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pairing ۶ৎ childhood best friend!bucky barnes x childhood best friend!reader.
summary ۶ৎ in which, a butterfly flies liberated from its cocoon, absorbing what the world has to offer. it soars through life, but it’s wings gradually grow tiresome, and has no cocoon to safely return to.
warnings ۶ৎ angst, reader has a terminal illness, time skips ( one scene when they’re kids, the rest when they’re adults ), mentions of war, medical treatments ( not completely accurate since i wasn’t alive in the 1940s, but i did some research ), pda, fluff, pet names ( peach, baby—f!receiving, darling—m!receiving ), kissing, allusions to spiciness ( not explicit, just mentioned in a couple sentences and a small convo about it ), timings may have been altered to fit with my plot, reader has hair that can be braided/plaited, reader has a surgery scar on her chest, letters are in italics, no use of y/n.
a/n ۶ৎ there are parts i love, parts i’m unsure about, but either way i’m happy i finished this!! i proofread this really quickly so if there’s any mistakes, i apologise!
word count ۶ৎ 10.4k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/diviniyae
JULY 19TH, 1926
“You don’t have to carry me, Bucky.”
“Yes, I do. I need to show off my strength.”
At nine years old, you’ve learnt not to take life for granted. It’s why, every moment you’re blessed with, you consume everything, snapping a mental picture of the scenery, inhaling the smells, and basking in the company.
The verdant field stretches on for miles, tall grass weaving with splashes of white and yellow: daisies. The sun pulses amongst the clear, blue sky, but your frilly hat blocks it out.
The aroma of fresh floral is welcomed into your senses, a contradiction to the powerful medical scents you’re accustomed to smelling while staring at the same mundane walls. The company you acquire is favourable too. Instead of sick patients coughing away, informing you that could be your fate one day, you’re graced with the crickets of grasshoppers and your best friend who’s carrying you on his back.
You giggle, your little arms around his neck tightening slightly, “There’s no one else around, who are you showing off to?”
“I thought you were smart.”
“I am smart!”
“Then how can you not see I’m tryna show off to you?”
Shyness creeps into your bones, making them feel light and fuzzy, and you bury your face into his neck. A laugh, so childlike and blissful, escapes him. It’s contagious, encouraging a smile to spread across your mouth.
He has no obligation to flex around you. You already comprehend he’s the utmost wondrous person to walk on this earth.
Your parents are at work despite it being a weekend. Your mother a waitress and your father off mining coal. They need the money to pay for medical bills and your diagnosis’s. Your family isn’t poor. You have a nice home with nice things. Your father engraves that into you when the kids at school mock you for wearing handmade clothes your mother stitched herself.
Yet, you’re defective and it’s high-priced.
“Where are we going anyways? Your mom said not to go too far.” You ask curiously as you lift your head, scanning the surroundings. His house is in the distance, and you can faintly view the outline of little Rebecca Barnes through the window, playfully tugging on Winnifred’s hair.
You’re not worried though. You know Bucky will never take you somewhere an adult isn’t able to reach you quickly in case something bad happens.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Bucky, tell me.”
“No.”
“Bucky.”
“Don’t say it like that!” His resolve always crumbles around you, “You sound like a weepin’ puppy and I love puppies.”
“And me. You love me too.” You teasingly quip.
There’s no hesitation when Bucky answers, “More than a dog with its bone.”
“You’re strange.”
Before he can reply with something witty, something to knock the cotton socks off your feet, he reaches the top of the hill and halts.
Your eyes widen.
An oak tree stands, so vast and beautiful it appears as though it’s from a fairytale. Spirally, green leaves wave hello on the thick branches that loop and intertwine with others. Acorns form a group in every nook and cranny while its bark wears age lines. Dandelions sprout from the dirt beside the stump, swaying gently under the shade it’s protected by.
“Cool, right?” You can hear the grin his voice, eager to have shown you this, “Reminds me of the front cover of that book you’re always readin’.”
Cheeks flushing at his memory, you slide off his back and grab his hand, dragging him into the bed of grass and soil.
It’s usually been like that. Wherever your feet step, his does too.
Time passes, the dirt blemishing the hem of Bucky’s shirt that’s become untucked proof. Your fingertips are stained with pollen from linking daisies together, creating a crown.
“Here, lemme…” Bucky gently takes the completed flower chain from you and sets it upon your head, “…there,” he grins triumphantly, “You’re just missing a ring.”
“A ring?” You tilt your head in confusion.
He plucks another daisy, it’s stem tall, and ties it carefully around your finger.
"Yeah. The crown is your veil, and this is the ring. Now, we're married." He says simply, as if it's the easiest decision he's ever made.
Laughter bubbles within your chest, “That’s not how it works, Bucky.”
“Pretend then.”
“Okay, husband.”
“Okay, wife.”
Your cheeks ache from smiling incessantly. You part your lips, words on the tip of your tongue, but your eyes flit towards a low branch that quivers mildly.
A chrysalis stands out amongst the greenery, and a gasp escapes you at the sight of a wing emerging, ocean waves swirling with black accents. The faded blue of the lower wings that appear suddenly glint off the sunlight.
A beacon of new life.
Then, it flies away elegantly.
“Bucky, Bucky, look!” You excitedly exclaim, swiftly rising from the ground.
You don’t give him a chance to turn his head, you just begin chasing after it, ignoring the scuff of his shoes and his worried yell.
“Wait— you’re not supposed to run fast!”
You run through the field, your eyes set on the creature. You laugh as it swirls in the air, and it almost seems like it’s inching closer with each moment. The grass tickles your legs, the gentle breeze letting wisps of your hair dance.
You keep following it like it’ll lead you to a covert cove that’ll unveil a magical world, and, just for a moment, you wonder if this is what it’s like to experience a normal childhood.
“Bucky, come on!” You call back, “It’s… it’s…”
Your words are stolen as your lungs feel as though they’re being stretched then compressed, closing in second by second as your ankles radiate pain, an invisible rope tightening around your skin, leaving a burning ache.
You slow down.
The butterfly soars further.
The ringing in your ears is faint.
Are you coughing?
Your legs give out.
And, through the heaviness of your eyelids, the butterfly disappears.
Before you can hit the ground, arms tuck under yours and gently lowers you with him, your back against his knees. Your heart thumps swiftly. Harshly. You’re sure the organ wants to jump out of your chest and nestle in another body—a healthier, fitter one.
Bucky settles your hat aside so he can see you better, his hands hovering in the air, unsure and hesitant, “Hey, hey, you’re breathin’ funny again. Should I go fetch my Ma?” He tries his hardest to sound calm, but the slight crack in his tone reveals the inner-panic.
No!
If he gets his mother then she’s going to call yours at work and she’ll take you home. You can’t be the reason she loses pay or worse: fired.
You cause her enough trouble already, and you want more time with Bucky.
You shake your head frantically against his stomach, eyes wide and breathing stertorous. Your body is hungry for air, yet it’s not being served.
Until his hands carefully cups the back of your neck, his thumb a feathery motion soothing over your pulse point.
It jumps back into place.
“Okay, okay,” he reassures, “How does it go again? Uhm— relax your neck and shoulder.”
You focus on his touch, his voice, the way his face blocks out the rest of the world as you gaze up at him. His fingers are soft, not hardened by the working universe yet. He’s upside down in your vision, a crease in his forehead that shouldn’t be there for someone so young.
Gradually, your limbs grow slack.
“Good… good. Now, breathe in through your nose for two counts.”
The fuzziness clouding your mind is pierced while you repeat his instruction. You remember what to do, so you purse your lips and exhale slowly through them to the count of four.
Minutes pass, but the air no longer rejects you. Your chest rises and falls into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat returning to as regular as it can be, and all that remains is the fatigue.
The world comes back into motion, and a tranquil silence surrounds it. A peaceful apology for the disruption of your fun.
“That butterfly wasn’t worth it,” Bucky states, breaking the quietness, “Y’know how scared I was for you just now?”
Guilt glazes over your eyes, your bottom lip wobbling. You can bear the weight of your episodes, and you can handle the medicine you’ll no doubt be ingesting tonight instead of cookies and milk other kids receive.
But, you can’t handle him upset because of you.
“Sorry.” You whisper, voice slightly scratchy.
His shoulders lower, the crease hiding away until another moment like this occurs. You witness him soften like snow melting under the sun.
“Just… don’t do that again, okay? Please. I don’t wanna lose you,” he quielty and pleadingly says, “You’re my best friend.”
A beat passes.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“You reminded me of that butterfly.”
“I reminded you of an insect?”
A small smile graces your face at the amusement in his tone, the atmosphere shifting back into place like nothing happened.
“Not like that,” you softly say, rubbing your eyes gently, “Butterflies represent good luck sometimes. And, when I’m with you, I’m lucky.”
“How’re you lucky?” Bucky questions, the light in his eyes shining as bright as a firefly.
“I can breathe with you.”
SEPTEMBER 21ST, 1935
The autumn air nips at your nose, the bustling noise of cars in the distance intertwining with the sound of a rake scraping against the cobblestone to rid the mahogany nature from being stepped on.
Ten minutes have been swept away, but it‘s akin to a year for you. Everything’s slowed, every little noise muffled. Your eyes are glued to the ground as you’re perched upon a ledge outside the hospital. To anybody passing by, they’d assume you’re watching the earlier morning rain residue that’s stuck between the pavement and the road.
To you, however, you’re thinking. And, right now, alone, that’s a dangerous place to be.
Your mind feels like it’s been split into two, battling against each other to infiltrate every nerve in your system.
One side is a maddening, heavy flurry. It’s concrete crumbling as the hammer swings down on it. Future plans are gone, abandoned in a pile of rubble.
The opposite side is light. A relieving sensation that the carry-on of your body working overtime has finally been identified.
Heart valve disease.
That’s what you’ve been diagnosed with.
The balance between crying and smiling rages within you, but luckily you don’t have to focus on it for too long as a voice, as warm as honey, encourages your head to rise.
“Hey, honey,” Mrs. Rogers, clad in her nurses uniform, greets kindly. Her bouncy, blonde curls frame her features, an angel in disguise that roams through the hospital halls, offering comfort to anyone in need, “Do you need a lift home?”
You choose to smile, because why dampen someone else’s day?
“That’s okay, Mrs. Rogers. I’m just waiting for a friend, thank you though.”
“How long have you known me, hm? Six years and you still call me that. Sarah will do just fine.” She says, voice tinged with a hint of playfulness.
Before becoming best friends with Steve Rogers on the playground, there was his mother. A sweet soul who sat with you when your parents conversed in a hush discussion with the doctors. She would never ask how you’re doing, but instead inquired about your interests and favourite foods, making you feel like an actual human being and not just a patient.
A knowing glint shines in her sky-blue eyes, “Say hi to Barnes for me, will you, hon? And that he owes me a batch of lemon squares.”
The mere mention of him has your heart skipping, a small laugh tumbling from your mouth. The memory of him ‘taste testing’ one lemon square at Steve’s ended up turning into accidentally eating them all, while sneaking their golden retriever some crumbs, is still fresh in your mind.
“Will do, Mrs— I mean, Sarah.”
She gifts you one of those fond, mothering gazes before walking away.
The light at every corner of the earth dims again. Flickering. Waiting.
Yet, the dullness fighting to accompany you loses at the sight of Bucky jogging over. You smile at the sight of his trousers damp at the hem due to working at the docks.
“Did you go swimming in your clothes?” You quip, swaying your legs back and forth gently.
“Hm?” His chin tips downwards at himself, then chuckles, “Oh, right. I was searching for pearls to give to you.” His flirtatious, oceanic eyes meet yours, and everything stabilises.
“Any luck?”
He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth, perching beside you, shoulder brushing against yours, “I didn’t look hard enough.”
Are you imagining the hint of disappointment in his voice?
“My mind was too preoccupied with how you’re doing.” He says, tranquil yet worried.
You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a thick lump in your throat that’s forbidding the words to roll from your tongue.
How do you tell the boy you’ve watched grow into the purest form of a gentleman that you have a life-threatening disease?
It’ll tone down his laughter. It’ll sprout worst case scenarios into his mind until they’re suffocating every cell in his brain. It’ll puncture his amiable heart until it eventually mirrors yours.
…Right?
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, your silence hurting his ears, “You don’t have to tell me right away, peach. I can wait.”
For the moment, all of the weight you’ve been carrying dissipates, replaced by a gooeyness.
His calloused hand lays upright in the air and you instantly intertwine your fingers with his. Gently squeezing your hand, he tucks them both away into his toasty pocket.
“Peach?” You repeat the nickname he called you, brows raised.
“Yeah,” he nods adamantly, “You’re a little bruised, but the marks on the outside don’t define the sweetness inside. Like a peach.”
A beat passes.
“Couldn’t just stick with ‘doll’?”
“Too common nowadays,” Bucky brushes it off, “‘Sides, you deserve your own nickname.”
You take a moment to just gaze at him.
Raven locks, mussed as though he ran his fingers through them endlessly. You appreciate how he didn’t brush his hair before arriving. That he just let himself be with you. You count the faint creases by his eyes—there from illuminating the world with his smile when the sun hides from the fog.
His lips, a shade of maroon under the golden rays of autumn, are a pair you won’t dare kiss, because they’re probably stained with someone else’s.
Clearing your throat quietly, you slip your hand away from his, goosebumps rising to plead with the bitter air.
“How was your date last night?”
You don’t sound jealous. You have no right to be. However, a sense of longing wraps around your words. A yearning for what you forbid yourself from having.
You force yourself to ignore the way his brows knit together when you pulled away. How his fingers left his pocket and twitched towards you, but stopped.
“It wasn’t great,” he exhales a long breath. “Terrible, really.”
Concern strikes you like a lightning bolt, pupils dilating, “Why? What happened?”
“She wasn’t you.”
She. Wasn’t. You.
Three words that can spark a generator back to life.
But you make it stall.
For years, Bucky has been confessing his feelings for you like it’s the only thing he knows. If he’s not outright saying it, then he’s slipping sweet notes into your bag as he walks you to the Library where you work, or he’s attempting to draw butterflies for you that you stow in your purse.
His love is loud, whereas yours is quiet.
It wasn’t thrusted into your palms, but it was something that brewed throughout the years. Slow, delectable, with time mastering it until your thoughts became enshrouded with him.
Yet, you’ve always shut him down. Guilt gnaws at you, the fabric of yourself growing threadbare. You know you’re letting him down. You’re aware you’re crushing him despite the unruffled demeanour and boyish grin he wears after.
You just can’t condemn him to a life of misery.
You clutch the edge of the ledge tight, “Why do you think they have cobblestone as a path to the hospital?” You ask, changing the subject, “They should really replace it with a flat walkway.”
“You can’t avoid me, this—” Bucky gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “—us forever,” his voice softens, “I won’t let you anymore.”
Frustration becomes your defence despite no attack taking place.
“I don’t understand you sometimes, Bucky.” You mutter, hopping onto the ground and dusting your hands on your coat.
“Why not, huh?” He mimics your movements and falls into step with you as you begin embarking down the path, “I make myself clear everyday how I feel about you.”
“Well, then, maybe you should stop.” You firmly say.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“…Yes.”
He laughs humourlessly, grasping your elbow gently and halting you both, “You’re a terrible liar.”
You falter by his warm touch, but you shrug yourself from his grasp, forcing yourself to put space between you, “I refuse to hold you back in life, Bucky.”
Stilling and shoulders tensing, Bucky blinks in bewilderment, “Hold me back in life? You know I could listen to you for hours, but what are you talking about? And will ya—” his chest rises and falls with a pained breath, “Will you quit pulling away from me, please?”
“You need someone fresh,” your wavering voice betrays the confidence of your tipped chin and feet firm against the pavement, “And that’s not me. I’m a wilting flower. Not enough sun or water is going to keep me alive for long.”
The pain of not merely today, but your past and future, is infused into a singular tear that trickles down your cheek.
“I’d just be a burden to you.”
The sky fades into mesmerising swirls of pink and orange, a dusk worshipping the pumpkin patch behind the nearby cafe. It’s bell hanging on the door dings faintly, muffled noises of greetings flowing into your ears.
And Bucky stands there.
Quiet. Calm.
No fisted hands, no clenched teeth, no darkening eyes.
His breaths are steady and gentle, and a part of you selfishly wishes his oxygen could hug you.
Then, he speaks, his voice a soothing wave that laps at your ankles, inviting you deeper into the ocean. His ocean, “Why don’t we get a drink, okay?”
“Now who’s avoiding talking.” You cross your arms, looking away.
“I’m not avoiding us, peach,” Bucky says, achingly soft, “I just don’t want you standing in the cold anymore.”
You close your eyes momentarily, exhaling through your nose, and nod feebly as the world is revealed to you again.
A brush paints the canvas of his face in relieved colours, and his steps fall in rhythm with yours as you embark slowly towards the cafe, granting you enough time for your head to clear.
Opening the door for you, Bucky follows you inside, warmth caressing your skin and the aroma of coffee wafting into your nose. Muted, checkered tablecloths layer over evanescing, wooden tables that waitresses weave around. A radio poses underneath crinkled parchments of posters hung upon cobweb-collected, brick walls.
Harmonies of jazz plays tenuously in the background, interlacing with Bucky’s voice, “Go sit. I’ll order for us.” He murmurs, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.
He’s lost somewhere.
As thought it’s muscle memory, you slip into the booth by the window, your ankles sighing in relief. They’ve been swelling all day, caged as a prisoner beneath the straps of your shoes.
Not much time passes until Bucky’s returned, setting your favourite drink in front of you, and a black coffee for him as he settles opposite.
His fingers interlock around the mug, pads of his skin tapping against it.
This is unbearable.
“Can you say something, please?” You softly ask.
Finally, his eyes flit to yours. A world of emotions on display, yet the strongest of all is what you’re afraid of.
“Do you honestly believe that I’ll agree with everything you said?” He rhetorically questions. “That I think of you like that?”
He’s calm as he speaks, and you’re beginning to wonder if he brought you here so you’d remain calm in front of others too. Not just for his sake, but for yours also, because arguing with him are like needles pricking under your skin until eventually the sharpness bursts through.
And he knows you’d bleed for him.
You part your mouth to converse, but close it, knowing now is Bucky’s time to talk.
“You’re grieving something—us—while we’re still breathing.”
The truth of his words makes you look down. You won’t deny it. You’ve already picked up a shovel and began digging deep into the dirt, ready to bury dreams and hopes you won’t experience. Maybe one day someone else would uncover it and have it as their own.
But Bucky won’t allow that. He’s taking the shovel from you and guiding you away from the wreckage, with your future still cradled to your chest.
Your vulnerable defences are slipping.
Sitting up straighter, his thumb and forefinger grip you chin, tilting your head up to face him. The hitch in your throat wasn’t unnoticed by him—his eyes momentarily darting down to your neck, and he soothes his thumb under the curved of your bottom lip.
“To me, you are so strong. Storms will pass by but you stay firmly planted in the ground. And that strength is admirable, peach,” he earnestly says, “I want to be by your side throughout it, even on the worser days so you can lean against me. In sickness and in health.”
James Buchanan Barnes’ loyalty is greater than the cosmos. Cowards shrivel up under in his presence, his shine burning them, and other men aspire to be a star like him.
His loyalty to you is locked tight. Nothing can break through it. Not the plans God has, not the course of turbulence expected to come, and definitely not your stubbornness.
“You’re acting as if we’re married, Bucky,” you say, “Not that we could afford that with all my medical bills.”
One last humoured try.
A mix of fondness and miff rolls around in his eyeballs, “For richer for poorer, peach,” he responds, “I’d spend my entire life’s worth of earnings if it means you’ll get better.“
He lowers his hand, grasping yours and stroking your ring finger. Your heart stutters as he traces a daisy, the same one that you wore until it wilted on your finger when you were kids. You never informed him you kept the petals in a small pouch under your pillow.
“I take vows very seriously,” he winks with a smirk, “And, when we were nine, I declared I was going to marry you. Nothing is ever going to change my mind about that.”
Alone in your bedroom, when you’d picture marrying someone, Bucky always sprung to mind. But your coughing would quickly turn your imagination to grey until it disappeared.
Now, it’s glowing bright. Staying.
Your lips turn upwards.
“You’re not proposing to me in a coffee shop.” You state, and he chuckles.
“Of course not, but I am plannin’ on kissin’ you in front of all these people.” He grins, achingly sweet your suprised his teeth haven’t rotted.
Your mug, raised to your mouth, quakes slightly at his sudden declaration.
Probably how you’ll be feeling in a minute.
“Wha—”
Before you can react properly, he sets your drink down and slides out of the booth, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently tugging you up.
Everything moves too fast until it slows down when he quietly asks, “Can I?”
You nod immediately.
His lips connect with yours. Slow and tentative. He’s giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your arms snake around his neck while his palm sends ripples of warmth through your clothing. He presses into your lower back, inching you closer, chests brushing.
His lips feel like the finest of silks against your lips, velvety and warm. You yearn to be wrapped in him forever, keeping you safe from the coldest of evenings. The dash of bitterness you taste from his coffee grounds you from getting lost in the moment—remaining with him.
You can feel the thumping of his wild heart, the passion in his movements, the adoration he’s pouring out and into your mouth.
It’s raw and undeniable. A poet’s love confession floating down your throat and resting beneath your ribs, healing where once was an ache.
“Aww’s” from kind voices and “get a room” from grumpier one’s sound out over your mingled, soft breaths, but you and Bucky simply grin against each other’s mouth before parting for air.
Nothing else matters but this.
Your touch soothes the goosebumps that have risen on the nape of his neck, your lovesick gaze matching his, “I love you, Bucky.” You whisper, only for his ears.
He cups the back of your head, fingertips sifting through your hair, and guides your forehead to his lips, his words seeping through your skin and becoming the forefront of your mind.
“I love you too, peach.”
Butterflies dance and cheer in your stomach. They don’t just represent luck, but new beginnings too.
DECEMBER 23RD, 1941
Every night, when you drift off into the realms of sleep, you relive your wedding. It’s not a dream. You’ve done enough dreaming for it to finally come true. It’s Polaroid photos projecting off your eyelids, and you flick through every single one, studying carefully, never missing a detail.
A pathway of petals trailed to the oak tree, bushy leaves parting for golden rays to gleam upon you and Bucky standing front-centre of the trunk. The flowers and grass settled behind, amongst the guests, silently commending.
The neckline of your wedding dress was a scoop, fitting the high-back. Your collarbones were bare, for you desired them not to be marked with jewellery, but the summer air’s congratulations. A waterfall of white cascaded to your ankles—pure, ivory linen with net lace protecting it. You requested your mother to embroider florals around the upper chest and sleeves that reached your elbows.
He didn’t waste a dime on his suit, not a missing piece, needing to be complete. Trousers that fit like a glove, a collar waistcoat, and blazer, all executed in the smoothest of grey fabric, with a white shirt and navy tie. A daisy peered out from his chest pocket too.
His feet were clad in the shoes his father wore when he wed Winnifred ( which were stored away in her attic ). They were vintage and decrepit, not enough polish to make them proper, but they were meaningful, and it reminded you of the tree’s aging bark.
Slicked-back hair you were desperate to run your fingers through, his gaze fixated on you the entire time.
Enamoured, zealous, proud.
You saw him in a different glow, and it was heavenly.
His vows held buckets of emotion it began welling in his eyes. His touch was incredibly tender as he slipped the ring on your finger.
But the kiss? Oh, it was passionate. It felt like pouring every ounce of yourself onto a love letter.
The branches shook their leaves in applause while others clapped, the sunlight burned brighter, failing to out-do you two, and the coldness of his ring against your cheek was a sighing relief against the air’s humidity.
It wasn’t a grand wedding, but it was yours.
Before another moment your sleep-induced mind can spectate, it costively flickers then disappears upwards as your eyes open by a light weight against your head.
Blinking a few times to rid the bleariness of exhaustion, your husband is crouched by the bed, stroking your hair lullingly. The decorative bulbs on the Christmas tree filter through the open door and into the darkened bedroom, enlightening his features.
“You were smiling in your sleep again,” Bucky says, before a teasing lilt takes over, “Dreaming of me?”
You shift so your face isn’t half-covered by the pillow, “Our wedding day.”
“Oh, so you were dreaming of yourself?” He grins, “‘Cause you were the brightest there. No one could even look at me.”
The giggle that escapes you is frangible. If you reached out to touch the sound, it’d crack.
Bed rest. That’s what the doctors prescribed you ever since tornados of dizziness struck you. Black pixels would invade your vision, closing in, making your feet sway until you’ve hit the ground. Yet, overtime, you’ve learnt to carry yourself to the couch.
When you’d return to reality in a cold sweat, a headache would arrive, pounding like an incessant drum within the left side of your head.
You continue carrying on with life, picking up the odd few jobs since you were laid off by your work, but lying in the haven of your bed has been occurring more frequently than not recently.
“What’s the time?” You quietly ask.
“It’s six, baby.”
“Six?!” You spew out too quickly, coughs following soon after that you cover with a frail hand. Bucky rubs your back soothingly, “I’ve been asleep for six hours… I haven’t even started dinner yet.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” He soothes, “It’s fine, peach. You must’ve needed the sleep. ‘Sides, we can cook together now.”
He’s so understanding it hurts.
You hum languidly. Then, slowly, your brows knit together.
“If it’s six, you should’ve been home an hour ago.”
A smirk graces his devishly handsome face, “I was doing some last minute shopping.”
“Bucky…”
“I know, I know,” he holds his hands up in mock defence, “You said you didn’t want anything, but I’m going to give you everything you don’t ask for anyways.”
Shaking your head with a feeble smile, you muster the energy you always reserve for him and grasp his collar, pulling him onto the bed and slowly slotting your lips against his as you recline against the pillows. His body hovers over you, and you feel as though you may become one with the plushness of the mattress.
Bucky’s hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head so he can delve deeper into the velvet walls of your mouth. Meanwhile, you grip his waist, urgent he moves closer, needing him to consume you whole. You don’t care if you lose any air, or if your heart can’t candle the exertion. If kissing him is the last thing you do, you’ll kiss him like you’re marching into battle.
You’re so lost in the precious whirlwind of him, you don’t feel your hair being brushed to the side, nor the sound of something skilfully clipping around your neck until a chilled weight rests on your chest.
Gasping when you break the kiss, you glance down as he tattoos your skin with his lips against your temple, cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth.
“Merry early Christmas, baby.” He whispers against your mouth.
A delicate chain glints off the celestials peeking through the window, and, in the centre, sits a butterfly charm.
“James.” You whisper in awe.
He props himself up with his arm by your head, “You couldn’t catch that butterfly, so I thought I’d buy you one.”
Describing love is tough, because there's not enough words in the dictionary. But you know how it feels. You know that your illness has become bearable, almost forgettable at times, all because of Bucky.
Carefully, as though it’ll crush under your touch, you trace the ridges and lines of the wings.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. You lightly pat his chest, “Sit up, I have something for you too.”
Raising an inquisitive brow, he obliges, “Yes, ma’am.”
Your limbs protest as you sit up before he can help you, wanting some form of independence that keeps you sane. After turning the bedside lamp on with quivering fingers, you rummage through the bottom drawer of the nightstand and grasp an envelope, extending it to him.
“What’s that?” Bucky curiously asks, taking it, letting his fingers linger against yours.
“A pigeon,” you sarcastically murmur, “It’s a letter, darling.”
He shakes his head, smiling at your regular self making an appearance.
It’s rare nowadays.
“I know it’s a letter, but what kind? A cheesy love one?”
“No, I only send those to Steve.”
He lightly pinches a space of your calve that isn’t littered with bruises and you yelp.
Inspecting it as he turns it over, noticing it’s already been opened, he takes the paper out, and you nervously analyse how his eyes scan the inked words.
How his breath hitches.
How his fingers grip the paper tighter.
How the world shifts.
“Surgery?” He swallows thickly, eyes slowly darting to yours, a sheen of water glossing over.
“I’ve been put onto a waitlist,” you carefully admit, “They don’t know how long it’ll be, but I have a chance to get better. To be me again.”
His Brooklyn accent is prominent as his voice wavers, “You’ve always been you, peach. You just had some obstacles in the way.”
“…Bucky?”
“The survival rates are low, baby.”
He rubs at his chest like his words have physically injured him.
“Since when did you look on the bad side of things?” You inquire worriedly.
“Since this letter is saying a surgeon is going to jam their finger into my wife’s heart,” concern poisons his words as he stabs his own finger against the parchment, “What if they make a mistake, hm? What if this doesn’t help, but makes it worse?”
“Bucky, listen to me,” you cradle his face in your hands, “There are numerous what-if situations. The only one I’m thinking about right now is what if this makes me healthier? I could finally work again, I could breathe normally, I could live instead of survive.”
Bucky rests his forehead against yours, seeking solace, “You truly want this?” He asks quietly.
“I do,” you honestly, pleadingly, say, “I’m so tired. I can’t walk for more than thirty minutes without feeling like I’m going to collapse. I just want to be normal.”
It’s evident that your words strike a chord in him, coaxing a tear to trickle down his face which you wipe away.
“Okay, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently pulling you onto his lap, “So damn proud of you.”
Relief courses throughout you. He buries his face into your neck and presses a kiss to your pulse point.
“We’re going to be okay.” You whisper, gliding your hand up and down his back, feeling him melt under your touch.
“I know we are, peach. You’ve always been strong enough for the both of us.”
You don’t comprehend how true that is until two days later and Bucky’s own future is being determined by a letter.
Drafted into the Army.
JUNE 14TH, 1943
“Bucky, I’m recovering from surgery, not incompetent.” Your laughter, a sound full of life, bounces off the walls.
Four months has passed since your surgery took place, a scar on your chest to prove the events. Within two of those months, you remained at the hospital for recovery, medication pumped into your system and therapies to coax your body into regular movements flowing.
Every day, Bucky was by your side. Holding your hand and replacing the vase of flowers with fresher ones. He voiced his contemplation of quitting his job just so he could spend more time with you, to which you gave him a firm no as a response.
You can’t be more thankful to have him in your life, to be so lucky that he stayed throughout the whole journey.
You returned home three months ago. The process of healing is long, but gradually, your limbs are no longer bruising, but clearing up. And your heart is beating normally. No more of those random skips, no more of it feeling like it was being dropped from a mountaintop.
For once in your life, you’re happy with your body.
Make-up, hair products and handed-down jewellery are spewed across the bed which you’re perched upon, the bright evening sky casting light into the bedroom.
“I know, but this is my last night until being shipped off, and if I wanna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you.” Bucky asserts with a cheeky smile.
“There’s a difference between taking care of me and dolling me up.” You joke, smiling knowingly.
You’re aware of why he’s being like this—why he’s determined to ensure you won’t lift a finger right now. It’s not because he thinks you’re delicate, and it’s certainly not because he thinks you can’t do things for yourself.
Bravery is mustered from experiencing fear, and apart of his brave-self, there’s cracks of fear that he won’t have the chance to do anything like this with you again.
So you let him, because he’s entering a place where his life will be risked every second.
He’s done your make-up surprisingly well due to watching you apply it throughout the years. You only needed to touch it up a little, but the lipstick is faded—most likely from him kissing it off.
Next is…
“Hair,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I only know how to braid hair from Becca.”
You shrug, “You can braid my hair.”
Swivelling around, your back to him, you gaze towards the open window, allowing the slight breeze to wash over you. The air is a sweet relief to your lungs, poison ivy no longer tightening around them until its bitterness has bled through.
His fingers entangle in your hair, weaving and letting his fingertips brush the back of your neck. It’s a simple action, but every stroke of his touch feels like he’s connecting to your soul.
“You’re going to be tripping all over my feet.” Bucky teases, his breath fanning the back of your head and encouraging wisps of your tresses to dance.
“Are you doubting my dancing skills?” You ask, feigning hurt.
“Baby, you haven’t danced in nearly three years.” Bucky points out.
A beat passes.
“I have a good memory. It’ll be fine.”
“Hmm, and if my feet are bruised by tomorrow, I’m blaming you,” he lovingly tugs on your completed hairstyle, “There. Now, I’d like my payment in the form of a kiss.”
Facing him, a grin hurting your cheeks, you slowly dive in for a kiss, before swiftly turning and kissing his cheek.
“Tease.” He mumbles.
You rise and approach the tall mirror, admiring your braid and emphasised features, “You could run a salon, you know.” You compliment while beginning to undress.
“And ruin my street cred?”
“Street cred?” You raise your brows, “You mean punching people in alleyways.”
You can recall the generous amount of times he’s returned home with bruised knuckles you’ve cleaned up.
“Punching douchebags in alleys.” He corrects slyly.
Rolling your eyes jokingly, you slip on the dress that was hung on the mirror. You reach around to do the zipper, but fall short, sighing quielty.
“Bucky?”
“Already on it.”
He towers behind you, zipping the back of your dress antagonisingly slow. You watch him through the mirror, watch as he ducks his head and kisses your shoulder, feel how his hand glides across your shoulder, down to your arm, then wraps both of his around your midsection.
“Your wings are growing, peach.” He quietly praises, swaying you both side-to-side in a steady rhythm.
Your body melts into his warmth, your back against his chest, your head against his collarbone.
“We can always stay home if you’re not feeling up to tonight,” Bucky offers, “I’d still be just as happy as long as I’m with you.”
“I know, Bucky. But my body is itching to dance, okay?”
“That’s my girl.”
۶ৎ
Dancing was made for you and Bucky. You spun together like everyone else disappeared into thin air. You laughed together in harmony of the music. Where your steps went, he followed. When your hands intertwined, so did the ocean meeting the shore.
You didn’t dance in the shadows, but front and centre, under the gleaming yellow lighting. You were a whirlwind of starlight, dazzling in every movement, and Bucky was by your side, burning with merriment.
It had been so long since you let yourself be carefree, and you had never felt more beautiful.
The loud of the night fades as you enter your home, shutting the night away as Bucky closes the door and locks it. Immediately, your arms snake around his neck as he turns, crashing your lips against his. He stumbles momentarily, before pressing his hand’s against your lower back, melding you closer together.
Your heart bucks wildly, gallivanting in ways you didn’t think possible. Fingers sift through his hair in rhythm with his sliding across and caressing your waist in burning strokes.
The kind of burn inside of you that you enjoy.
You half expect him to move this forwards as your mouths reconvene the dance your bodies did earlier, but as he departs from the kiss… he doesn’t.
A loving brush of his lips against your forehead and a light, almost apologetic, squeeze of your hip is all you receive, then he trudges off into the kitchen, putting distance between you physically.
Your shoulders slump dejectedly, mirroring the downturn of your lips. You can’t recall the last time he carried you to bed and undressed you with a fervour of lust. Perhaps on your wedding day? It’s not a necessity you’re desperate for—his profound love is more than enough. Yet, as you stand alone while the faint sound of cupboards closing and pill bottles rattling reaches you, insecurities invade your mind.
‘Did I become too sick to be looked at in that sense now?’
‘Is he repulsed by me? Worried I’ll ruin it by having a coughing fit?’
The thick layer of hurt stuck to the roof of your mouth is a harsh swallow, but you do it anyways and venture to where your husband is, desperately needing to quarrel these intrusive thoughts of yours.
You don’t believe them—you’re making yourself not to believe them, but him turning away at any given opportunity is beginning to toy with your head.
Stepping into the homely kitchen and rounding the counter, you poise near the sink, where Bucky is turning off the tap. A light thud and the drip of excess water reverberates after he sets a glass beside your medication.
But those pills can’t help the mental storm brewing inside you.
He parts his mouth to speak as his head raises to meet yours, but his features instantly change at the sight of your hurt expression, “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, taking a concerned step closer.
Exhaling steadily, you cross your arms in attempts to appear confident when all you yearn to do is fall into his chest. But you can’t always rely on him. You need to do this for yourself.
“James,” you begin, tone forcefully even, “I’ll respect your decision if you don’t want to touch me, okay? I just need to understand why. Do…” Ignoring his perplexed, widened eyes, you continue, “…do I disgust you? Has my appearance changed—”
"Peach."
"—changed for the worse? Is this something you've been carrying for a while? Do you need my permission to go off with other—"
Before you can feel the tears stinging your eyes, his lips collide into yours, silencing you. The impact is harsh at first, knocking your breath away, but as it achingly softens, your heart restarts.
So does your head.
Your arms grow slack by your sides, and his large hands smooth up them, skating across your shoulder blades and cupping the nape of your neck. His thumbs press into either side of your jaw, tilting your head up further so there's barely any space between you.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours tenderly, "I just had to stop you from speaking about yourself like that."
"James." Your voice finally wavers.
Your plea must have flowed into his mouth, because he bitterly chews on it that his jaw trembles and squeezes his eyes shut briefly.
"God, baby, I'm so fucking sorry for putting those thoughts into your head," his voice is thick with guilt and regret, "I've been so busy worrying about how sex might affect you physically, I overlooked how me pulling away must've been messing with this beautiful mind of yours."
His thumb rubs circles into your temple while slowly opening his eyes. They're consumed with emotions a man wouldn't normally share in this day and age, but he does because he isn't like any other man.
He's yours, and with you, he can express himself liberatingly.
"What if it gets too much and your heart can't take it, hm?" The question leaving his mouth breaks into tiny pieces, yet you cradle each one so you can mend the outcome together.
"My heart can't take this distance, Bucky." You whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek.
Bucky catches it with the tip of his thumb instantly, and you turn your face ever-so-slightly and brush your lips against his skin.
The collapse of his shoulders is enough to inform you the guilt of potentially harming you has been haunting him for a while.
Carefully, you cradle his hand and slowly guide it down. You press the warmth of his palm where your heart lays beneath the surface of yourself and feel his fingers expanding to touch more of you.
"It's beating to its fullest potential because of you," you earnestly admit, "Yeah, I had surgery, but I couldn't have survived this long if you weren't by my side."
"Peach..." He trails off, doubt burdening his tone.
"It's true!" You exclaim, the corners of your swollen mouth upturning, "I'm alive because you, my husband, have been my biggest supporter since we were kids. You have been my lifeline, darling, and as long as you're alive and happy, then so am I."
This time, his care for you is expressed in a globule escaping the corner of his eye after blinking. You watch it slide down his cheek before you poise on your tip-toes and kiss it away.
Your lips linger against his face long enough for his breathing pattern to change. It remains steady, deliberate, but peeking between each exhale is a quivering hunger that went into hiding, now coaxed out by your deep devotion.
Pulling back your face, your small and nimble hand covers the back of his against your chest, "You told me my wings are growing, and they are, but they flourish with you.”
"I love you," Bucky confesses for the umpteenth time, though now it’s layered with his insecurities bare and open, "I love you so damn much that I don’t even think the word love is strong enough to describe how damn mad I am over you."
His thumb and index finger pinches your chin, inching your faces closer, breaths becoming one. Both of your cravings are edged further, and you lock your fingers between the gaps of his, trailing his hold on you further down until a heat strokes your lower abdomen.
"Then show me,” honey drips from your voice, sweet and addictive, “Show me how much you love me, Bucky."
Your encouragement beholds an undeniable strength, alleviating the hesitance inside of him. He carries you to your shared room, he cradles you ever-so protectively, and he unveils every pent up desire in caresses and strokes—in edges of lust that are softened with his undying love.
Every sound coaxed from the depths of your chests—breathy and low and extremely unfiltered—have become your new favourite melody. Every passionate movement between yourselves, wrapped in each other’s embraces, is the epitome of comfort and pleasure rolling around together. Every reassuring word spoken, or kiss peppered against your scar, gifts you the most safest crescendo one can possibly experience.
Throaty laughter arrives afterwards, rippling through the haze of serenity. Bucky smoothes his palm over every inch of yourself, leisurely gliding over bumps and crevices, checking for anything amiss, but all that remains is your blissed-out self and his proud grin.
And when the dreaded day of his departure reaches, he disembarks from the very docks he helped build, carry the memory of the night before closest to him.
Because it marks the night you finally started soaring.
AUGUST 2ND, 1943
Two months have slipped by without the warmth of your husband by your side. All that remains is the ghost of his presence wherever you venture, the letters stacked neatly in a wooden chest, and the sneaky, hushed telephone calls.
Closing the front door behind you, you waste no time in tearing the seal apart and unfolding the crisp parchment. His handwriting coaxes a smile on your face, the bold strokes carefully crafted despite his cursive being a tad bit sloppy.
Your eyes begin ingesting the words he’s unleashed from the depth of his soul. The last time you heard his voice, it was muffled through the terrible signal of the General’s telephone.
Now? Now, it echoes clearly in your ears, so close you can almost feel his presence.
My love,
The camp is bleak and pitiful, hope ebbing away the further we advance to the front lines. I try my hardest to maintain morel and uplifting the other soldiers, but even my struggle is becoming noticeable the more I’m away from you.
I wake up on this stiff cot, facing the roof of the tent, and being reminded of where I am. I close my eyes in the few moments I have to myself and picture us sprawled out in the field we claimed as ours. The image of the sun casting golden rays against you remains vivid in my mind. All seasons compliment you, peach, but summer bathes you in a newfound light.
How is Brooklyn’s Summer this time around? Is it warm enough for you? You know I’m not the religious type, but I pray each night you’re able to fall asleep without any trouble. I know how the steam from the scolding roads used to affect your breathing.
You were fighting a war every day, and you came out victorious. It’s your unyielding strength and bravery that encourages me to lead myself and my infantry into battle.
I will win this war, peach. I’m not winning it for my country anymore, I’m winning it for you: my beautiful, one of a kind wife who I love more than a dog with its bone.
Your darling,
James.
Exhaling shakily, you press the paper to your chest, as though the ink will bleed off the page and sink into your heart.
Bucky Barnes has been your crutch for as long as you can remember, and while you’re his too, you just wish it was under different circumstances—not the fear of death looming over him every second he’s separated from you.
Thoughts spark in your mind, each one illuminating another idea of how to make sunshine pour into your letter so his bleak whereabouts will have a bit of shine.
You take a step towards the living room when a searing pain slices through your chest, reopening what was mended.
A pained whimper rips from your throat as your nails dig into your chest instinctively. Your feet stumble. The letter drifts onto the floor as your other hand uses the coat hanger for stability.
Everything rotates fast. You squeeze your eyes shut, denying the dizziness of its foggy, enclosing effects. You’re still standing, two feet firmly planted into the floor.
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” You choke out through laboured exhales.
The technique of settling your strenuous breathing slips back into place with ease, and you familiarise it for a few moments before you’re stable enough to slowly crack your eyes open.
The ache in your chest fades, replaced by a hollow dread. You shove it down immediately. It’s just high emotions physically pulled out from Bucky’s sentimental letter, that’s all….
It’ll pass soon.
Everything will return to normal when he’s home.
OCTOBER 17th, 1943
The campsite is peculiarly quiet this evening, no alarms shrieking nor any barked orders making the weeds flinch. While his comrades have ventured to town, gulping down what could be their last drink, Bucky stayed behind.
Something off has been accumulating in the pits of his stomach all day.
It could be nothing. It could simply be the enemy inching closer each day, as that’s become the normal nowadays, but his mind wanders to you and your most recent letter.
Shoulders hunched and perched on the edge of his cot, he grips the paper firm enough so the gust of wind drifting through the tent won’t snatch it.
It’s still your enchanting words, each stroke of ink letting him in on a glimpse of warmth. However, overtime, your handwriting has grown noticeably shaky, no longer appearing neat and barely readable.
He manages too, anyways, because he’d be damned if a letter of yours isn’t deciphered like it’s full of important codes.
Determining he’s just overthinking, he sighs and shakes his head. You’re a woman made of iron that's been hammered and molded into something even stronger.
He swaps your letter on the rickety nightstand for the polaroid of you he’s kept close. The glow of the lantern illuminates your gorgeous features, but a photo can only do so much. It doesn’t capture the playful melody of your teasing, and it doesn’t play your dance movements.
Luckily, every moment spent with you was unforgettable. A picture can only do so much, but it can also evoke memories that stretches a smile across his mouth.
In a feather-light motion, his thumb traces every curve and crevice of yourself, worshipping you even when your physical self is nowhere in sight. The entrance of the tent flaps in defence of the force of nature picking up, but if he just pinpoints his focus on the image of yourself, he can almost hear the thrum of your heartbeat.
Almost.
Quickly replacing it is a rough clearing of a throat, though Bucky’s brow perks up at a second one following. Softer, perhaps sympathetic, trying to override the first one.
He lifts his head and straightens up at General Smith entering. A solemn expression is written into his face, rubbing out the typically guarded one he equips.
Bucky rises to salute him, but is stopped halfway by a slow raise of Smith’s palm, “Sit, Sergeant.” He orders calmly.
For a man who usually reeks of confidence, hesitance conflicts Bucky’s senses as he slowly sits back down.
“Sir?”
Marching the front lines seems dauntingly in front of him.
“Bucky… hell, there’s no easy way to say this,” General Smith sighs and shifts uncomfortably, “Your mother-in-law rang.”
Rocks have piled onto Bucky’s tongue, his next three words managing to slip out through the cracks, “Is everything alright?”
“No, son,” he replies in a fatherly tone, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you…”
Bucky pales.
“Your wife passed last night.”
Those five words don’t reach his ears correctly.
They’re blocked out, muffled by the pounding of his heart while yours apparently lays still.
No.
Nonononononono.
He watched you wave him off at the docks. He listened to you converse about your day through the phone. Your heart was fine then. Cracked from his departure, but thumping healthily.
Speaking suddenly feels like the most strenuous action he can do, “She— ah…” his voice breaks, “She had a successful surgery. She can’t… she can’t have…”
A life without you doesn’t make sense.
Pain shoots through his chest, but he can’t see any bullets flying around.
His vision blurs with unshed tears. His lungs are too tight to accept breath properly.
The General’s voice remains a faded cadence, fragments piercing Bucky’s soul deeper.
‘Failed surgery.’
‘Couldn’t retain enough oxygen.’
‘Wasn’t alone.’
Head hanging low, eyes reddening swiftly, a broken noise is tugged from his throat. It doesn’t reach the sound-waves just yet, trapped in the confines of his aching self.
“It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.” He mumbles repetitively and brashly cards his fingers through his hair.
The hollow pit inside his stomach fills with nausea.
You were suffering and he was unaware.
Angels recruited you and left him behind in the trenches… a place fit for a guilty man like him to be buried in.
OCTOBER 26TH, 1943
Rage never correlated with Bucky Barnes. His emotional intelligence didn’t let it simmer for long, but you were the one feeding him knowledge. Without you, the fury arose to the extremity of public humiliation.
At the time, he didn’t care when he stormed into the hospital, a body functioned by grief spitting at the ones who should’ve done more to save you.
Because they failed you.
He failed you.
No one flinched at his outburst, except for your father who heartbreakingly dragged him outside. To the medical workers, it was if that’s an every day occurrence and your death’s just another percentage in the charts.
He’ll go back and apologise later, comprehending how unfairly he directed his blame onto them. It takes the remains of his willpower not to blame you either for your stubborn mouth that was sealed tight throughout the months of his departure.
A weekend off was granted to him to get his head ‘straight.’ His teeth grind at the thought of returning to a place with hollowed men and no one yelling his name during mail-calls anymore.
Being drafted stole the time he had left with you, so a weekend to himself is a generous gesture.
Except, no one writes a manual on how to grieve properly. He’s transitioned into a new part of life without his permission, leaving him utterly lost and unable to cope.
Bucky’s legs forbid him from entering the Barnes home. The closest he reached was the door, thudding his bag to the ground in sync with the collapse of his knees.
An unopened letter of his, curled at the corners and dampening from his downpour of tears, taunted him from the welcome mat.
Now, he ventures where his heart navigates.
The oak tree slouches on the faded hill, silently battling against the invisible pollution that’s accumulated due to the war. The leaves are paralysed and the acorns have sorrowfully dropped, buried beneath layered of time and dirt. Weeds surround the stump like soldiers guarding their barracks, forbidding anyone from trespassing.
His boots are heavy against the cracked soil. A thick lump shapes in his throat and he forces it down. A ghost of vows and daisies flicker before him, but the grief rips it apart.
Bloodshot eyes roam the aging tree, noticing the lines in the bark have grown profusely. Maybe if his heart were to be x-rayed, there’d be jagged strikes too.
A sudden gust of wind pushes against him, or perhaps it’s trying to envelope him in a hug he’s unconsciously rejecting. The tickle of the breeze coaxes a twitch from his reddened nose, and his eyes drop to the ground as something featherlight sways in the air.
Immediately, Bucky glances upwards to the branch you once gazed at with child-like wonder, then drops his eyes to what’s fallen before him.
An envelope.
Shaky cursive writing.
James.
His hands tremble beside him.
You knew he’d visit.
He crouches down to pick it up, but it slips from his grasp.
“Shit,” he curses, vigorously wiping the specks of dusty soil off it.
When he’s sure it’s safe in his grasp, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, the bark brushing against his back like a reassuring pat.
After rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, clearing any tears so he can read clearly, he expels a forced, steady breath. He doesn’t wish to have a heavy conscience when your literacy can float inside his chest instead.
My darling James,
A choked sound claws from his throat already.
He looks away, the taste of salt poisoning his lips as trails of pain dampen his face. It takes every bit of strength in him to return to reading.
My darling James,
I remember when you first introduced me to the oak tree. I had never felt so special in my life. I had already felt rejected by the world, barely scraping by, but you carried me outside and showed me there’s still hope and beauty out there.
That’s a feeling I’ll never be able to repay, no matter how much you say my love is enough, and I’m so sorry for the heartache I’ll leave behind when I’m gone.
I couldn’t tell you the surgery had failed. Selfishness took over; I didn’t want our final months together to have the impending grief looming over us. I was terrified it’d affect your sanity out there, and I needed you focused so you won’t lay to rest like me.
I lived longer than I expected. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I know loving you gave me a purpose and I was clinging onto that for as long as my heart could. Being with you made the pain bearable. I even forgot it at times when you’d hold my gaze with eyes the colour of the butterfly I chased.
You never left me, but I’m afraid if you’re reading this, I have left you. Butterflies are doomed with a small lifespan. I can relate to that a bit too closely.
When I pass, I will no longer experience that crushing sensation in my lungs. I’ll be light, soaring with my fully-grown wings, only feeling the comfort and safety you gave me.
I know it’s a lot to ask—you’ve done so much for me—but please keep that bravery inside of you pumping. Please live for me as I lived for you.
I love you with my entire being.
Goodbye, James.
Your love, peach.
Everything’s quiet.
The word has stopped to mourn you with him.
Yet, something foreign flushes throughout his body, lulling his aching bones. Closure’s arrival isn’t loud; it creeps in, slow and steady, and will take time to grow, but it’s a brave start, and he promises to forever be brave in your honour.
A slow, fluttering melody drifts into the environment. Landing on the parchment, littered in tiny damp splotches, is a butterfly.
A butterfly.
For the first time in days, Bucky’s lips curve upwards.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › some phone calls remind you to pick up your dry cleaning before closing. some phone calls split your life into two versions: before and after. you convince yourself that solitude is enough after it all, that you can hide from it all by the sea. but sometimes life has a way of finding you anyway.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mature themes, character death (readers mother), grief & bereavement, discussion of fatal car accident (non descriptive), anxiety/panic attack, lots of emotional distress, loneliness and self isolation, themes of depression, 5+1 with a twist, five stages of grief + one stage of love, stage one: denial, not beta read we die like... everything.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 6.1k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › starting off with a... depressed bang! oops! i mentioned in the masterlist that a lot of this is from my own heart vault and while thats true i did jazz it up for the sake of the fic so while itll be sad for a little there will still be some entertainment, i hope LOL. i hope u enjoy and as always thank you for reading!
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
The city moved fast enough that sometimes you forgot there was a world outside of it.
That was one of the first things you'd learned after leaving home, that there was no room for stillness here.
No room for lingering over coffee while the sun climbed above the horizon. No room for long walks on the beach collecting shells simply because they were pretty. No room for sitting on the porch with your mother listening to the waves roll in and out while she read one of her mystery novels and occasionally pointed out a pelican diving offshore.
The city demanded motion and somewhere along the way, you'd become very good at giving it exactly what it wanted.
Your phone buzzed before the elevator doors had even fully opened onto the thirty-second floor.
You answered without breaking stride.
"Hello." A pause. "Check your email."
Another pause.
"Because you asked me to review it last night."
The call ended with a sheepish thank you and you smiled despite yourself. Typical.
By the time you crossed the open-concept office, three more people had stopped you. One needed approval on a furniture selection, one wanted reassurance before a client presentation, the last simply needed help finding a file she'd somehow misplaced. You handled all three before reaching your desk. Your unofficial title around the office was the final boss. Every design proposal eventually landed in your inbox. Every presentation passed through your hands before reaching a client. You caught mistakes no one else noticed, fixed problems before they became disasters.
Most importantly, you never said no.
Need someone to stay late? You. Need someone to cover a meeting? You. Need someone to fly across the country on two days' notice? You. You'd spent years becoming indispensable. Sometimes you wondered if anyone would notice if you stopped, but the thought never lingered around long enough to stir anything up.
Your assistant appeared beside your desk.
"Car's ready for you in ten."
You glanced at the clock, right, the Henderson project at the Hilton Conference. After there's a lunch meeting downtown for a proposal for a new client. Another presentation. Another polished smile.
"Got it."
You gathered your tablet and notebook before following a group of coworkers toward the elevators. The familiar rhythm settled around you immediately. Discussion of budgets, fabric samples, projected timelines, and somebody debating lighting fixtures. You contributed automatically, barely needing to think, everything had become muscle memory at this point.
The elevator carried everyone toward the lobby. Your reflection stared back from the mirrored walls. Tailored blazer with comfortable heels, phone already in hand. You looked like someone who was successful, someone who looked like she belonged here. And that was the goal after all, wasn't it?
The doors opened as the group spilled into the lobby and headed toward the company car waiting outside. You were halfway across the marble floor when your phone rang again. You glanced down, expecting another coworker, instead, an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen.
Your steps slowed.
The area code punched a small, unexpected hole straight through your chest.
Home. Not New York. Not work. Home.
That tiny beach town you'd left nearly a decade ago after growing up on that beach that washed everything away. That town where everyone knew everyone, where there wasn't a path you could walk without picking up a handful of sand with you. That town where your mother still lived.
For a moment, the noise of the lobby faded as the ringing continued. Beside you, your coworkers kept walking toward the revolving doors while you stared at the screen. Maybe it was spam. Maybe someone dialed the wrong number. Maybe—
Something uneasy curled low in your stomach.
The phone rang. And rang.
You swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
The word came out distracted, automatic and professional. There was a pause, a breath, then a voice you didn't recognize said something close to your name. And suddenly, for reasons you couldn't explain, the world didn't feel quite so steady beneath your feet anymore.
"Hello?"
The revolving doors swept open as you stepped outside. Warm city air rushed up to meet you, carrying the familiar sounds of honking cars, distant sirens, and hundreds of conversations blending into one endless hum.
"Am I speaking with—" The woman on the other end said your name clear as day.
"Yes, this is she."
"Hi. My name is Marlene Johnson. I'm the medical examiner at Sunset Shores Hospital in San Vyranda."
You frowned.
Sunset Shores. San Vyranda. Home. A strange knot formed in your stomach.
The woman hesitated, the pause lasted less than a second but it was long enough to change everything.
"I'm sorry that this is the first time we're speaking."
Your steps slowed to a sluggish drawl, the echo of your heels dulling against the pavement. Your coworkers continued walking ahead toward the company vehicle, someone laughed about something, someone opened a car door and the world carried on.
"We received your contact information from your mother's emergency records,"
Your mother's name left the woman's mouth and for a moment, it didn't mean anything. Just a collection of syllables, a familiar sound, something your brain recognized but refused to process.
"She was involved in an accident yesterday morning."
You stopped walking entirely.
People streamed around you on the sidewalk. A businessman even bumped your shoulder, you didn't react.
"There was a truck—" The woman's voice crackled. Or maybe that was inside your head. "—intersection—" Static. "—driver failed to stop—" Thrumming. "—I'm so sorry for your loss."
Loss.
The word floated somewhere distant, meaningless and impossible. Your mother couldn't be dead, you'd just spoken to her three days ago. She'd been standing in her kitchen making blueberry muffins complaining about her neighbor's lawn, asking whether you were eating enough vegetables.
Dead people didn't do those things.
"Miss?" The woman was still talking.
You realized several seconds had passed without you responding.
"I understand this is overwhelming." Overwhelming. That seemed like a ridiculous understatement. "—need you to come down as soon as possible."
You stared at the traffic moving through the intersection. Red light. Green light. People crossing. Everything operating exactly as it always had.
"—confirm identification—" A horn blared somewhere. "—funeral arrangements—" Someone brushed past your arm. "—next of kin—"
You couldn't feel your fingers, couldn't feel your feet, couldn't feel much of anything. The city suddenly seemed very far away.
"Miss?"
"Okay." The word slipped out automatically, small and hollow. It felt nothing like your own. Nothing like the voice that had commanded the office floor no more than an hour ago. "Okay."
The lady ended the call shortly afterward, or maybe you ended it, you weren't entirely sure. The phone remained pressed against your ear long after the line went dead.
"Hey."
A hand touched your shoulder, you jumped more than necessary. The entire world around you snapping back into motion as if no time had passed at all.
One of your coworkers stood beside you with concern written across her face.
"You okay?"
The question seemed absurd. You looked at her, opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Your tongue felt too large, your thoughts too slow, too scattered.
"I have to go home."
"What happened?"
"I don't… feel good." You weren't even sure the words made sense, only that they were easier than the truth.
Your mother is dead.
Your mother is dead?
Your mother is dead.
The sentence refused to settle anywhere inside your head, racketing and echoing off the walls with a shaking disbelief. Your coworker offered to call someone. You declined. Another suggested taking you to urgent care when they saw the shake of your hands. You declined that too. You just turned and started walking. At some point you reached your apartment, the space between those events simply vanished. Later, you'd remember flashes. The subway. An elevator. Your keys falling twice before fitting into the lock.
But mostly there was nothing, just blank space, missing time.
You sat on the couch still wearing your blazer, still holding your phone. Sunlight crawled slowly across the hardwood floor as hours passed. Then darkness with the glinting shine from the moon. Then morning. The city continued outside your windows, cars honking, people beginning their commute, the construction over on twelve that's been going on for three months.
Life. Buzzing and beating around you.
You sat perfectly still. Waiting for reality to catch up. Waiting for someone to call and explain there had been a mistake. Waiting for your phone to ring with your mother's name across the screen.
It never did.
Days blurred together afterward. Your coworkers checked on you constantly, their worry of any sickness overrun with condolences when you had told them the truth of your disappearance. Missed calls filled your phone screen, apologetic voicemails, and wilted flowers began to crowd every corner of your apartment next to takeout containers accumulating in the kitchen. You slept in fragments, and woke disoriented. Forgot what day it was, whether you'd eaten, forgot entire conversations. And then, little by little, the words started sticking. Your mother. The accident. The funeral arrangements. Gone. Gone. Gone. The true realization arrived in pieces, each one cutting deeper than the last.
You found yourself functioning on instinct. Not like the autopilot you had been able to tap into for work. This one was lethargic and unsteady. Thoughts either sticking in your head on repeat or fading into the fog the second you'd heard them. You had written out the most important things on sticky notes on your fridge. Plane tickets. Funeral home. Death certificate. Insurance paperwork. Hotel reservations for family members. Endless forms. Endless signatures. An endless nightmare you'd never thought you'd have to live.
You tried to keep it all at arm's length, to complete them all without thinking. As if handling someone else's tragedy, as if you were merely assisting with a project. Another deadline. Another checklist. Another task that needed doing. Your brain yearned for the familiar. Soon the time came and your manager approved your leave immediately, told you to take however much time you needed. Coworkers sent more flowers, cards, and meals. You thanked all of them, but you couldn't remember a single thing you said past that.
The night before your flight, you stood alone in your apartment. Suitcase packed beside the door, silence filling every room. Your eyes drifted toward your phone sitting on the kitchen counter, for a long time, you simply stared at it. Then, with shaking hands, you opened your contacts, scrolled and found her name.
Mom.
Your thumb hovered over the call button. You already knew what would happen but you pressed it anyway. The line rang once, twice, the endless trilling echoing in your ear. Then her voicemail answered.
"Hiya, you've reached—"
The sound of her voice shattered something inside you. And for the first time since the phone call, you cried. You cried until your chest ached and eyes burned, then you cried some more.
The drive into town from the airport felt shorter than you remembered. Or maybe grief simply swallowed distance whole. One minute you were staring blankly out the airplane window as clouds drifted beneath the wing. The next, you were pulling onto familiar roads lined with sea oats and weathered beach fences.
Everything looked exactly the same and completely different. The faded welcome sign, the bait shop on the corner, the ice cream stand that somehow survived every hurricane season. You recognized all of it yet it felt like looking at someone else's memories. Like peering through fogged glass. The ocean appeared between buildings as you drove. Blue, endless and unchanged.
Your chest tightened.
The sight should have felt like coming home, instead it felt like arriving too late. The funeral passed in much of the same way, a blur or a faded dream. Like you'd stepped out of your body and was watching something happening to someone else.
You remembered standing beside the casket. Remembered staring at polished wood because looking anywhere else felt impossible. People approached in waves. Old neighbors and former teachers, friends of your mother you'd known your entire life. They all said variations of the same thing.
"She was wonderful."
"She talked about you constantly."
"I'm so sorry."
"If you need anything..."
You nodded and thanked them. Accepted hugs, condolences and casseroles wrapped in aluminum foil. You couldn't recall a single face afterward. Only fragments of perfume, the scent of lilies, a hand squeezing yours and someone crying. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice kept insisting this was temporary. That eventually your mother would appear from somewhere and laugh about the misunderstanding.
The service ended, the people left, the flowers remained. And your mother stayed where she was.
The reality of that never fully landed, not then, not yet. A week later, you were back in the city. Back in your apartment, back in the life you'd built. At least physically, mentally, it felt as though some essential piece of you had been left behind. The apartment greeted you with silence, not peaceful silence. Wrong silence, the kind that seemed to stretch into every corner.
You dropped your suitcase near the door and waited. For what, you weren't sure. Maybe for your phone to ring. Maybe for your mother to ask if you'd gotten home safely. She always did, even after ten years, even when you reminded her you were a grown woman. Especially then. You stood in the foyer for several minutes before remembering why she wouldn't call. The realization hit like a fresh bruise, tender, immediate and cruel.
Your mother was supposed to grow old.
The thought had entered your mind and wouldn't leave, compounding itself onto every fired neuron in your brain. She was supposed to complain about her knees, supposed to start forgetting where she left her glasses, supposed to become the eccentric old woman feeding seagulls from her porch despite repeated warnings not to.
There was supposed to be more time.
Years of it. Decades.
Not this. Not an intersection. Not a truck. Not a stranger's mistake. Not a phone call in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday.
The following weeks slipped apart around the edges. Texts arrived, you ignored them. Coworkers checked in, you answered with vague responses. Friends invited you out, you declined every time. Work became something you endured, you still showed up, still attended meetings and reviewed presentations but the spark that once drove you had vanished.
People eventually noticed, you knew they did but nobody said much. Everyone seemed afraid of saying the wrong thing. You appreciated that and hated it all at once. Some afternoons you found yourself staring at a design board for twenty minutes without absorbing a single detail. Colors blurred together, furniture layouts became meaningless.
The things that once mattered suddenly felt very small.
You stopped cooking, stopped grocery shopping regularly. Most nights consisted of takeout eaten standing at the kitchen sink, the containers piled up faster than they should have. You'd kept promising yourself you'd throw them away tomorrow. Tomorrow kept moving.
Sleep became impossible in your bedroom. The bed felt too large, too empty. It was strange. You had never noticed it before but now it felt that there was an internal tie cut within you, and everything felt so one sided. So lonely. Things you had often, if not always, done on your own, felt empty. Even the apartment felt too hollow, the walls in your bedroom echoed differently now. So you migrated to the couch with one blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the television on low volume as lights from the city filtered through the windows.
It wasn't comfortable, but it was easier. Everything became easier when you stopped caring, like the voicemails.
The voicemails remained unheard in your phone, seven messages to be exact.
The number had burned itself in the back of your mind, a tiny red number you couldn't bring yourself to clear. They were the last parts of your mother that were left unscathed by all this. You knew most were likely ordinary, your mother reminding you to call her, telling you about a recipe she'd tried, asking if you'd seen some news story she'd forgotten to send.
The final voicemail sat at the bottom of the list, untouched. Untouched because once you listened to it, there would never be another one and as long as it remained unheard, some irrational part of you could pretend her voice was still waiting. Still alive. Still there.
Some mornings your hand reached for your phone before you were fully awake. You'd see something funny online, find a new coffee shop, see a bookstore she'd love have a sale and instinctively think: I should call Mom. The thought happened dozens of times, every day, a reflex that built over years. Each time reality followed seconds later. A delayed collision. A fresh impact. She isn't here. You'd lower the phone, swallow hard and continue with your day. Until the next time. And the next. And the next.
One rainy Thursday evening, you found yourself standing in the cereal aisle of a grocery store, frozen, staring at a box your mother always bought. Without thinking, you pulled out your phone, your thumb moved automatically, scrolling through your contacts until you found it.
Mom.
You pressed it before your brain could catch up. The line began ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Then her voicemail answered. You hung up immediately, heart hammering, breath caught somewhere in your throat. Around you, people continued shopping comparing prices, pushing carts, living their lives. You stood motionless beneath fluorescent lights and finally understood something terrifying.
The world had not stopped when your mother died, only yours had.
You turned and left the grocery store that second, your cereal and basket of food abandoned as you darted for the the nearest exit and went back home.
Back to being alone.
The typical silence of your apartment greeted you with a bitter chill. You found yourself suddenly restless, arms unable to stay at your side, legs buzzing to break free from where they stood still. You had to do something, anything. It didn't take long for your eyes to catch onto a target and lock in on it. Soon you were kneeling beside an overstuffed bookshelf you'd been meaning to organize for months before… now it had become a monstrous pile that claimed ownership of the better half of your hallway.
The apartment had become a reflection of you. Untended, and half-finished. Stuck.
A thin layer of dust coated the shelves as you sifted through, tossing donations into a pile near the laundry-occupied armchair in the corner. The television murmured softly in the background, providing noise you weren't actually listening to.
You pulled a book free and a postcard fluttered to the floor, you almost ignored it, but then you recognized the image. The beach. Home.
You stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. The edges were worn, sun-faded and old. On the front, the ocean stretched endlessly beneath a summer sky. The very same stretch of shoreline you'd spent your childhood exploring. The same beach where your mother used to wake you before sunrise with a thermos of hot chocolate and a promise that the dolphins were out this morning.
Old memories flooded your mind as you held the cardstock in your fingers. You remembered sand sticking to your ankles, the smell of sunscreen, the weight of seashells collected in your pockets, your mother's laughter carried away by the wind. You remembered sitting beside her on the porch after long days at the beach, both of you wrapped in oversized sweatshirts watching the waves disappear into darkness talking about everything and nothing.
Back then, you'd thought those summers would last forever. Back then, your mother had seemed immortal.
The postcard trembled slightly in your hands. Without warning, something inside you cracked. In one fell swoop, enough to let everything spill through as you sank against the wall, the postcard clenched in your fist. The apartment suddenly felt suffocating, the walls too close, the city too loud. The life you'd spent years building suddenly looked unfamiliar, as though it belonged to someone else. You glanced around the room at the expensive furniture, the carefully chosen decor, framed certificates. The polished version of yourself you'd spent years creating. None of it mattered. Not anymore.
The thought arrived quietly, then rooted itself deep. What am I still doing here?
The answer never came, instead another thought followed, simple but dangerous. If I leave everything behind, maybe none of this has to be real.
You didn't examine it too closely, didn't question the logic, didn't even give yourself time to. Because if you did, you might realize it wasn't healing you were after, it was escape. The decision happened quickly after that. Three days later your manager stared at you across the conference table with your letter of resignation laying between you.
"You don't have to make any permanent decisions right now."
You understood what he meant, that grief wasn't the time for life-altering choices, right next to tattoos or drastic haircuts. People always said that. You smiled politely, then quit anyway.
Furniture disappeared next. A couch purchased after your first promotion, the dining table you'd spent months saving for, bookshelves, artwork, decorative pieces. One by one, strangers carried them out the door. Each departure left the apartment looking less like a home and somehow that felt like relief. You donated bags of clothing, kitchenware, boxes of things you'd once convinced yourself were important.
The pile that remained grew smaller until eventually your entire life fit into three boxes. Ten years condensed into cardboard in the back of your trunk. You stood outside your apartment for a long while, looking up at the windows that shed so much light into your life over the years. It should've felt more ceremonious. Instead you just shrugged into the car and drove away.
The drive home took nearly twelve hours. You spent most of it staring at the road, not even the radio turned on. The silence felt appropriate. By the time you crossed the town line, evening had begun settling over the coast, the sky glowed orange and gold as the ocean flashed between buildings.
It felt familiar, almost patient as if something in the blue crashing waves could sense you were back, could sense the ghost haunting you. You refused to look at it for long, instead, you focused on the road or on the steering wheel, or on anything else.
Soon the beach cottage appeared at the end of a narrow lane, exactly as you remembered. Weathered cedar siding, white trim, a wraparound porch softened by years of salt air, the porch swing your mother refused to replace despite its constant squeaking. Your chest tightened and for a moment, you considered turning around, driving away and finding a new city to start back over, pretending none of this had happened. You swallowed thickly and put the car in park, hands twitching as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Silence greeted you as you stepped from the car, no porch light humming, no music drifting through open windows, no mother waiting inside.
Just stillness.
The key turned easily in the lock, the door opening with a familiar creak and suddenly you were standing inside your childhood home. Everything remained exactly where she'd left it. A mug beside the sink, a cardigan draped over the back of a chair, reading glasses resting atop a stack of books. The house looked less like someone had died and more like someone had stepped out for groceries and simply hadn't returned yet. Frozen and waiting.
You carried your boxes inside and set them in the living room, then stopped. You couldn't bring yourself to unpack, not really, not yet. A toothbrush in the bathroom, a few clothes in a dresser. Essentials, nothing permanent because permanence meant acceptance. And acceptance remained impossible. This wasn't forever. You told yourself that repeatedly. Just a few weeks, a month, maybe. Long enough to figure things out, to catch your breath, to decide what comes next. Not forever. The lie settled comfortably inside your chest. You avoided the hallway as you walked further into the house, specifically one door, your mother's bedroom. You passed it without looking, passed it the next day too, and the day after that. The door remained closed and you remained unwilling.
Outside, waves rolled endlessly against the shoreline.
You could hear them through the walls as you laid on the couch, the sound should have been comforting, instead, you shut every window and closed every curtain. Blocked out every glimpse of blue water, every reminder of childhood, every reminder of her. The cottage grew dim and shadowed as days passed, then more. You rarely ventured into town, rarely spoke to anyone. The grocery store clerk received brief answers, neighbors received polite waves, nothing more. Connection required energy and you had none left to give so your world became very small. Just you, the house, and the beach beyond it.
A life narrowed down to its simplest form.
You stood on the porch one evening as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, beautiful, the type of scene you see movie proposals filmed in or a romantic fervent confession of long withheld feelings. You stared at it for only a second before stepping back inside, closing the door and locking it.
As though keeping the world out might somehow keep your grief out too. As though both weren't already living inside the house with you.
By the seventh day, you were running out of excuses. The refrigerator contained half a carton of milk, questionable leftovers, and a bottle of ketchup that had probably survived three presidential administrations. The pantry wasn't much better, bearing a sleeve of crackers, instant coffee and a can of soup. You'd spent the whole week moving between the couch, the porch, and every room in the cottage except one.
The walls had started feeling closer, the silence heavier so when you finally grabbed your keys that morning, it felt less like an errand and more like surrender.
The town looked exactly as it always had. Sun-bleached storefronts with flower boxes beneath windows. Locals sitting outside the diner with coffee mugs in hand. Everything familiar and unchanged. You hated it a little for that. How dare the world stay the same?
The grocery store came first. You moved through the aisles quickly avoiding conversation, and eye contact, and Mrs. Patterson from three streets over who've you known you since kindergarten. You escaped with two bags and a brief wave. The hardware store came second. The front porch light had burned out two days ago and one of the kitchen cabinet hinges had started pulling loose, plus the screen door stuck every time you opened it. Your mother would've fixed all three before breakfast.
You bought supplies you weren't entirely sure you knew how to use as the teenage cashier wished you a nice day. You nodded and walked out, the warm ocean air greeting you and for the first time all morning, you felt almost accomplished. You'd left the house, you'd bought groceries and nothing terrible had happened. Maybe tomorrow wouldn't feel quite so impossible.
Balancing two bags and a cardboard box against your hip, you climbed into your car, started up the engine, adjusted the mirror and took three deep breaths. Sometimes being in the car made you sick, not the kind where you'd lose your lunch, the kind where you'd lose your mind if you thought about all the possibilities for a second too long.
You let out your last breath and shifted into reverse.
Crunch.
The sound froze your blood and you slammed on the brakes. For a moment, everything went completely still.
No.
No, no, no.
Slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, you looked into the rearview mirror and saw a motorcycle crookedly the ground behind your bumper. It looked big, and big most likely meant expensive.
Your eyes squeezed shut, head hitting the headrest behind you.
"Shit." The word escaped in a whisper.
You threw the car into park and climbed out to inspect the damage. It wasn't catastrophic, the motorcycle had fallen on its side, a scrape on the fender, a fresh dent where one definitely hadn't existed five minutes ago. You'd managed to survive the worst months of your life only to immediately become the kind of person who backed into parked vehicles.
Fantastic.
You crouched beside it as if staring hard enough might somehow reverse time when a voice murmurs behind you.
"Please tell me that's not mine."
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Right. The owner. Straightening, you turned to the voice. The man stood several feet away carrying paint supplies beneath one arm. He was tall, bearing a faded henley rolled up on one side. Broad shoulders with dark hair that was once cropped short and now it looks like it can't tell if it wants to be longer or not.
The expression on his face suggested he'd already decided this interaction was going to be annoying, and you couldn't entirely blame him.
"You're the owner?"
He glanced between you and the motorcycle. "Depends."
You stared. He stared back.
"Depends on what?"
"Whether you're the person who hit it."
The irritation in his voice immediately sparked your own, because somehow you were already exhausted by this conversation.
"Well, I wasn't aiming for it."
His eyebrow lifted. "Oh, good."
You blinked. "What?"
"Just checking."
You exhaled sharply, the sound could've almost been a laugh, almost. Instead it emerged somewhere closer to annoyance.
"Look, I'm sorry." You offered vexed, trying to extend the first branch of peace. "I genuinely didn't see it."
"That makes me feel much better."
"Would you stop doing that?"
His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"
"Being sarcastic. I said sorry."
His gaze dropped to the motorcycle, the dent and scraped fender, then back to you.
"Somebody backed into my bike."
You scowled. "By accident."
"Still happened."
Your jaw tightened and that familiar irritation that had followed you since the funeral immediately surfaced. Too close to the skin, too easy to access. You knew he wasn't actually the problem, but grief had a way of turning every inconvenience into a personal attack.
"Fine." You grumbled as you pulled out your phone and opened up a payment app. "I'll send you my insurance and pay for whatever repairs it needs."
The man looked surprised by how quickly you offered, only briefly, then the expression vanished.
"Don't worry about it."
"What?"
"It's cosmetic."
You stared and he just shrugged.
"Not worth the paperwork."
Several seconds passed and neither of you spoke. The parking lot buzzed quietly around you. A truck pulling into a nearby space, someone loading lumber, wind carrying the distant scent of saltwater. You suddenly realized this was the longest conversation you'd had with anyone all week.
A depressing thought.
"Well then," you shoved your phone back into your pocket. "Sorry."
The man nodded once. "Try not to hit any more vehicles on your way home."
There it was again, that dry sarcasm. Couldn't go two seconds without it, it seemed.
You narrowed your eyes. "Try to park them where people can actually see them."
One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but it was close enough to annoy you. You turned immediately toward your car. Conversation over, interaction complete. Exactly how you preferred it. As you adjusted your supplies next to you, you could feel his eyes on you, or maybe you imagined it, either way you refused to look back. You climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. Only once you'd turned onto the main road did you realize something.
You hadn't gotten his name.
Not that it mattered, you weren't staying long, you weren't here to make friends or meet people. You were here to be alone.
By the time you got home, the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, golden light spilled across the water turning the ocean into something molten, something alive.
You carried your groceries inside, put away what needed refrigeration, and left the hardware supplies in a neat pile beside the kitchen table. It should have felt normal, domestic. Instead, every movement felt rehearsed, like you were following instructions someone else had written.
The cottage settled around you with familiar creaks, wood expanding and contracting with the changing temperature. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The rhythmic crash of waves beyond the shore.
Life continuing. Always continuing.
After a while, you found yourself stepping onto the porch. A mug of coffee cooling between your palms, the evening breeze carried the scent of seaweed and sunscreen from somewhere down the coastline. The town looked different at this hour. Softer, almost, the sharp edges worn smooth by the sunset. Below, the diner glowed warmly against the darkening street, its neon sign flickered to life casting pink and blue reflections across parked cars.
And there, just near the curb you spotted it immediately. The motorcycle. Sleek, black, and large, impossible to miss.
You frowned, not because you cared. Because apparently now you recognized random strangers by their vehicles, a deeply concerning development. The memory irritatingly resurfaced, the dent, the sarcasm, the aggravating twitch of amusement he'd worn the entire conversation. Your mouth pulled into something dangerously close to a smile, brief and unintentional and gone the second it formed.
Still, the interaction lingered. Not because it had been pleasant, but because it had been different. For ten minutes today you'd thought about something other than your dead mother. And somehow that felt wrong. You stared out at the water as the waves rolled endlessly toward shore, one after another, steady and predictable.
Your mother used to say the ocean was proof that life kept going. You'd hated that phrase growing up. Whenever something upset you, she'd say it. Whenever a friendship ended, a bad grade ruined your week, or your first boyfriend broke your heart.
"The tide keeps coming in, sweetheart."
As though that explained everything. As though the ocean somehow agreed with what she was talking about.
Your throat tightened and without thinking, you reached for your phone, the movement happened automatically. You unlocked the screen, opened your contacts and pressed call. The phone rose to your ear as your gaze remained fixed on the horizon. You didn't even bother to wait for the voicemail.
The words came easily. "You'll never believe what happened today, Mom. I backed into someone's motorcycle."
A wet laugh escaped, soft and shaky.
"The guy was such an asshole about it too." The ringing on the other end stretched, you kept talking anyway.
"He acted like I committed a federal crime."
A wave crashed against the shoreline, the breeze shifted and then—
"Hiya, you've reached—"
Reality caught up, brutally. The words died in your throat as you let phone fall from your ear, the screen illuminated in your hand.
Mom.
The contact photo stared back at you and your stomach dropped, feet frozen in place. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to hang up. Because somewhere deep inside, some stubborn, broken piece of you still expected her to answer.
Still expected her voice.
Still expected—
The voicemail went on, and you couldn't take it anymore, you ended the call so fast your phone nearly slipped. The porch disappeared behind a sudden blur.
No. No. No.
The phone trembled violently in your hands as a sound escaped you, small and broken. You didn't recognize it as your own. The ocean continued moving, the breeze still blowing, the world hadn't changed.
Only yours. Again.
You stumbled inside before you realized you were crying, the front door slammed shut behind you. The cottage felt too quiet, too empty, too full of things she should have been filling. Your mother's mug still sat in the cabinet, her favorite blanket remained folded over the armchair, her books lined the shelves. Evidence everywhere, proof of a life that had existed, proof of a life that no longer did.
You sank onto the couch. The same couch you'd occupied nearly every evening since arriving, phone still clutched tightly in your hand. Tears came harder this time. Not the neat, silent tears you'd cried at the funeral, not the restrained grief you'd carried for weeks. This hurt was messy and raw. The kind that left your chest aching, the kind that made breathing feel impossible. Because for one brief, careless moment you'd forgotten. You'd forgotten she was gone. You'd forgotten there wasn't anyone waiting on the other end anymore.
And somehow realizing it all over again hurt just as much as the first time.
You cried until darkness swallowed the room whole. The phone remained in your hand the entire time, her number still sitting at the top of your call history.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › the universe has a funny sense of humor. it makes your life fall apart, sends you back to the hometown you never thought youd live in again, has you reverse your car into a complete strangers motorcycle. then decides hes going to become the person who teaches you how to love and live again.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI 5+1 with a twist, five stages of grief + one stage of love, small town - beach town, post tfatws for bucky, strangers to friends to lovers, semi slow burn, parent death, lots of talks of death and the mourning/grieving process, semi unhealthy coping mechanisms, reader is #going through it, sorry girl, beach bucky, gentle flirting/teasing, first kiss, feelings confession, smut, p in v, gentle sex/lovemaking, individual tags to be added in each part.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › tbd.
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › GUESS WHO FINALLY FINISHED SOMETHING! also happy summer! i got this idea and started writing while i was on vacation on the beach, i had so so sooo much fun it stirred up a lot of things in me i didnt know were still sitting there so obviously the natural next step is to write fanfic about it 🤩. this is a very self indulgent fic and a lot of readers grief in this is straight from my heart vault so excuse all the depressing sappy bs, i promise theres a happy ending with some bouncing on it crazy style. this should be a quick little story with new parts out every week! as always thank you for being here and for reading <3
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ › the things left behind
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ › chance encounters
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ › sea glass
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀ › rocks on the shore
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪᴠᴇ › high tide
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪx › the oceans pull
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i’m thinking about making a taglist for the pitt? as of right now it’s just for dr. abbot / dr. robby but that may be subject to change in the future, who knows.
i’m actually hoping to get my ass in gear and sort out my taglist post so if anyone wants to be tagged in pitt fics, comment on this post so i can differentiate otherwise i’ll get confused and probably cry.
i wanna make it clear that i’m not doing separate taglists for both characters or any that i may decide to write for in the future, i’ll just be doing one taglist for all pitt characters.
hope everyone’s been having / has had a good day!! 💕
edit: if you want to be added, please comment!! sorry, forgot to say that, it was late 😭😭
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
PAIRING: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader
WORD COUNT: 293
WARNINGS: reader is hurt on a mission, medical inconsistencies (i’m just a girl), hurt/comfort, established relationship, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: don’t speak by no doubt
LYRICS: “don’t speak.”
NOTE: final scribble of the month!!! this was so much fun, i had a blast. i struggled ibr but it was my first event and i loved it. thanks everyone for reading!! 🥹🫶🏼
event masterlist | day twenty-nine | main masterlist
Two bullets hit you before you can move out of its course. Lodged into your right thigh, the other blocked by your bulletproof vest but still knocking the wind out of you.
You take the guy you're fighting with you as you hit the floor hard, his head cracking against the ground beneath you, breaking your fall.
White-hot pain shoots through you, gasping in pain.
Bucky's there before you can even blink, dodging through gunfire and practically throwing someone out of his way to get to you.
"Hey, baby, hey," He rushes out, dropping to his knees in front of you, manoeuvring you onto your back gently.
You open your mouth to talk to him, but all you can get out is a painful wheeze.
"Okay," Bucky says, but his voice trembles, "It's okay, I'm gonna check your vest."
He rips open the jacket you wear over it, yanking the straps free to check under your vest. Clean, which means the vest did its job.
Bucky finds himself breathing a little easier, "The vest blocked it."
You swallow thickly, your mouth open to speak but he shakes his head quickly, cupping your cheeks, "Don't speak, baby, it's gonna be alright. We're gonna get you back to the jet, okay?"
His thumbs brush your cheeks as you talk anyway, voice strained, "Buck. . . "
"I know," He whispers, watching you wince in pain as you shift your leg.
Bucky leans down to kiss your forehead tenderly, "We're gonna get you help. . . then you're never allowed to leave the compound again."
A small joke to ease the tension.
Despite the pain radiating throughout you, it works anyway— a tiny, shaky smile pulls at your lips as you roll your eyes.
". . . Never." You croak.
He smiles, "Atta girl."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x chief of staff!reader
WORD COUNT: 299
WARNINGS: drinking, allusions to drunk sex (both reader & bucky were drunk), definitely in violation of something idk what, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: mr. brightside by the killers
LYRICS: “it was only a kiss.”
NOTE: was so busy yesterday i forgot to post this. if this scribbles event has taught me anything it’s a) need to drink more water and b) my time management is still shit lmao. oh, and i watched obsession? that’s officially my one horror movie of the year done because what the actual fuck 😭😭 final scribble will be posted in a bit x
event masterlist | day twenty-eight | day thirty | main masterlist
You wake up in the morning to a pounding in your skull, the light shining through your window making matters worse.
With a grunt, you pull yourself out of bed to yank the curtains shut, stumbling out into your kitchen with your eyes half open to make a very much needed coffee.
All the contents of your handbag from last night have spilled across your coffee table and you sigh exasperatedly, moving to clean it up whilst your coffee brews and picking up your phone just as it buzzes.
Bucky Barnes.
Your boss, who usually never messages you unless he's in deep shit.
With furrowed brows, you unlock your phone and suddenly your stomach drops— thirteen missed calls with accompanying voicemails, fourteen unread messages.
You click on his contact, reading his last few messages.
We can talk about this.
Okay, that was shitty, we did more than kiss, but please just let me know you got home safe?
As soon as you read those texts, everything from last night hits you like bucket of ice-cold water being dumped on your head.
Being at the work party, getting absolutely shit-faced, being one of the last people there to close up, you and Bucky talking in his office, which somehow turned into kissing, into being sprawled across his desk and—
Shit.
Chief of Staff fucks her way to the top, you can see the headline now, clear as day. If anyone found out, your career would be down the toilet.
With shaky fingers, you listen to his recent voicemail.
"Uh, hey, it's— well, you know who it is, I. . . I wish it was only a kiss, but we— well. You were there, you know. . . We need to talk about this, call me back, okay?"
Fuck.
That’s one way to sober up.
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
PAIRING: civil war!bucky barnes x ex-hydra!reader
WORD COUNT: 329
WARNINGS: hurt/comfort, mentions of the winter soldier, 1940s bucky and memory flashbacks, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: northern attitude by noah kahan & hozier
LYRICS: “scared to live, scared to die.”
NOTE: civil war bucky, you have my heart 🥹🫶🏼
event masterlist | day twenty-seven | day twenty-nine | m. masterlist
You both watch the snow fall from inside the apartment, sat side by side on the floor, shoulders pressed together.
It's not like rainfall, where it makes itself known every time it hits a surface, it's quiet, serene. . . peaceful, something Bucky Barnes hasn't felt in a long, long time.
Midnight strikes, you catch it the moment the hand hits twelve, the clock on the far side of the room ticking steadily.
"I know I keep saying it, but I'm glad you found me." Bucky rasps.
Your head, resting against the wall behind you, rolls to the side to look at him, lips twitching upwards faintly, "I told you. Wherever you'd find yourself, I'd find you. . . how's your head?"
"Hurts." He admits softly, "My memory, it keeps coming back to me in fragments, and going to that— that museum. . . fuck, what's it called?"
"The Smithsonian."
Bucky nods, "Yeah, that. It triggered something, a lot of things. But those videos. . . it was like looking at a stranger who was wearing my face."
"That must've been jarring," You offer your hand to him, palm faced towards the ceiling for him to take if he wanted to, "I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner."
Bucky's hand hesitates briefly before curling around yours, metal cool against your skin.
"You're here now."
"I'm always gonna be here."
Bucky licks his lips nervously, his jaw grinding before he speaks, ". . . I'm trying to be better, to not be him but I—"
His voice cracks, sudden and horrible, like something ugly trying to get through the cracks. It breaks your heart, to see him struggle with his guilt and his shame.
"I'm scared to try and live," Bucky murmurs as though it's forbidden, ". . . and I'm scared to die, only ever knowing how to be him."
"You're better than him," You whisper fiercely, "Than all of them, fresh start, remember?"
"Fresh start." He echoes quietly with a deep sigh, turning back to the window to watch the snow fall.
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
PAIRING: professor!bucky barnes x student!reader
WORD COUNT: 299
WARNINGS: angst, breakup, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: the dark end of the street by james carr
LYRICS: “oh, darling, please don’t cry.”
NOTE: has anyone noticed that i’m addicted to writing angst? i don’t know what’s wrong with me lmao, this was not the initial direction i was gonna take this but oh well 😭😭 anyway, today’s prompt should be up later, northern attitude is one of my fav songs ever 🥹
event masterlist | day twenty-six | day twenty-eight | m. masterlist
"I can't let this go on any further."
For a moment, you're not sure you heard him right, but that look of devastation on his face tells you that you did.
"You're. . . you're breaking up with me?"
Bucky's hands tighten around the edge of his desk that he's leaning against, nodding once— firm, final.
"You. . . no." Bile rises quick in your throat before you force it down.
"If someone, anyone, finds out you could lose your place—"
"I don't care." You choke out, "No, I—"
"Please, listen to me? You could lose your scholarship, and sweetheart I know how hard you worked to get it. I'm not worth losing that."
"But what if you are?" Your voice cracks, "I love you, please, don't— we'll be more careful, I promise—"
"We can't risk it." Bucky rasps, pushing himself to stand.
You try to make sense of it all, where this sudden change is coming from, but come up empty, "I— you were fine yesterday? We were— we were okay?"
He gives a single incline of his head, gaze fixed on the floor between you. That inevitable growing distance that'll soon be there.
"So why are you doing this?!"
"Because I love you enough to let you go!" He snaps finally, chest heaving.
You blink, chin quivering as you try to contain the turmoil churning inside you, "Just because I don't want to let you go doesn't mean I don't love you."
"Oh, darling, please don't cry— I know," Bucky breathes, hands cupping your cheeks as your own squeeze his wrists tightly, "Do you?"
He nods instantly, resting his forehead against yours, "I do, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it like that, I just—"
Bucky's jaw tightens, thumbs caressing your cheekbones, "I can't be the one to ruin your life."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
PAIRING: post-endgame!bucky barnes x female reader
WORD COUNT: 430 (whoops 😃)
WARNINGS: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: total eclipse of the heart by bonnie tyler
LYRICS: “We can take it to the end of the line.”
NOTE: sorry for the double upload! they’ll be another one tomorrow (hopefully), and then the last two should be smooth sailing and on schedule. can i be trusted to keep my word though? . . . probably not.
event masterlist | day twenty-five | day twenty-seven | m. masterlist
Five years without Bucky, and you still can't get him out of your head.
You can't move his stuff out, even when Steve offers to lend a hand, even when he gently suggests that it might help you heal.
But how can you heal from something you don't even understand?
Half of the world disappeared, disintegrated in front of the remaining population's eyes like dust.
And Bucky was one of those people.
But when people started reappearing out of thin air again, five years after the Blip, you get a call.
Steve.
He gives you an address, tells you to meet him there. He has something important he needs share.
That's how you find yourself standing outside the Avengers compound, or at least what was left of it.
No Steve in sight, but someone else is waiting when you get there.
Someone familiar, someone your heart hasn't been able to let go of.
"Hi, babydoll." He says softly.
Oh.
You have a visceral reaction to those two words alone, and your legs are moving before your brain can even catch up, barrelling into him and wrapping your arms tight around his neck.
"Bucky." You sob, it's the only thing that comes out of your mouth, "What happened? What happened, where did you go?!"
"Shhhh, baby, it's okay," He rasps.
"It's not okay!" You lean back to shove weakly at his chest, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, "You can't— don't tell me that! Five years. You've been gone for five years—"
"I know," He placates, still keeping you within arm's length, "Steve told me, c'mere, don't— don't push me away."
You throw yourself back at him, and he catches you like always does.
"Don't ever do that again!" You gasp into his shirt, fingers curled tight into the fabric.
"Never," Bucky breathes, tilting your chin up so he can look down at you properly. Your lips brush together, taking each other in as he swipes away your tears.
"We can take this to the end of the line," Bucky whispers against your mouth, hopeful and desperate, "You and me, whatever you want, whatever you want."
You grapple at his uniform, still choking on your tears, nodding frantically.
There's a hitch in his breathing as Bucky brings you to his chest. You missed this, the warmth of him, the way he surrounds you and can make you feel safe just by wrapping his arms around you.
"I love you, Buck," You gasp shakily.
He presses a hard kiss to your temple, "I love you too. So much. I'm never leaving you again."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
PAIRING: mob boss!bucky barnes x female reader
WORD COUNT: 300
WARNINGS: suggestive content, established relationship, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: rude by MAGIC!
LYRICS: “jumped out of bed.”
NOTE: i WILL complete this scribbles event. i will NOT give up. kinda love the colouring for the photos 🫠
event masterlist | day twenty-four | day twenty-six | m. masterlist
The sun shines through the gaps in your curtains, and you groan softly, reaching to pull Bucky's arm to your face, only to find empty sheets. He must've jumped out of bed earlier to get ready for work.
Your hand reaches down searches for the first item of clothing you find that had been strewn across the floor last night.
Bucky's shirt is the first thing you grab, buttoning it up just enough to cover yourself before padding through into the living area, where you can see Bucky nursing a cup of black coffee, dressed and ready for his day.
He doesn't notice you until you clear your throat which makes him lift his head.
His eyes roam your body fleeting, taking in the fact your wearing his shirt from last night, and leans back against the counter.
Bucky tilts his head, "What is it, princess?"
"Come back to bed," You mumble, leaning against the doorway, "S'early."
He smiles amusedly, "It's ten o'clock."
You blink, "Exactly."
"I have to leave in," He glances down at his wristwatch, "An hour."
"Plenty of time for you to get back in bed." You try, batting your eyelashes at him.
Bucky sets his coffee down on the counter, sauntering towards you, "Who do you think works so you can keep that pretty little ass in bed until ten o'clock, hm?"
You smile sweetly at him, eyes still fluttering with lingering sleepiness, "Please? I'll make it worth your while?"
The corners of his mouth curve upwards at the incentive, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as his hands sneak their way underneath his shirt that adorns your body.
"No need to negotiate, baby," Bucky murmurs softly.
His hands settle on your ass, squeezing gently, his nose skimming your jaw, "I'm feeling. . . generous this morning."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
