
And Bucky watched it all unfold from the front porch—something behind his ribs beginning to loosen.
You came to sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.
“You scared me last night,” you said quietly. “When I saw the message.”
“I was scared too,” he admitted. “But I think I’ve been scared for six years.”
You looked up at him.
“I think it’s okay to let them see you,” you said. “The whole you.”
Later that day, when the kids were napping and the others were finally starting to relax, Bucky stood in the middle of the living room and cleared his throat.
Everyone looked up.
“I owe you an explanation.”
Sam raised a brow. “You think?”
Bucky didn’t smile. “I didn’t plan any of this. Not the kids, not this place. But it’s the only thing that ever felt real. I kept it secret because I thought if you knew… it’d ruin everything. I thought you'd see me as a liability.”
“No,” Bruce said quietly. “We’d have seen you as a father.”
“And we would’ve helped,” Clint added.
Natasha looked at him evenly. “You’re not the only one who needed something normal, Barnes. You just got it first.”
Bucky’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”
Sam shook his head. “Don’t be. Just… let us in next time, alright?”
Bucky nodded.
Steve smiled. “You always did love a good rescue.”
That night, after the team set up makeshift sleeping arrangements around the house—blankets on couches, a spare mattress in the attic—you found Bucky in the twins’ room.
They were asleep, tangled together, Ivy’s hand on Grant’s back.
Bucky was watching them like a man watching stars for the first time.
“You okay?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Actually, I think I am.”
You slid your hand into his.
“Then come to bed.”
The Avengers stayed four more days. Just long enough for the heat on the mission to die down and for Grant to beat Clint at checkers. Just long enough for Ivy to draw a picture of the team and label it My Other Family.
Just long enough for Bucky to realize that maybe… they could stay a little longer in his life than he thought.
When they finally left, Nat hugged you. Bruce promised to send solar upgrades. Sam told Grant he was always welcome on a Falcon ride.
And Steve pulled Bucky into a long, quiet embrace.
“I’m proud of you, Buck,” he whispered. “For building something this good.”
Bucky didn’t cry. But he came close.
After the quinjet disappeared into the clouds, Bucky stood on the porch, arm around your waist.
Grant and Ivy chased butterflies in the garden.
“You think they’ll come back?” you asked.
“Yeah,” Bucky said, lips brushing your temple. “But this time, I won’t be hiding.”
You smiled. “Good.”
Because the place no one knew?
It wasn’t a secret anymore.
And neither was he.
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cutie patooties
Black and Color
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
----------
You liked chocolate—rich and dark, melting on your tongue like a reward. Bucky liked vanilla. Plain, classic, unassuming.
You liked dogs—tail-wagging, tongue-lolling chaos that filled the house with muddy footprints and sloppy affection. Bucky liked cats. Aloof, quiet, independent creatures that curled in windowsills and judged everything.
You lived in color. Bright yellows in your wardrobe, turquoise throw pillows, and a neon-pink toaster that didn’t match anything else in the kitchen but made you smile every morning. Bucky lived in black. His closet was a grayscale catalog. His apartment was cool-toned, utilitarian. The man owned exactly three mugs, all navy.
You shouldn't have worked. But somehow, you did.
The first time you met him, he was standing in front of the last almond croissant at the café. You had eyed it the moment you walked in. He’d snatched it with all the enthusiasm of someone filing taxes.
You blinked at him. “That’s the last one.”
He blinked back. “Yeah.”
“I was going to get that.”
“You can have it.” He handed it over, expression unreadable.
You should’ve said thank you and walked away. Instead, you grinned.
“You don’t like almonds, do you?”
His eyebrow twitched. “No.”
You motioned to the croissant in your hand. “Then why’d you reach for it?”
He shifted on his feet, then admitted, “It was at the front. Seemed efficient.”
That’s how it started—with you laughing at his logic and him grumbling into his Americano about inefficient pastry placement.
You sat next to each other that day by accident. The coffee shop was full. You offered him the seat across from yours, and he accepted with the kind of wariness usually reserved for interrogation rooms.
You liked to talk. He liked to listen. You liked the window. He preferred corners. You liked people. He tolerated you.
And yet—you met for coffee again the next morning.
“Your toaster’s pink,” he pointed out one afternoon, staring at it like it might explode.
“It brings me joy,” you said simply.
He hummed, skeptical.
“I could get you one.”
“Absolutely not.”
You got him one anyway. A matte black version. He never used it, but it sat on his counter like a quiet truce.
It wasn’t easy.
He never told you what he was feeling. Not really. He’d shut down after certain nightmares, disappear into his head when crowds got too loud, or pull away if your fingers brushed a scar he wasn’t ready for you to find.
You were light and motion, and sometimes that startled him. Your laughter was too bright, your words too many. Your walls were made of open doors and second chances, and his were barbed wire and old ghosts.
But then—
He learned to buy your favorite chocolate when he picked up groceries. You caught him once, staring at the rows of brands like they were puzzle pieces he couldn’t quite match.
“These are the ones,” you said, pointing. “The sea salt ones.”
He nodded like it was sacred knowledge.
You found a stray puppy outside your apartment. You named her Button. Bucky declared war.
“She peed in my boot.”
“She’s a baby.”
“She’s a terrorist.”
But Button liked to curl against his leg when you both watched movies, and you swore he once kissed her head when he thought you were asleep.
Bucky didn’t say “I love you” with words.
He said it when he memorized your coffee order. He said it when he showed up at your gallery opening, standing in the back in all black, a splash of yellow tulips awkward in his hand. He said it when he fixed your leaking sink even though you swore it was fine. He said it when he gave you the bigger half of the chocolate bar.
You said “I love you” out loud, every day. Loudly. Repeatedly. Sometimes with jazz hands.
He rolled his eyes, but you caught the ghost of a smile every time.
You fought. About laundry and dishes and which way the toilet paper should face. (You were right. He was wrong.)
You fought about Button chewing his shoelaces and about how long he could go without telling you where he disappeared to when he needed space.
He said you were too much. You said he wasn’t enough. He slammed the door. You kicked it. Then he came back. Every time. And you opened it. Every time.
Because despite everything, it worked.
He steadied you. You softened him. He showed you the quiet. You brought him the light. He was midnight and you were morning—but the space in between? That was where you met.
One snowy night, wrapped in mismatched blankets on your couch, he reached for your hand.
“You’re chaos,” he murmured.
You laughed, breath warm against his neck. “And you’re concrete.”
“You drive me crazy.”
“You make me calm.”
Button snored from the floor. The neon toaster blinked in the kitchen.
He squeezed your hand. “Don’t ever stop being color.”
You looked at him—gray shirt, black socks, a trace of vulnerability behind his steel-blue eyes.
“Only if you promise to keep being my grayscale.”
He kissed you then. Soft, uncertain, like he wasn’t used to being allowed to want. But you were. You let him. Every time.
You never convinced him to love chocolate. He never convinced you to adopt a cat. But Button got a brother—another stray, this one a gangly mutt Bucky insisted on naming Klaus.
You painted your bedroom in deep forest green. He called it “almost black” and tolerated it.
He still wore black. But sometimes? His socks had stripes.
You moved in together in spring.
You got married in fall.
And when people asked how it worked—how someone like you and someone like him didn’t drive each other mad—you smiled.
“Because love isn’t about liking the same flavor,” you said. “It’s about sharing the cone.”
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
THIS IS A NEED
This is the kind of love i dream about
You are now my favourite author babe
Say You'll Remember
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
----------
Bucky wasn’t supposed to be yours. Not really. Not in the cosmic, fairytale kind of way.
You were just supposed to be a blip in each other’s lives—a soft landing after years of hard edges and cold goodbyes. That’s how you justified it in the beginning. That’s how you let yourself fall.
But damn, you fell hard.
It starts on a Tuesday.
You’re working a double at the bakery downtown, apron stained with flour and fingertips burned from wrestling with the old espresso machine. The regulars filter in and out. You barely notice him at first—tall, broad, hoodie pulled up despite the summer heat.
He orders black coffee. Says thank you like it costs him something. He tips five dollars on a three-dollar drink.
The next day, he’s back.
He tells you his name is James. Doesn’t look you in the eye when he says it, but he watches your hands. Watches how gently you fold pastry boxes, how you hum when no one’s listening.
You learn quickly that he comes in every morning around 9:15. Always orders the same thing. Always sits at the corner table and pulls a notebook from his bag.
You learn, later, that he used to be someone else.
He tells you the truth one night on your fire escape.
You’re drinking cheap beer. His metal hand clinks against the railing as he fiddles with the cap of the bottle. You’re both barefoot. The air smells like hot pavement and jasmine.
“I used to be him,” he says quietly. “The one they whisper about.”
You don’t say anything. You just scoot closer and rest your head on his shoulder.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for decades.
He meets your parents six months in. Your dad shakes his hand with wary eyes. Your mom watches him like she’s solving a puzzle. You think she sees the way he watches you when you’re not looking—like he’s memorizing you.
Later, she tells you he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
You nod.
You know.
You fight, once.
It’s about something stupid. Dishes, or the laundry, or the fact that he keeps buying strawberries and letting them rot in the fridge.
But it spirals.
He shuts down. You raise your voice. And for the first time in your life, you see what it looks like when someone retreats into a war you can’t see.
You find him hours later sitting on the shower floor, water running cold.
You climb in, fully clothed, and hold his face in your hands.
“I’m not leaving,” you whisper. “Not even close.”
He doesn’t cry. But he shakes.
On your one-year anniversary, he takes you to the lake just outside the city.
It’s quiet. Peaceful. There’s a tiny dock and a rowboat and a blanket full of strawberries he promises not to waste this time.
You sit with your legs tangled in his lap, feeding him fruit and laughing into his neck.
“You know,” he says, voice low, “I used to think I’d never have any of this.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth. “What changed?”
“You.”
You don’t realize you love him until a man walks into the café one afternoon with a face from Bucky’s past. One look and Bucky’s entire body goes stiff.
You watch as he shields you with his own frame, barely blinking.
Later, he apologizes for the panic, for the way he shut down. You just wrap your arms around him and press your cheek to his chest.
“You don’t have to be sorry for protecting the people you love.”
His breath catches.
You don’t notice.
You say “I love you” for the first time in the dark. It’s one of those half-asleep confessions. You’re wrapped in Bucky’s arms, the covers tangled around your hips, your nose pressed to his collarbone.
“I love you,” you mumble.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then—
“Say it again.”
You smile against his skin.
“I love you, Bucky.”
His whole body sinks against yours, like he finally believes it.
The thing is—he’s good. Not perfect. Not healed. But good.
He makes you breakfast on Sundays. He lets you paint your toenails on his lap while he reads. He hums old 40s jazz when he thinks you’re asleep.
Sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes he disappears into his own head for hours. But he always comes back.
To you.
Two years in, you move in together.
It’s chaotic. Boxes everywhere. Furniture arguments. Bucky breaks a lamp trying to install curtain rods and you both end up sitting on the floor crying from laughter.
You kiss him in every room, declare ownership of the tiny balcony, and hang fairy lights in the kitchen even though he calls them “a fire hazard.”
He always flips them on when he makes dinner.
The night it happens is ordinary.
You’re curled on the couch, wearing one of his sweatshirts. There’s a storm outside. The lights flicker once, then hold.
Bucky disappears into the bedroom without a word.
When he returns, he’s pale.
Holding something in his hand.
You sit up. “Bucky?”
He kneels in front of you.
“I never planned on a forever,” he says. “But then I met you. And suddenly I wanted all of it. The fights, the dishes, the good mornings, the forever kind of stuff.”
Your breath stutters.
“I’m still healing,” he says. “I’m still scared. But I want to do it all with you. I want to wake up to you every day for the rest of my life. I want to be yours.”
He opens the box.
“Will you marry me?”
You don’t speak. Just fall to your knees and wrap your arms around his neck.
He’s shaking. You’re crying.
“Yes,” you whisper, over and over. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Later, when your hands are steady again and his thumb is brushing over the ring on your finger, you tease, “I thought you didn’t do forever.”
“I didn’t,” he says softly, eyes crinkling. “But then you smiled at me. And now forever doesn’t feel so scary.”
You laugh, breath catching in your chest.
“I’m yours, Buck.”
“Mine,” he murmurs, pulling you into his lap. “Always.”
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
This series is so good i cannot
I feel the peace in my bones
The writing is immaculate cause i feel every single emotion😭😭
Ily babe, thank you for blessing us with this 🙏💜💜
🖇️ Masterpost: Made of Honey & Bruises
A five-part modern AU series about quiet healing, late-night rituals, and finding softness after the storm.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Nora (OC) Tags: #modern au #trauma nurse oc #soft man bucky #hurt comfort #slow burn #emotional healing #found softness
🩹 Part I: The First Time He Bleeds
Nora meets him in the ER, bleeding and quiet. She doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t stay. But he comes back.
“She’s good at her job. Calm. Clean lines. Quiet hands.” 🔗 Link to Part I
🌧 Part II: The Coffee and the Rain
What starts as treating wounds becomes lemon scones, late-night walks, and something resembling a rhythm.
“You help,” he says. “I don’t feel like a bomb about to go off when you’re around.” 🔗 Link to Part II
💔 Part III: What We Don’t Say
When Bucky shows up broken, Nora sees the bruises—and what hides beneath them. But healing isn't linear.
“You’re not a danger. You’re a man who survived what most people couldn’t.” 🔗 Link to Part III
🍯 Part IV: Made of Honey
They learn the language of softness—cookies that taste like memory, hands that don't flinch, and a kiss that feels like home.
“You can’t scare me,” she says. And so he kisses her. 🔗 Link to Part IV
🕊 Part V: Soft Places to Land
He disappears. Then comes back. Not perfect—but willing. They don’t fix each other. They stay.
“You don’t fix me. But you stay. And I think that might be better.” 🔗 Link to Part V
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
Made of Honey & Bruises
Part 5: Soft Places to Land
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Original Female Character (Nora)
Setting: Modern AU, urban setting, trauma hospital, rainy streets, late-night bakeries
----------
He doesn’t show up on Monday.
Or Tuesday.
Or Wednesday.
No call. No message. No coffee cup with a scribbled note. Just… absence.
At first, Nora tells herself not to panic. He’s done this before—disappeared into himself, pulled back when the world pressed too hard against his skin.
But this time feels different.
This time, he kissed her.
This time, she woke up with his hand still in hers and thought—Maybe. Maybe this is something.
And now he’s gone.
By Thursday, she’s not sleeping. She keeps her phone within reach, checking it obsessively even though there’s never been a text history between them. She walks the route to the bakery twice, even loops past the spot near the hospital where he always leaned against the wall.
Nothing.
By Friday, she leaves a note with Tariq.
If you see him, tell him I’m still here. Still his seat. Still his coffee. Just… still.
She doesn’t sign it.
He’ll know.
Saturday, it rains.
Of course it does.
She stays in bed most of the day, curled under blankets that smell like his hoodie and lemon sugar. She rereads the note he left her, folded into the pages of a book she hasn’t opened since.
You feel like peace. I don’t know what to do with that yet.
She aches with it.
Because she knows what she’d say back.
You don’t have to do anything. You just have to let it happen.
He shows up at 2:47AM on Sunday.
Soaked. Silent. Standing outside her apartment like a ghost waiting to be invited in.
She opens the door before he knocks.
He looks wrecked. Not bloody—thank god—but undone in a way that has nothing to do with fists or bruises. His hair’s damp, hoodie clinging to him, breath fogging in the early morning chill.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says.
She doesn’t speak. Just steps aside and lets him in.
He paces.
Back and forth across her living room like an animal too long caged.
She watches him from the couch, legs curled under her, mug warm in her hands.
“I thought I could handle it,” he mutters. “Being seen. Being… soft. I thought I could want it and still keep it at a distance.”
He stops pacing. Turns to her. “But you don’t let me hide, Nora. Not really.”
“I never asked you to be anything you’re not.”
“You didn’t have to.”
There’s no accusation in his voice. Just truth. Raw and shaking.
“I’ve never been this close to something good,” he says. “Not without losing it.”
Nora sets the mug down. Stands slowly.
“And are you going to lose this?”
“I almost did.”
She walks toward him. Stops just inches away. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Scared. Small. Angry at nothing. Wanting to break something just to feel in control.”
“You think I haven’t felt that?” she whispers.
His breath stutters.
“I’m not afraid of the mess, Bucky,” she says. “But I am afraid of you running from it.”
He exhales, slow and shuddering. “I don’t want to run anymore.”
“Then don’t.”
She reaches for his hand.
And this time, he grips it like a lifeline.
They don’t fix everything in one night.
But they fall asleep in each other’s arms, bodies tangled on her too-small couch, hearts slowly syncing like they’ve both been waiting for this particular rhythm.
When she stirs near dawn, she finds him already awake, watching her.
“I should’ve come back sooner,” he murmurs.
“You came back.”
She brushes a hand over his cheek. He leans into it.
“That’s what matters.”
Over the next week, something gentler settles between them.
He comes with her to the market. Carries her bag of produce. Laughs when she insists on smelling every lemon before buying one. He doesn’t flinch when a car backfires nearby—not when she’s beside him. Not when her fingers graze his wrist and anchor him back.
She leaves him sticky notes now.
Lunch is in the fridge. Don’t forget to stretch that shoulder. I like you. A lot.
Sometimes, he leaves them too.
Your cookies are better than Tariq’s. Still thinking about your laugh. Don’t go anywhere.
They make love for the first time on a quiet Tuesday.
It’s slow. Unrushed. Full of pauses and long exhales.
After, she traces the scars on his shoulder with the tip of her finger. He lets her. Doesn’t pull away.
“You’re not what they made you,” she whispers.
“No,” he agrees. “But sometimes I still feel like I’m carrying pieces of it.”
“You don’t have to carry them alone.”
“I know.”
And he means it.
On Sunday, she finds a note tucked under her coffee mug again.
But this one’s longer.
You don’t scare me, Nora. You make me want things I thought I wasn’t allowed to want. Peace. Softness. A life that doesn’t feel like penance. You don’t fix me. But you stay. And I think that might be better.
She presses it to her chest. Breathes deep.
Then pulls out her phone.
This time, she texts him first.
You’re my soft place to land too.
—————
Series Masterpost
7 notes
·
View notes
Note
I promise I’ll be done requesting things soon 😭😭😭 but man you just have a way with words. Okay??? Talent. Pure talent.
anyhow, today we need to see Bucky and a reader who never sleeps. I mean never. And after a particularly hard, brutal, gut-wrenching mission, she falls asleep on his chest. For the first time in months (despite sleeping in the same bed bc. Married!bucky might be the reason I haven’t died yet) reader is actually fully unconscious. Sadly, it happened on the couch, not the bed. So now we get an hourly play-by-play of the seventeen hours Bucky has to keep the other members of the team from waking you up. John nearly ruins it by making a grilled cheese and setting it on fire. Ava just.. stares. Yelena laughs. John laughs too. Bucky nearly murders them all. and when reader finally wakes up? The cutest, sleepy conversation buckys ever gotten. Full mumbling. “Whys the light there, Buck?” “Because it’s daytime, doll.” “Turn it off.” All the thunderbolts are shocked because reader doesn’t usually grin like she’s high, but alas.
I totally get if you can’t do this!!! Just a thought!! Have a wonderful day and I hope that when you do your laundry you can always find both socks. :D
First of all: never stop requesting things 😭😭😭 This was an actual delight to write.
-----------
They’d been home three minutes. Maybe four.
Bucky hadn’t even shrugged off his jacket yet—still stained with smoke and dust and a little blood that wasn’t his—when you collapsed onto the couch with a quiet, “I’m fine. Just need a second.”
And then you didn’t move.
Not in the usual “I’m staring into the void” way you did after missions. Not in the tight, coiled, on-edge tension you always carried. You were… still. Breathing soft. Heavy. And your face—god, your face was peaceful. Soft mouth, furrowless brow. The faintest crease from where it pressed against his chest.
You were asleep.
You never slept.
Bucky didn’t move for the first fifteen minutes, afraid even the rise of his chest might jostle you awake. But after twenty, then thirty… then an hour… he realized.
You were out. Dead asleep. For the first time in months.
And there was no way in hell he was going to let anyone mess that up.
Hour 2
Ava walked in, paused mid-step, and tilted her head at you like you were some rare animal on display.
“She breathing?”
Bucky gave her a slow, measured look. “Yes.”
“You look like you’re in pain.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because if you wake her up, I’ll have to commit a felony.”
She blinked. “Noted.”
Then she sat down on the arm of the couch and just stared. For twenty-six minutes.
Hour 4
Yelena tiptoed in and promptly burst into quiet giggles.
“I can’t believe she’s actually asleep on you,” she whispered.
“Yeah. Me either.” Bucky didn’t even try to hide the awe in his voice.
Yelena leaned in to inspect your face. “She looks stoned.”
“She’s not.”
“She looks it.”
“She’s just happy,” Bucky said softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Finally.”
Yelena left—but not before taking a picture. “For science,” she winked.
Hour 6
John Walker tried to make a grilled cheese.
Keyword: tried.
The smoke alarm went off approximately 5.6 seconds after he turned the burner on high and then walked away. Smoke filled the kitchen. Bucky launched off the couch, gently shifting your weight and sprinting to rip the battery out of the alarm.
You stirred. Your brow crinkled.
Bucky swore under his breath.
John appeared in the hallway, holding a slightly charred triangle of cheese-death. “My bad.”
“She was asleep for six hours,” Bucky growled. “Six. Hours. Do you know what kind of miracle that is?”
“I was hungry—”
“She hasn’t slept more than forty-five minutes in weeks.”
“She—wait, she’s asleep?”
Bucky pointed at you, now curled in the blanket Ava had draped over you while he’d been smoke-alarm-wrangling. “You ruined grilled cheese. I will ruin your life.”
John backed away slowly.
Hour 10
You snored. Lightly. Once.
Bucky almost wept.
Hour 13
He hadn’t moved from the couch. At some point, someone had brought him a water bottle and a protein bar like he was a zoo exhibit.
Yelena came back with her laptop and set up across the room.
Ava walked in again, stared for a bit, and whispered, “Do you think she’s dreaming?”
John walked in and whispered, “Do you think I can still make another sandwich?”
Bucky stood.
They left.
Hour 17
You stirred.
Not a full-body jolt. Not a nightmare. Just… the tiniest of shifts.
Your head rolled slightly against Bucky’s chest, lips parted with a soft exhale, and then—
“Whys the light there, Buck?”
His heart swelled so hard he almost choked on it.
He leaned down, brushing his nose against your hair. “Because it’s daytime, doll.”
You grunted. “Turn it off.”
“I can’t turn off the sun, sweetheart.”
“Hmph.”
Your hand found his shirt, fisted in it weakly. You snuggled closer.
A few beats passed. Your voice was so faint it was almost inaudible.
“I missed you.”
“I’m right here,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”
“Mmm. Couch’s dumb.”
“I agree.”
“Take me to bed.”
He stood gently, scooping you up with practiced ease. You curled into his arms like you’d never known tension. Your legs dangled sleep-heavy, arms looped around his neck.
“You smell like mission,” you mumbled into his collar.
“You smell like drool.”
“Rude.”
He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?”
Later
As he eased you under the covers, fresh shirt swapped in, you blinked up at him with bleary eyes.
“That was… a good one,” you whispered.
“A good sleep?”
You nodded. “Best one I’ve had since…” You didn’t finish the sentence. Just smiled. “Thanks for making it quiet.”
“You earned every second.”
Outside the bedroom, a pan clattered to the floor.
Your eyes narrowed.
Bucky kissed your temple. “Want me to kill them?”
“No,” you yawned. “But maybe ban John from cheese.”
“Done.”
You smiled again—drunk with sleep, flushed and happy in a way he hadn’t seen in ages.
He stared at you, awe-struck.
“I love you, Buck.”
“I love you too, doll.”
Then, with one last little murmur—something that sounded vaguely like “sun’s dumb too”—you curled into his chest again and fell back asleep.
And this time?
He joined you.
Seventeen hours, earned.
108 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fixing the Leak
A small fic-let.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (gender neutral)
Word Count: <1000
Summary: The toilet's been running. It's driving you crazy, so you fix it. Bucky is stunned.
Trigger Warnings: Like, literally none? Mention killing of spiders? Mention of marriage?
Author's Note: So, I'm quietly obsessed with the idea of Bucky with a completely competent person, and he's in absolute awe of them.
Masterlist
The sound of running water had been bugging you for days.
Not a leak. Not a flood. Just that faint, persistent trickle echoing inside the toilet tank every time it failed to seal properly after a flush. More whisper than roar, but it gnawed at the edges of your patience.
It wasn’t an emergency. But it was annoying.
And it was fixable.
So on a quiet, golden-lit Saturday afternoon, while Bucky was out helping Sam with some backyard project, you grabbed your keys, slid on your sneakers, and headed to Home Depot. You returned a half hour later with a universal toilet repair kit, a Frappuccino, and the determined energy of a person on a mission.
You rolled your sleeves above your elbows and laid a folded towel down on the cool tile floor just in case. The bathroom smelled faintly of lavender cleaner and dryer sheets. A soft breeze from the cracked window stirred the edge of the shower curtain.
You knelt down beside the toilet like a seasoned mechanic inspecting a familiar machine.
The shutoff valve turned without resistance. The old flapper lifted off like it wanted to be replaced. The new parts slotted in with a satisfying click. You adjusted the chain, smoothed it flat, and ran a test flush.
The tank filled and stopped. Silent. No hiss or trickle.
You stood, washed your hands at the sink, and quietly admired your work.
Toilet: fixed. Life: in order.
And that’s exactly where Bucky found you.
He stepped into the bathroom, boots thudding lightly against the hardwood before pausing on the tile. He blinked once, then again, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.
You glanced over your shoulder, smile wide at his return, brushing your palms against your thighs. “Hey.”
His voice was slower than usual, almost cautious. “...Hey.”
A beat passed.
Then: “Why is the toilet apart?”
You gestured to the closed tank with a faint smile. “It was running. The rubber flapper was worn out and the chain had too much slack. So I replaced the whole inner assembly.”
His eyes widened. “You... fixed the guts? Of the toilet?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He stepped forward carefully, like the toilet might still be mid-surgery. “You didn’t even ask me.”
You shrugged, reaching for your glass of water. “Didn’t need to. I’ve been handling stuff like this for a long time, honey.”
He looked at the tank again, then the tools on the counter, a small adjustable wrench, the empty kit packaging, your phone playing quiet music from the corner, and back to you.
“But... tools? Plumbing?”
You tapped the wrench. “Used that. Didn’t even swear.”
His mouth opened like he wanted to object, then closed again, clearly processing. “How’d you even know what to buy?”
“It’s just a toilet. They’re basically the same under the lid.” You took a sip of water. “Also, Frank at Home Depot was awesome and gave me a discount.”
Bucky crossed his arms, eyes narrowing like he was still trying to piece it together. “So what do I get to fix?”
You smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You can kill all the spiders. I don’t like spiders.”
“Spiders,” he repeated flatly.
“And heavy lifting. And anything that involves Russian assassins.”
“Oh,” he muttered. “So all the fun stuff.”
You winked. “Think of it this way: you get to be a hero, and I get to be the woman who doesn’t need one. Win-win.”
He stared at you, his jaw twitching, his expression somewhere between disbelief and total emotional collapse. Slowly, that unreadable look melted into something else, a smile that started dangerous and spread lazy.
“You’re unreal.”
You pushed off the doorframe, walking past him with your water in hand. “And you must be going deaf in your old age. That toilet’s been whispering for a week. Was driving me nuts!”
He caught your waist as you passed, pulling you gently back toward him. “You seriously fixed the toilet without even texting me?”
“Was I supposed to interrupt your errands to ask permission to turn a wrench?”
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “No. I mean, yeah. I just... most people would’ve waited. You didn’t even flinch.”
You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “Babe, I once replaced a garbage disposal while my ex read the instructions out loud and still got confused. This was child’s play.”
He made a small, strangled sound, a cross between a groan and a sigh.
You leaned up, kissed his jaw, and pulled back just enough to see the way his eyes had gone heavy with something that looked a lot like worship.
“But it’s cute that you’re all riled up about it.”
“I’m not riled up.”
“You’re a little riled.”
“You’re wearing my hoodie, talking about plumbing, and casually emasculating me in my own apartment.”
You grinned, winking at him over your shoulder. “Hot, right?”
His groan deepened. “So hot.”
You stepped out of the bathroom then, wagging your finger playfully. “Put ‘flapper valve’ on your vocabulary list, soldier. You’re behind.”
He stood in the doorway for a full five seconds after you left, just staring at the toilet like it had revealed the secrets of the universe.
Then, glancing back at your retreating form, under his breath, with reverence and absolute certainty, he whispered:
“I’m gonna marry the shit outta you.”
Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods
198 notes
·
View notes
Text
You Lifted the Couch?
Just a little drabble. Part 1 of 3. It's just funny stuff.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (like, normal, but strong)
Word Count: <500
Summary: You're cleaning. You lift the couch to fix the rug under it. Bucky needs a moment.
Trigger Warnings: You lift the couch while cleaning. That's like it. I think you call him babe?
Author’s Note: This is Part 1. Part 2 tomorrow. Part 3 the next day.
Masterlist
Bucky walked through the front door, groceries balanced in one arm, a grocery store bouquet poking out between the bags. He froze in the entryway.
The couch had moved.
Not nudged or slightly turned, but fully relocated three feet to the left, centered perfectly on the rug. The coffee table, the pillows, even the throw blanket looked catalog-ready.
You, in leggings and an oversized T-shirt with a bleach stain near the hem, crouched on the rug, wrapping the vacuum cord with unnecessary precision.
He blinked. “Hey,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You’re back early.”
Groceries hit the counter. Bucky walked in and pointed at the living room. “You… moved the couch?”
You looked, then shrugged. “Oh. Yeah.”
A pause.
“You moved it by yourself?”
“Sure. The rug under it was bunched. Drove me nuts. I lifted one end and shoved.”
He stared. “You lifted it?”
“It’s not that heavy.”
“It’s a hundred-and-twenty-pound sectional.”
“I lifted the back corner, not the whole thing.” You passed him into the kitchen and started unpacking groceries.
He followed, baffled. “Did you slide it?”
“No, I tilted it and walked it over, one leg at a time.”
“Babe.” It somehow came out both reverent and alarmed.
You turned. “What?”
“You moved the couch. Alone. In socks.”
“I didn’t slip.”
“That’s not the point!”
“I had to fix the rug.”
“There’s a reason I offered to help!”
“You were running late. I was in the zone.” You tossed him a bag of spinach. “Window open. Music blasting. Dust bunnies on the run.”
Bucky caught the bag. “You could’ve pulled something.”
“I warm up before I clean,” you said seriously. “You think I do glute bridges for aesthetics?”
He had no answer for that. Just stood there, stunned and slightly aroused.
You finished unpacking the groceries, shut the fridge, and leaned against the counter across from him. “Are you gonna be weird about this?”
“No,” he said slowly. “I’m gonna be in love about this.”
You snorted, smug. “I thought you already were?”
He stepped in, bracketed you against the counter with both arms, voice low and still slightly stunned. “Didn’t think I could fall harder over chores, but here we are.”
You looped your arms around his neck, teasing. “I do what I can.”
“Seriously, though. You’re strong.”
You blinked. “I mean… I guess so?”
“You lifted a couch.”
You tilted your head. “You fight aliens. I vacuum.”
“That was not a normal-person vacuuming moment.”
“Yeah it was, babe.” You kissed his jaw. “You know, you’re cute when you’re overwhelmed.”
He pulled you in closer, voice muffled against your hair. “I’m not overwhelmed. I’m just… recalibrating everything I thought I knew about you.”
Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods
239 notes
·
View notes
Text
FORGET ABOUT SMUT. PLEASE I AM TIRED OF IT. I NEED ANGST. I NEED GUT WRENCHING EMOTIONAL TURMOIL THAT MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH. I NEED TO BAWL JUST FROM THINKING ABOUT IT.
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst
16K notes
·
View notes
Text
STOP I was trying to find cute bucky icons and all I found where people talking about him dying in doomsday
DON'T DO THAT TO ME. Please marvel don't let him die. If sebastian doesn't renew his contract, just make something up: that Bucky went off to live in a cabin in the woods with alpine idc. But don't kill him cause I swear I'll die.
26 notes
·
View notes
Text
STOP I was trying to find cute bucky icons and all I found where people talking about him dying in doomsday
DON'T DO THAT TO ME. Please marvel don't let him die. If sebastian doesn't renew his contract, just make something up: that Bucky went off to live in a cabin in the woods with alpine idc. But don't kill him cause I swear I'll die.
26 notes
·
View notes
Text
STOP I was trying to find cute bucky icons and all I found where people talking about him dying in doomsday
DON'T DO THAT TO ME. Please marvel don't let him die. If sebastian doesn't renew his contract, just make something up: that Bucky went off to live in a cabin in the woods with alpine idc. But don't kill him cause I swear I'll die.
26 notes
·
View notes
Text
STOP I was trying to find cute bucky icons and all I found where people talking about him dying in doomsday
DON'T DO THAT TO ME. Please marvel don't let him die. If sebastian doesn't renew his contract, just make something up: that Bucky went off to live in a cabin in the woods with alpine idc. But don't kill him cause I swear I'll die.
26 notes
·
View notes