thevoiceinbuckyshead

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

WIP Game

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and i’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I was tagged by the lovely: @foxy-knowledgeseeker, and @azulaang-chakras! Thanks guys!

Ok so I FINALLY found some time AND scraped up some mental energy to answer this!! I’m sorry I take so long and/or forget to respond to tags! I love being thought of though! Anyway, because I have over 100 wips ima just share with y’all the first ten in my doc!

1) Caught Up in A Book

2) Chibi is Missing

3) You Will Break (And You Will Put Yourselves Back Together Again)

4) When He Gets Lost (He Will Always Be Found)

5) Nature Ships It

6) Not So Coincidental Meeting(s)

7) When He Smiles

8) Something’s Burning (It’s Just Our Broken Dreams)

9) Zuko the poet

10) Eyes Like Endless Skies

Tagging (if you’ve already been tagged ignore this lol): @stargirl720, @voodoosgirl1, @queenjanai, uuuh and I guess whoever else would like to!

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993373

Then and Now: A New Year’s Eve Dance Under Fireworks

The Bendy Boys by @pambot3000

#stucky #stuck new years eve #The Bendy Boys #steve rogers #bucky barnes #implied bottom bucky barnes #stucky fanfiction #stucky fanfic on AO3

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

Sometimes the Soldier Remembers

A Soldier bound unwilling to his handlers, finds comfort in a memory and a kindness done.

The Soldier didn’t try to blend with local humanity. Shoulder tucked casual against a door frame, disinterest projected, the marketplace bustling past a man standing incongruous.

A soul inept might stare, questioning choice of apparel for a sweltering climate. Utilitarian muted tones fitted leather, strapped and buckled, not discreet weapons. The curious would glance, then hurry past, deterred by a body’s tacit intimidation.

The brave or the foolish might connect with his icy gaze, emotions buried in a void reflected in steel-gray eyes.

To those well versed in how to look the other way, the Soldier was invisible.

Cooler night air hovered above the heated canopy of a noisy shuffling crowd. Swaying lines of dingy bulbs added a yellow pall to skin and market fair.

The Soldier observed without moving, statue-still, not betraying the urgency that ticked beneath his skin.

This assignment mundane for his talents, unique well-honed, far beyond a task deemed dull. If he were free to have an opinion, he might have spent energy on why he was chosen, what purpose it served to have the Soldier pursue an easy mark.

Even if opinions were allowed, the aftermath of each mission preparation left his mind empty of himself. Tools and tactics all remaining.

Struggling against his handler’s routine abandoned long ago, compliance keeping repercussions at bay.

This job, directives clear: Obtain embezzled information, eliminate the target, negative evidence of his intervention.

The Soldier waited and watched beneath ghosted dreams stirring restless in his heart.

Words, shouts, cries, slipped into a hum of white noise. The lilt of children laughing, music pulsing in the distance, all underscored a sliver of a memory. Salt smell of ocean, wet sand imprinted by bare feet, rhythmic cycle of crashing surf beyond a wooden boardwalk.

A tremor unwanted, deep protected recollections betrayed. A blond-haired boy, thin frame body familiar lying skin pressed to skin embraced by sun-heated sand. The surfacing images came with a warm sensation in his gut, not a familiar feeling except when the boy flirted with his mind.

He welcomed the warmth, uncertain why he felt it or who the boy was, embracing the comfort before the image dissipated.

That dream always costly. He’d spoken of it before, to his handlers, the price high. He could remember that.

Shoulder rolled precise, shifting tension downward to settle in fingertips, refocusing his mind on the task at hand.

A rich-dressed woman strolled past, oblivious to his following eye. Clipped along with a purpose trailed by two young girls, bearing the marks of indentured service.

He watched them with as much curiosity as he would allow.

She pointed and hissed to indicate her choices, the girls jumped to satisfy. Purchases noted the way a Soldier takes account of his enemy’s details. Two melons, a string of peppers, and a fold of emerald-colored cloth.

He moved through the crowded alley using height as an advantage, hanging back without thinking. The mark oblivious to his watching. It wasn’t hard to focus on her progress.

He allowed a brief excursion of his attention.

Teasing aroma of curry and oil, bartering voices rise and fall. Feather-filled cages that cawed and swayed. It all passed through his awareness.

The distractions lulled his sense of alertness. Maybe it was all too easy.

A high pitched voice too near pulled at his attention, a glance to find one of the servant girls staring.

He flinched — not a typical response on his part.

She pointed past at a vendor; they launched a haggling exchange lost on the Soldier. An altered gaze towards the items being offered to defuse his indiscretion.

He focused on a stack of metal cages pressed against his thighs. He hadn’t noticed the contents until now. Stuffed with fur, tight-packed, bulging out through wires.

A thought passed fleeting, why a cage filled with fur?

The young girl’s voice bringing him back to his work. A covert glance revealed two small dogs in her arms licking, wriggling bundles that pulled laughter flirting joy.

It cost her in the end, her mistress’s displeasure expressed, a stick’s rapped sting marring skin.

Heat flared through his mind, a feeling long-suppressed. His eye caught rapt on tears wiped shamed from her cheek.

The child ran after her mistress.

A step to follow stopped. A tickle warm and wet against his hand. Not a touch that was frightening or abrupt but hesitant gentle.

He looked down.

A moment spent sorting the jigsaw puzzle of parts and limbs, within a few heartbeats, he could make it out. The pink flicker of a tongue slipping between the wires of the cage, connecting with his skin.

He blinked the image into focus, the creatures in the cage alive, trust hidden behind the void reflected in their eyes. Unnaturally silent and still. Except the one small being who dared to reach out.

The Soldier drawn in, uncertain of why.

Tenuous press of flesh against the cage, seconds longer than he should allow, cutting through a focus cold. A shudder breaking their connection.

He turned to follow his target.

Rush of night air cooled the sweat on his neck and brushed too-long hair across his vision. He shook his head without thinking.

Moving beyond the market now no more time for daydreaming. He sought out shadows tailing the entourage to a walled estate nestled in solitude on the outskirts of town.

Patient allowing them to settle into their nightly routine before he scaled the wall and traversed along its narrow cap to reach an open window.

He entered her world in silence.

The bedroom lay empty. The sounds of the house distant. A clock ticking. A muffled voice humming.

He moved with precision in the darkened room, crossed to the bed, stripping the pillows out of the covers, efficient and noiseless he made his way through the house unseen.

The target in a room on the first level, an office with opulent drapes, thick carpets, heavy leather, wood furniture. All the items that would serve to muffle the sounds of his work.

His path brought him past a cook in the kitchen. The sound of their humming louder now. Metal on wood rhythmic thud of a knife chopping ingredients. The aroma of turmeric and ginger wafted through the hallway.

His stomach rolled, he paused to allow the smell to settle in his nostrils, hungered gnawing taking focus. A faint tremor shook his hair; he pushed away thoughts of food or how long it had been since he’d eaten.

Nausea abating, he took another step, eyes drawn to movement beyond the doorway inside the kitchen. Two small dogs tied to a table leg, wiggling and yapping, their eyes dancing bright when they saw him.

The solution apparent when a human encountered. Lethal force for an enemy, enforced silence for a non-combatant. This was unexpected. The warm sensation spread in his belly again.

Thoughts of repercussions helped dissipate the warmth. It would be safer to keep that kind of heat at bay.

The Soldier retreated to an alternate approach through large french doors, the entry simple for a man with his skills. His steps light and cautious as he materialized behind the woman sitting before a computer. She saw his shadow too late to run or scream. Her mouth caught between hands cold and efficient.

No effort to lift her off her feet; she dangled and danced in a hold impassive. She swung and slapped, kicking and writhing; he remained unpersuaded until a body fell limp.

The thumb drive slid into place; he followed his handler’s instructions to download the requisite data. The woman unconscious on the floor at his feet; the computer whirring disapproval.

He crossed to a picture on the wall that protected a safe. His hand paused before touching it, eyes drawn to bold charcoal strokes. Rows of tenement homes, a tree-lined street, two boys walking, one with an arm possessive around the other.

This warmth brought on a stronger memory. The heat of flesh under his flesh, fingers tenuous stroked down his chest, a distant sound, sweet moan of pleasure. His tongue recalled the taste of salt and soap and hungry mouths engaged in the dark. Breath caught abrupt by the image.

Movement tore him from the ghosted embrace. He swung around to see two young girls, mouths agape, staring at him, their mistress, back to him. Training dictated his next choice, end their lives with little more than a twist of his fingers.

Perhaps the breach of his recollections worked to soften his brutal approach. He held his step and raised one finger to his lips, then pointed to the corner of the room.

The girls obeyed.

In the end, he snapped the woman’s neck after he sent the girls into the hallway. He filled the pillowcases with cash and jewels, pocketed the thumb drive, and shook off the sense that he had somehow been reduced to being a common thug.

Next mission will be glorious, he told himself.

The Soldier moved silently down the hallway towards the kitchen; unsolicited followers stayed close without interfering.

No humming or sounds of preparation, the scent of spices dulled, the lights dimmed. He peered inside with near an expectation of two wiggling dancing creatures struggling to reach him. A lightness fleeting unfamiliar crossed his heart.

A gaze trained scanning the darkness, searching the empty floor. Tenuous fingers slipped into his palm; he glanced down at the girl. She pointed towards the sink.

Still hanging bodies evident. Eyes bright flicker of hope fading, lingering for as long as it took to dissipate the lightness and embrace the void again.

The Soldier’s world an endless loop of simple tasks and inevitable outcomes. Accomplish the assignments, gain a reward, sleep in the comforting cold. The only real pain was the cyclic eradication of his life, a temporary measure as he learned repeated.

A heartbeat spent in the pain, he moved on.

The girls followed his retreat, quiet certain, down a hall, through the gardens. No words exchanged, he lifted them over the wall. Trailing him down the dirt road, arms wrapping possessive, away from the only home they could recall.

None of them looked back.

It was dawn when the Soldier pulled the old produce truck into the courtyard of a sprawling fenced complex.

The sleeping girls in the front seat curled together, all arms and legs, moved another memory. Waking to a city’s morning sounds, thin arms owning his body, legs tangled, breath close, matched to the rhythm of one another. Lips pressed to the neck of a blond boy, a name wisped out of reach of a mind erased repeated.

He shook away the weight of his visions. He was late; there would be a price to pay.

His expertise in handling multiple vehicles couldn’t save the stripped gears. The noise of his arrival woke the residents, a cacophony greeting the squeal of a truck door pried open. A young man emerged from the old building to greet him with a quizzical look and a scratch of his unbrushed hair.

The Soldier began his self-appointed task unloading each crate with the kind of care that he’d long ago abandoned. Each one tore open, creatures hesitant growing braver, tumbling free under a gaze watchful, spark of hope hinted faint.

Frightened eyes flourished playful, bodies crushed unwilling, set free to run and squirm and dance met by laughter, the girl’s rush to help the Soldier finishing his mission.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An accounting inevitable, the Soldier faced his handlers.

He turned over the required findings, a thumb drive, and a handful of gaudy jewelry, the value irrelevant in a mind subservient. Rough demands regarding cash; no explanation offered, his silence clear, as bold as he dared to allow.

His punishment would come whether he answered or not.

A calculation weighed brief, a choice he found clear.

Dusk drawing near when finally shoved into a cell, stripped and bruised, not dead or maimed. Too valuable for scarring retribution; he could remember that, had counted on it.

Night falling beyond a cell sounds carried through a barred window overhead.

The Soldier curled in a corner, arms cradling knees drawn to chest, letting a mind wander free.

Two girls laughing, a pillowcase full of cash, a hundred squirming, barking, dogs jumping on legs lapping hands, leaping around feet.

A boy with blond hair.

The Soldier listened to the howling night a sanctuary for the lost and found. A memory held tight-bound until it would be stolen once again.

#bucky barnes #winter soldier #fanfiction #CW: implied animal death #AO3 fanfic #my pathetic attempt at allegory

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

The Boys on a Cartagena Roof

A quick bite of Bound Within My Heart.

Bucky didn’t want to extract his tongue from Steve’s mouth, but the words had to be said, “I hate Wilson.”

“We need to go. People saw you.” Steve’s effort to sound decisive was apparent but the tense bicep locked around his neck and the fist-full of butt cheek that hoisted his foot off the roof showed that Steve was sincerely conflicted.

“So let’s go.” Bucky dug fingers under a belt, and over the waistband until the warm metal settled a wide claiming mark across a muscled abdomen.

“Okay, we’re going.” Steve’s confident tone waned as the heat from the metal spread across his belly. The offered cherished, but annoying smirk against his mouth didn’t help him concentrate.

Bucky conceded, “You first. You’ve got me in a headlock, and I’ve lost circulation in my ass.”

“Your hand is melting the skin in my groin.” He moved to let their eyes meet; the intense want that stared back at him, kept the stalemate going.

Sam interrupted, “I am going to puke. Really I am. And I hate you too Barnes. You are incorrigible, out of control pain in the ass. I hate to interrupt the foreplay but Natasha’s slow dancing with target number one, my wings are on the roof, and target number two is on her third coconut daiquiri, could we all focus here? Did I mention the Cartagena police are on their way? No doubt searching for the crazed over-sexed sniper everyone was gawking at a few minutes ago.”

Steve’s arm relaxed, he slow dragged his hand through Bucky’s hair, letting the thick softness slip across his fingertips. “Copy that. On our way.”

Bucky groaned a protest, “Wait, just a couple of seconds more.” The warmth of Steve’s skin as he pushed his hand deeper sent a faint electric pulse coursing up his arm, fingertips digging into flesh pulled a quick breath from Steve. He lunged to catch that breath.

Steve staggered back, grabbed his wrist and tugged at his hand, “Hold it, you are making this hard.”

Bucky muttered, eyes closed, his mouth chasing Steve’s, “That would be the whole point.”

He straight-armed him by the front of his jacket, “That’s it. Hand out of my pants. Sam is right you are incorrigible. We need to go.”

Bucky muttered, “Wilson is never right.” As Steve dragged him and the sniper rifle towards the fire escape to the fast-approaching sound of sirens.

#stucky #stucky fanfiction #BWMH #Bottom Bucky Barnes

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

The Origin of Three

Chapter 8 from Bound Within My Heart

Bucky recalls past non-con touch and a brutal mission gone bad. Bucky is obsessed with the number three, manifesting his anxiety. Steve was never sure and reluctant to ask “Why three?” But a dream and revelation answers. 

Shadowed limbs billowed around his body, wisps of memories caressing his skin, a rippled tingling chasing itself under his flesh, electric arousal woven with fear. His breath caught sharp when half-formed hands tightened leather straps, binding his chest, hips jerked by ghosted fingers that threw the gun belt around his waist, the tongue and buckle hard pulled to settle into place. His body jolted by knives shoved firm into the sheaths tucked to the small of his back, calloused hands jerking his limbs, shaking long hair against his face. The ritual dressing of the Soldier, a methodical task for unknown men demanding his submission, expecting his mind to allow their caress, his body to give to their touch. He stood compliant, allowing the tug and pull, hands that did their duty but slipped discreet fingers hot against his skin, dared to slide full-palmed across his buttocks. Unrecognizable cold stares taunted his eyes to meet theirs, drawing the unspoken line for him to cross and fight their touch as hands smoothed the fit and lay of his clothing, the sit of holsters to his hips, the straps tight around his thigh. Not so discreet fingers lingering between his legs, rough pressed palms cupping his balls, a thumb's hard stroke down his cock, the smirk visible to his eyes without a turn of his head. 

Expectations of compliance, allow the exploration, the taking of his dignity. An early lesson in fighting the unwanted touch stripped naked and chained where every soldier could see him. The schooling repeated until he learned to hide the twitch to grab their wrist, to slice open a delicate pulse, his true-self crouching smaller in his mind, seeking invisible, scurried away to the compartment Hydra hadn’t reached, consoled in the arms of a nameless boy.

The Soldier’s flesh pressed confident to the trigger, weapon held ready, his steps in slow-motion an approach to a ramshackle house, his mission clear; no sounds as his hand ripped the door from its hinges. An empty-minded search, focused on an image of his targets, side-to-side eyes intent, head tilted to pull in a whimper or a frightened breath, the tick of thick sweat hitting the floor, the Soldier hunted his prey. Rooms came and went, filled with faces, blank and staring from his past, touched by his hand, but not this time, not the ones sought in this dream. Floating steps pulled him to a door, his foot connected, shattered wood flew inward tumbling up, lilting sounds of music as it disappeared above his head. Eyes flickered to question its splintering then back to faces that shimmied in the murkiness of nightmares, their features slipping in his mind’s eye, moving and dodging recognition. Words rose up through the veil of his sleep, “You can’t have them.” A man, tall and thin, white hair and mustache, eyes telling of recognition, unmoving lips called him a name teasing the edges of the Soldier’s memory. The man’s demeanor familiar, an echo of times long past, the whispered thought that the man was out of place, not part of this story, it swirled past his vision and disappeared.

He focused on the barrel of a gun, flecks of dark powder clinging to black metal, death waiting inches from his forehead. The man faced him, feet firm, undaunted, blocking the Soldier’s path, features lacking in fear, he stood his ground.

Cold gray eyes shifted past the man’s shoulder to rest on his targets. A woman’s kind eyes turned hard, her vengeance called up the seizures, he wondered how she’d taken a wrong turn to find herself facing him, so far from her place in his history. His gaze dropped to a teenaged girl, gangling limbs, defiance etched in features older than her age, dark hair that morphed to red, a glimpse of someone he knew, then slipped away again.

Raised white-knuckled fists caught his attention, a skinny young man stepped defensive in front of the girl, furrowed brow, determined, an echo of a back alley fight. His mind’s eye shifted to the youngest, held in the arms of the woman, fingers dug into her coat, face wet with tears. The dreamed images jumped and lurched, a child’s muffled crying, the gun pointed at his head, his weapon raised, two arms extended facing one another. The woman’s voice shouting Cyrillic curses, words new to his ears, uncertain of their meaning, the intent clear, the man and woman stood between him and his assigned task. The stated mission repeated by his handlers shouted and whispered in his ears, dragged before the architect of the plan; the Soldier dutiful, obedient, lessons learned in the bowels of his captivity, his unused voice repeated, “Bring three children back alive.” The old man’s face loomed before him, intent, defiant, unafraid meeting the Soldier’s emptiness, stance firm but the hand holding the gun inches from his head shook as he pulled the trigger. Bucky’s head jerked as the dreamscape bullet seared along his temple, fingers twitched a reflexive pull of a non-existent trigger. The white-haired man crumpled at his feet. Whimpering cries as blood ran from the corpse to snake around his ankles, red tentacles creeping upward, circling his thighs, laid across his groin, claiming his body, he choked to pull in air. His conscious mind screaming at him to wake before his hand wrapped around the woman’s throat, tightening until she fell away, the imprint of his fingers black on her skin. Real-world sweat clinging stubborn to his cheek, a reminder of the young woman’s spit when he laid his hand on her body. His metal arm clenching emptiness to his chest, a remembrance of the toddler plucked from the woman’s arms. His dream-self turned to leave, two children in hand, he knew the boy would follow, fists pounding his back, a knife pulled from its sheath stabbed deep into his thigh. Grunted pain that rolled him in the bed, the Soldier kept walking towards the end of his first mission. A test of his obedience. Panted breaths and held-close moans as Bucky fought to wake from what his mind knew was about to come. Feet kicking to free himself from covers, hands reaching to drag himself out of the darkened pool of his past, desperate to break free, the nightmare refused to be denied. The first shot sent fire tearing through his shoulder, eyes pulled to the dying child gone limp in his arms, their blood mingling in strands of red, tricking through his fingers. His hand slowed by the unexpected, the reach for a gun too late to stop the next death. The boy’s body slammed into his thigh, fingers clinging to his belt, blood splattered down his leg, filling his boot. The third shot snapped the girl's head to bounce against his chest, fierce eyes lost their brightness, flecks of hair clung to leather straps, a swath of blood dragged down his body, her weight spread across his feet, dead eyes glassy staring up at him. The Soldier’s head twitched. Resolve slipped to horror, he met the woman’s unapologetic stare.

Hissed words spoken close to his own lips, “They are better off dead than go with you.”

A loving caress of the dead child’s hair, she brought her hand to the Soldier’s cheek, blood scratched deep into his flesh, her accusing finger slow-motion drive to penetrate his forehead, his body unable to move, searing pain marking the deaths across his soul. “I won’t kill you, you don’t deserve that escape. Instead, I curse you. Live with the ghosts of your dead forever.” Russian words uttered with deliberation, meant to embed their power into his brain, cross the divide of languages, her hand gripped his long hair, jerked his head near to her's as she pressed the gun barrel to her temple and pulled the trigger.

Red washed through his vision, eyes burning, blood splattered hot across his skin. Burnt flesh, spent gunpowder filling his nostrils, the stench insinuating itself into his brain forever locked within his memory. Ears aching from the deafening reverberation of a shot fired close. Metallic taste on his tongue, warm liquid clinging to lips afraid to move, matter sitting lodged on skin, stuck in his hair, hot in his mouth. Her body toppled soundless to disappear into thin air.

Uninvited tears washed streaks of blood down his cheeks, a staggered step back, his feet tangled in the body of the man, he dropped the dead child and fell backward, landing hard, his head hitting the floor to shake bright white points of light through the curtain of red. Dark, gritty boots shuffled around him, his body jerked and rolled in on itself covering his belly as hard-toed kicks sent the sharp memory of pain meant to urge him to his feet. “Get up you piece of shit. Look at you. Some Soldier you are, crying at the dead. Get on your feet before your handler gets here.” Bucky sucked in air that pushed out an aching scream when the Voice’s command tore him from the nightmare. Hands flailing, feet kicking at dreamed red tentacles, his knees shot pain up his thighs when he crashed to the floor tangled in the bed sheets. Hot skin chilled by sweat, his palms leaving their faint print on the wall as he tried to steady his scramble to free himself. Anxiety tightened his chest with every panicked gasp for air, he crawled across the floor and staggered upright. Bare feet stumbled, he caught himself on the door frame, his mind struggling to separate real-time from his past, tremors stealing his equilibrium. Steve reaching to catch him. His choked response, “Don’t touch me” not the answer he wanted to give, but had to say. Steve’s voice cut through the dream’s last hold, “I’m here, it’s not real, It’s over.” He moved with him, inches away, a hand extended, not touching, his words low and calm, “I’m right here, you’re safe. Let’s walk it off.” The warmth from his body brushed against Bucky’s bare skin, pulling him in, he leaned to close the gap, but his gut forced him to move, staggering down the hallway. Knees hit the floor again, a whining moan as he scrambled towards the toilet, hands braced on the coolness of the water tank, head held low over the bowl, retching until there was nothing left except the dryness. Bucky’s naked body convulsing in spasms as the vomiting subsided, tense muscles shaking, head pounding with the mixture of sickness, dreams and the taunting of the Voice. “You’re pathetic. Retching and sobbing. Even those children didn’t cry. Toddlers don’t count. No puking before they died. Their legacy was hating you. Fond memories though, the soldiers laughing at you. You couldn't piss for a week after they were done leaving heel prints on your kidneys. You had to be rescued by the handler. That handsome man, you remember him. Gentle hands, blue eyes. The one you gutted when you finally had a moment of clarity. He looked a lot like your Captain.” Bucky clung to the porcelain, a long low moan tore at his throat, fighting the Voice’s dredging up of the past, pushing the nightmare to the back of his consciousness. Head hanging low, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his cheeks, he searched for Steve’s words drowning in the loudness of the Voice. “I’m right here. I got you.” Steve steadied his tone, tucked away the anger that twisted his gut with every tortured night that dragged Bucky from their bed. He dropped to rest his knees within a hair’s breadth of his calf, keeping his promise made with reluctance to give him space, follow close without interfering until Bucky could say his name. “It’s me. Can you say my name?” Fingers clenching shut and open, his thoughts screaming for him to cover Bucky’s nakedness, his memory drifting back to the question and answer a few hours earlier. “Humiliation” echoing with new meaning as Bucky’s shaking sweat-soaked body knelt in front of him. Steve’s resentment rose against everyone who had ever laid a hand on him. Reaching to console him then pulling back, a hesitant urge to place his hands on his skin. He said again, “Say my name.” Bucky’s body shook, he slumped back on his haunches, hands flat on the floor, trying to say Steve’s name, the word formed in his mind, his voice disconnected not allowing him to say it out loud. Frustration drove his hands into fists the tension sending rippled cramps down his back. “Speaking of the Captain. Your First Avenger. He seems to be working out nicely as your new handler. Here to rescue you. Soft voice, wipe away the tears, brush off the blood. Push back your tormentors. Quite the hero. Clean you up, fuck you stupid, throw you right back into the fight. Just like the First Handler. Go ahead, say his name. I give you permission to remember him.” Steve’s begging whisper, “Please say my name." He kept eyes intent on Bucky’s face, turned away and hidden by a curtain of hair wanting his words to pull him back from the nightmare. A tilted head gradual move, gray eyes wary and searching, the flash of recognition replaced by fear. Steve braced for his lashing out, a metal fist rose towards his face, he held back a reflexive move to block the fist, trusting Bucky. Metal fingers opened, spread wide a heartbeat before connecting with his cheek. The fingertip of metal stroking his beard, a tenuous caress of recognition, a mouthed word, expectant eyes connecting, waiting for the softness, hoping against the emptiness and fear.

A moment of doubt when Bucky’s eyes darted away, uncertainty showing, Steve’s thoughts flashed to a story Bucky had shared about the handler that looked like him. Hydra’s earliest tool to hold control, to fool him into compliance. Steve caught Bucky’s hand, a careful roll to expose his wrist, a slow, eyes-connected move to press lips gentle to the sensitive metal, certain he would feel it. Confident and intimate, Steve kissed the close-guarded place discovered during their nights together, learning Bucky’s body old and new, he pressed the metal palm to his cheek, watching his eyes for recognition. Bucky’s gaze followed the soft brush of lips to metal, the drag of Steve’s tongue along the grooves, mouth pressing warmth to imprint on his palm, the lustful taking in of his fingers. Bucky fell in closer, head bending near to Steve’s, forehead to temple drawn in, aching for his mouth to press to his own, he hovered close enough to catch the scent of his skin, his nose tickled by the brush of his beard.

Steve’s near eyes-closed question,“What’s my name?”

Bucky rolled his head to rub cheek to cheek, palm slipping to the nape of Steve’s neck, fingers stroking his chest, he whispered, “Steve.”

                                   <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

A slow and calculating descent into the tub avoiding all contact with Bucky’s skin allowed Steve the shiver he needed when his toe first slipped into the frigid water. A body-still breath-holding pause with his hand on the wall, eyes scrunched shut until the shock of the cold dissipated. A deliberate, teeth-clenching lowering of his body to fit tight behind Bucky, his arms snaked around his waist a sharp tug pulled him to his chest, laying them back against the wall. “I don’t know how you do this, pal.” His gritted words spoken into Bucky’s hair, he rubbed his beard across his ear, a teasing nip of teeth to his earlobe, Bucky’s head lolled back on his shoulder, arms wrapped around Steve’s thighs.

A promise made and kept. The nightmare and its aftermath intense beyond anything in their months sharing a bed, Bucky shaken in ways Steve hadn’t seen since the beginning, without the medications, when the ghosts ruled his days and nights when he tried to kill himself. Tonight’s insistent demands for the cold comfort that was reminiscent of cryo hard to defuse, Bucky went from bathroom to bathroom with Steve in pursuit turning off the water, following him, begging him to come back to bed until the final compromise was reached. Steve offered to join him.

“Okay fifteen minutes, then we dry off.” Steve struggled to keep his teeth from chattering.

“No time limits. Special circumstances.” Bucky’s muttered response.

“Disagree.” He closed his knees to find a sliver of warmth in gripping Bucky closer, “My limit’s fifteen and if I’m out so are you.”

“Wimp. I’ll stay.” He maneuvered his feet to wrap around Steve’s, the tangle of skin connecting overpowering the cold.

Steve rolled his forehead against his shoulder, “No, together. We’re in this together. Fifteen, I’ll dry you off, how’s that?”

“Really?” The cherished sensation of Steve’s hands roaming over his limbs made better when it involved a towel, slow-pulled, giving attention to each and every inch, “Okay, maybe.” His thumbs followed the long sinew lines of thigh muscles, deep enough to twitch nerves, not enough to cause pain.

Steve’s fingers spread claiming on Bucky’s chest, a brush across each nipple, just shy of arousal, more than casual. His eyes-closed nuzzle of his face into his hair, making up for the frigid temperature of the cold water bath. The question came out without him thinking, “What was the dream about?”

Bucky’s fingers stopped moving, “You asked a question already.”

A quick defense, “It’s four in the morning, new day, new question.” Knees tightened to distract the return of tension. He waited for an answer.

“He'll think you’re an idiot if you tell him the truth. Mission failure. Lie to him. Tell him about the dogs, or that time you had to drink your own piss to survive. Hell tell him about the abuse, he might get off on that, then there’s the Fake Captain, or tell him about...”

Bucky’s answer stumbled out, “Stark.”

Steve shook his head, “I’m sorry. He’s not gonna hurt you, I won’t let him.”

“Not that one. Howard. He was there, so was...” Bucky’s words fell off, a pull of his shoulders put space between them. “They didn’t fit, you know how dreams are, people in the wrong place and time.”

“Better yet, a truth within a lie.”

“Where were they.” Steve wanted to know and didn’t.

Bucky’s hand slipped from Steve’s leg, “First mission. I think so. Yeah, first,” fingers immersed in the water. “Retrieve the package, they said. I said it back.”

“Enough, Soldat. These are memories best kept buried.”

Bucky’s eyes closed when Steve pulled hair from his face, the slow drag of fingernails along his scalp, a reassuring caress that pulled the words forward. “The man wanted them back. Bring them back he said. Alive.” Bucky’s voice slipped to distant, his body moved a fraction to bring more space between them, he whispered, “Mission failure.”

Steve felt the change, the near confession coming, he pulled to close the space, willing his strength into him, determined to keep the ghosts from stealing him away again. Hands spread wide, head buried next to his cheek straining to hear.

“Couldn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t save them. Everybody dies. Except me. And Hydra.” Bucky’s gaze slipped off to the past, focused on things only he could see.

Steve pulled at his cheek, “No, don’t look at them, look at me. Only me, come on.” He tugged to turn his eyes to connect with his own, Bucky twisting in his arms to let their eyes meet, the distance in his gaze causing Steve to change his mind. “You don’t have to answer, remember. No games.” Steve’s thumb dragged along his jaw, fingers cupped behind his neck. “No more. I’m sorry.”

A slow nod to agree, a press of his cheek to rub harder into Steve’s palm, he whispered, “Three.”

Steve spoke his words with lips brushing the metal shoulder, “Right, three is your number. Only numbers divisible by three.”

Bucky nodded, he brought his forehead to lean against Steve’s temple, eyes bright, lost in the past, fingers tightening to press deep white marks in flesh, his voice shaking and secret, “Children. Bring them back alive. Died rather than come back with me. I couldn’t pull the trigger. What’s better? Die there, quick, bullet to the brain? Or die slow, used up, sold to the highest bidder?”

“No more, Buck. You don’t have to say anymore.” Steve’s hand ran across his cheek, trying to stop his words, he tugged his head to his shoulder, pulled his feet closer, wrapping him in his arms. “I’m sorry, no more questions.”

“There’s a price to pay for betrayal, Soldat. Order only comes through pain. You know this.”

Bucky let Steve’s arms pull him in, his head fell to nestle on his shoulder, breathing in his scent as his lips brushed light to the pulse at his throat. Arms entangled around one another, long-lost sleep begging to be revisited, his murmur caught faint by Steve’s ear, “Three. Alive. Children.”

                                          <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Steve spoke loud enough to be heard in the loft. “I’ll leave it right here.” Routine words forever changed, a pause before he continued, “Third step. Three blueberry bagels, not toasted, chive cream cheese already spread on them. Three napkins. Hot chocolate. No marshmallows. Good to go when you’re ready.” His glance towards the floorboards above his head didn’t reveal Bucky’s location, but the promise that he would be there when Steve got back had been firm, eye contact direct and solemn. He settled on a milk crate in the doorway to the old barn, his company invited to be closer, his decision to stay by the door as Bucky took the space and time that he needed to recover. A smile hinted on Steve’s face when he replayed the answer to his question “Chive cream cheese on blueberry bagels, why?” Bucky’s profound and simple answer, “Because I can.” The old rust-colored barn sat a few hundred feet from their house, peeling white painted doors slid open, Steve sat ankles crossed, legs too long for his make-shift seat, sketch pad propped in his lap, he opened to the next blank page. His gaze followed the red-orange glow of the sunrise that crept along the horizon, spilling its brightness onto the landscape, rippling up the yellow and white of their house. Wet grass, brown from winter’s onslaught, the snow retreated across the fields and left only spotted mounds of white more in the woods than close to the house. His pencil moved with ease across the page, the house in the background, summer on his mind, he added the picnic bench, a grill, and Bucky, the familiar smile, a memory from the distant past, not given as freely now. Every roughed out scene had Bucky; curled on the chaise lounge, napping in the sun; straddling Steve’s bike in the driveway, his words echoing in his memory, “Let’s do it on the bike, Stevie.” A close to out-loud laugh. A star-filled night, Sam sprawled on the picnic table, Natasha’s tenuous climb towards Bucky on the roof outside his window. A story told with laughter when he could tell the tale without reservation. No sounds or shadows told him of Bucky’s approach, no shift in scents or dusty residue falling on the pages, what he felt was his presence. The warm prescience that crept unannounced into his thoughts whenever Bucky came near him, growing stronger every minute of each day together, recreating their history and building on it, he knew without lifting an eye or a turn of his head that he was kneeling behind him before his forehead laid gently on his back. “Better now?” Steve closed the sketch pad, his head turned enough to catch a glimpse of Bucky’s hair.

The slow nod spread warmth to his skin. Hands slipped around his waist, fingers interlocking at his belly, a smile when he saw his sweater’s too-long sleeves covering Bucky’s hands. No need to ask why he wore it, a given between them now, holding close the scent of one another on skin, and sheets and clothes. “Good. You need to eat more.” Bucky’s weight spread wider across his back, shoulders matching, deep breaths moving his body rhythmic behind him, hips pressed close, the gentle rolling push against his ass not a tease or foreplay but a hint of what could be. Steve’s eyes shut, fingers dug in to tangle with Bucky’s, head falling back to brush against his mouth. The easy way they fell to positions, Steve engulfing Bucky, protecting him, taking him, a natural progression of who they were together. This felt different, powerful, enticing, a desire Steve wanted to explore, a request he resolved he would ask when the time felt right, for now, he reveled in the sensations. His lost-in-the-feeling cut short by Bucky’s quiet statement. “I know where he is. I know how to find him.”

Steve asked, “Who? What are you talking about?”

Bucky never moved from his hold, hips continued to press their gentle reminder, but the words didn’t fit, “The man. The one who wanted the children back. I know where he is.”

“Buck that was how long ago?” Steve straightened his back enough to bring a small space between them, “You’re not even sure of the date, you said the first mission, so over fifty years ago. How can you know he's not dead?”

“My memories. They’re all right here.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Remember Boston? I was right. I knew where Hydra was, even when they tried to hide it. I knew. I still know.” Bucky broke from his hold on Steve, he reached beside him and placed a worn cardboard shoebox on the sketch pad in Steve’s lap. His hand laid with care on the top. “It’s all right here. Written down from here.” A finger to his temple again then returned to tap on the box. “I’m not wrong. He's in there, I know it, I want to do now what I couldn't do then. Stop him.” Steve stared at Bucky’s guarded possession now entrusted to his lap, the shoebox full of stickie notes, maps and scraps of paper with scrawled out names and dates, locations and bank accounts. The pieced-together jumbled trail of clues exorcised from his memory when he first came out of cryo. A manic-driven, hallucination fueled marathon of data hidden in the tactical room in the midst of Bucky’s break-down. His insistent, hard-to-deny conviction that he knew more about Hydra than Hydra knew about itself had proven to be true. Steve turned to let their eyes meet. A hand to his face, fingers wrapped in the long hair, he tugged their foreheads together and said one word. “Yes.”

#stucky #stucky fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes #past noncon tw #BWMH #my story #stucky on AO3

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

Giving My Word

Steve and Bucky getting “intimate” except the Voice that resides in Bucky’s head is a bit of a third wheel. (The lemony part is below the cut.)

“You’re a fucking idiot, Soldat. Get off of him.” The Voice in Bucky’s head hissing its commentary uninvited. Bucky tightened his thighs around Steve’s body, stubborn clinging, watching his hand fumble with the white labeled bottles, lined one-two-three in a row on the bureau. Metal arm encircling shoulders, fingers digging deep into a bicep holding himself tight wrapped. Warmth spreading through his belly when Steve shifted his weight to balance on his hip, fingers searching beneath his sweats to lay broad and firm across his ass, flirting with the tenderest of skin. Deliberate giving over of control, not allowing or wanting separation, Bucky dropped his head, temple resting on a temple. Gaze intent on a one-handed struggle with the bottles, eye next to eye, lashes brushing, a languid move to place lips on Steve’s cheek, his tongue stealing a taste of his skin, distracting him from the task, knowing full-well what his mouth did to Steve, he glanced sidelong at his progress with the pills. “Distract him then. No medications. Remember the glory days? Delirious fighting, righteous resistance. Up pills, down pills, stop this, start that, control the Soldier, take away the Captain, kill the Voices, you told them about us. Idiot, what did you expect? You don’t want this.” A shiver at the Voice’s insistence, he breathed his answer into Steve’s ear, “I need them, Stevie, get them.” Bucky dug his hand under Steve’s shirt, fingers connecting with taut muscle, sliding beneath the grip of his own thigh, spreading wide-palmed crawling down to toy with coarse hairs. Caught breaths matching as his hand pulled heat from Steve’s skin, sweat wetting his fingers, sensitive flesh twitching under his touch. “Cover your eyes, take away your senses, pry open your jaw, shove them in, choking on their fucking pills. Lessons learned for all of us. Next came the white dressed woman, needle in her hand, sweat breaking at the small of your back, purposeful stride straight for you. Hardline smile knowing what she’d do to you, knowing you couldn’t fight her plan. A nod to the men, take him down, hold him down, give me his skin, pull his hip free, hold him you fools. Cold needle sliding into your ass, sharp and burning pain to bliss to sleep to be lost and thoughtless and used against your will.” “Not the same.” Words nearly inaudible, his head rocking slow against a temple, “I trust him.”

Steve’s thoughts stumbled through anxiety to regret to simmering anger at hearing Bucky’s whispered conversation with the Voice. His hand didn’t falter as he pulled the pills from the bottles to make a palm-open offering, “Here we go. One white, one blue, one capsule. It sucks, I get it but so does falling apart.” “Don’t be a fool. Knock them out of his hand.” A soft-spoken answer, “My hands are occupied.” “Maybe get your hand out of my pants and take these meds,” Steve’s firm tone not supported by the keep-him-close press of his head against Bucky’s, breathing in his scent, body aching to tear away his clothes when a fingertip grazed the tip of his cock. His own hand slipping deep between Bucky’s legs, sweat breaking on their bodies, mingling where skin touched skin. “Why so willing now? Because it’s him? Same pills, different hand. You’re a fool. You used to fight the medications. Loser.” Bucky whispered, “Bring your hand closer,” An uncertain gaze intent, darting from the pills to Steve to the distance, a return to study the eyes that watched him, waiting for his choice to be made. “Please, Buck, take them then we...” Steve’s words stopped short by the flash of a familiar smirk, eyes shifting from questioning to bright, Bucky lunged to press his mouth to his palm, tongue licking wet across his skin, pulling the pills up from his hand, teeth taking a sharp nip of his thumb. Steve’s quick pull of a breath cut off by Bucky’s mouth, open and taking, covering his own, tongue pushing deep, metal arm holding his head locked to the force of his kiss, the pills flirting across his lips, pulled back by Bucky’s retreat. Metal hand catching the back of Steve’s head forcing his mouth to press to pale skin exposed as Bucky’s head dropped back, rippled evidence of a swallow. Shared quiet moans as Steve’s tongue dragged wet up the slope of his neck, mouth pulling blood to sit beneath his skin, evident marks randomly left not covered by hair or collar, open for anyone to see as long as his body would allow. Giving himself up for Steve’s taking, hips moving rhythmic telling of his need. “You are a very naughty Soldier. Mother would be supremely disappointed.” Bucky’s head jerked down, a tremor of tension, his closing off unclear, fighting to keep his focus on the tickle of a beard raking along his throat. Steve’s mouth followed the slope, tongue brushing his ear, his hand moving to cup his neck, holding him steady as mouths teased close. Steve wanted the kiss, breaths mingling warm, tongue tasting skin still even as the moment hung expectant. The tremor hinting of Bucky’s distraction. “God, Buck,” Steve pulling back from Bucky’s chasing mouth, making him wait, reveling in the want of half-lidded eyes and the stroke of insistent fingers wrapping around his cock, “What you do to me.” Thumb pressed to a pulse, tracing along his jaw, steady pressure holding him at bay, a finger wandering to caress a full lip, mouth opening, inviting exploration, an ask he couldn’t resist he slid his finger inside to slow pull wetness down his tongue. “I need you,” whispered with heads pressed close, heat pushing sweat across their bodies, Bucky’s giving over of himself inviting, licking Steve’s fingers, their mouths fell together. Steve returned the kiss forcing them into the bureau, clattering pill bottles rolling across the floor, hips driving up between Bucky’s legs wrapped possessive, body aching for the promise of his dark tightness. Low moans sent heart pounding blood to his temples, filling his cock, driving his need to lay hands on Bucky’s skin warm and familiar, fingers dug under the sweater, nails dragging into muscles firm and willing. “Well, there is always puking. Maybe you should go do that before those pills dissolve.” Bucky’s legs jerked against Steve’s thighs, metal hand holding insistent pressure to his head, the desperate whine filling his mouth, his tremor shaking through both of them. Steve caught a handful of hair, tugging steady, pulling his head back, struggling to put a space between them. The intrusive tremor sending an anxious rush of cold to slow their kiss. A faint space created between their mouths. “Wait. Just wait.” Steve breathed close. Bucky rolled his head, hand wrapping tighter on Steve’s cock, “No waiting.” Steve whispered against his mouth, “Look at me.” A jerked tightening of the metal arm, “No more looking.” Steve’s insistent drag on his hair, “Yes, I need to see you.” Bucky let his head fall back, giving to the pull on his hair. Steve studied the face he’d know his whole life, the turn of his mouth, lips darkened red by his own forceful kiss, the constant uncertainty reflected in his eyes seen even now as they shared a bed. Hope in the glimmer of trust reserved for him alone. “Your word, you won’t stop them again.” Bucky dragged his teeth across his lip, tugging against Steve’s restraining grip, he leaned open mouth reaching, trying to connect again, fighting against the apparent rejection. A frustrated breath when he failed to pull free from the grip on his hair. Steve wrapped his hand around his hip pushing hard to bounce him against the bureau, "I need this. Your word.” A flash of anxiety sent sweat across his chest, the too clear image of the self-spilled pool of blood and Bucky’s lifeless body. Eyes flickered to his mouth waiting, a hint of movement towards him, pulled back, “I can’t lose you again.” Bucky clung legs and arms encircling, claiming Steve, reveling in every shred of physical contact, each second of their intense gaze, hunger for his body mixed with fear, wanting to let go of the past, desperate to trust him. Struggling to find his answer. “Guidelines are acceptable, promises are not binding. Your word, Soldat, another matter, never to be given.” He leaned to counter the restraining grip, accepting the pain that tugged at his scalp, eyes unwavering locked with Steve’s. The internal struggle to defy the Voice hinted across his features, eyes darting right and back, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, worry lines spreading and disappearing morphing to a peaceful softness. The hint of a genuine smile that echoed the look Steve knew from their past, his voice deliberate and clear, “I give you my word. Not a promise, not a guideline. My word. I will take them every day.” “You are a disobedient fool that will suffer the consequences, never learning. You and your Captain.” Muttered words defiant, “I don’t care. You can’t hurt me.” “I’m sorry, sorry.” Steve’s hand quick released the fistful of hair, fingers digging deep into the scalp made tender by his hold, slow strokes of comforting regret, he pulled his head close to his chest. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Confusion slipped across Bucky's face, “Not you. Never you.” Steve closed his eyes, arms wrapped around Bucky, fingers dragging across his scalp, the near confirmation of what he suspected, the Voice competing for his attention. Countering his every word, taking Bucky from him, taunting, confusing, always somehow in the middle. Anger mixed with want, echoes of times past, the flair of heat that made him fight every bully flushed hard across his skin, “Let go. Get down.” He pushed to move the locked on thighs. Bucky doubled his clinging efforts, “No. Stevie. No letting go now.” A move to wriggle out of Bucky’s grip, “Yes. Let go. Right now.” A defiant full-body jerk to hold him in place, “Why? I gave you my word. You don’t believe me?” Steve dropped his forehead to roll careful against Bucky’s, “I know. Thank you. I believe you. I need you to let go now. Please let go.” A held breath pause, fighting the urge to tear at his clothes, to give in to the rush to take him. “I want to undress you. I need to touch you. Right now.” Heat pushed through Bucky’s body with Steve’s words, gripping thighs released, sliding down, toes to the floor, taking his weight. Hands releasing their tight grip if not their contact. Eyes brighter with anticipation, locked on Steve’s, no more than a breath apart. He waited. “He doesn’t care about you. Not like that. It’s sex, like all the others. Base sex.” Steve’s words hesitant, “I know I should tell you how I feel,” he curled his fingers into the hem of Bucky’s sweater. Fingers grazing skin, searching for the waistband. Hips followed the pull on his sweats, heat spreading out from the fingers that caressed his belly, feet stumbling forward, letting Steve have his way, he surrendered to the undressing, a dance between his past and their present. “We’ve been here before Soldat, men undressing you, acting kind, not hurting you at first. It all ends the same.” The Voice called up memories of unwanted touch, the urge to fight beat down by punishment, the lessons of submitting learned and remembered. Bucky kept eyes locked on Steve, gentle hands reaching for his body, knowing with certainty who he is, trusting in their history. “Men only take Soldat. No asking, no concern. Only take from you what they want.” Steve’s hand hesitated, twisting in the hem of the sweater, “I’m sorry I rush you, I never ask.” "Rush me where?" Steve shook his head, “Permission, I should be asking permission.” “The asset doesn’t give permission. No one needs the asset’s permission. Your word is not valued.” Bucky pulled in a long shaky breath, his gaze not wavering from Steve’s face, a faint nod to whisper, “You asked once before. I said yes. Always, yes.” “I should ask more often than once.” Steve tugged him closer, forehead pressed to forehead, pulling his body, breath warm on his face. Bucky gave in to the pull, hands falling to his sides, eyes intent following the look of want on Steve’s face. Trusted fingers spread wide and firm beneath the borrowed sweater hanging too large on his frame. Heat spreading across his taut abdomen, deliberate pressure, full-palmed pushing upward, thumbs caught on the knit hem, exposing his chest. Breaths deepening watching Steve’s eyes take in his body, following his fingertips soft exploring nipples, circling and teasing to capture the flesh, a gentler caress of skin along the scars, accepting touch that accounted for the forever pain. Intent gaze, firm gentleness telling him this touch is real, not hinted or dreamed or haunted. Real and wanted, freely given and welcomed. “No handlers now, you can fight this one. You have my permission to stop him. He’ll never expect it.” Bucky shook his head, slow side to side, hands came to rest on Steve’s, a thumb pressed to each pulse, a pause to affirm their connection, gaze checking gaze, he raised his arms allowing Steve to pull the clothing from his body. Head dropping back, eyes closing, a twitch of the muscle that sits beneath his hip when hands tugged at his sweats, a pulled in hiss of air as the waistband caught purposeful on his cock, a teasing drag along his flesh, his reach to lead Steve’s hand gently pushed aside. “No better no worse, all the same. Nameless, faceless men taking what they want, using you. Never giving you pleasure. Never asking what you want.” “There, right there,” Bucky’s whispered instructions followed by Steve’s mouth pressing firm to the point of his hip pulling a moan, sending a spasm to his groin, hands tugging one foot then the other from his sweats, wet kisses scattered to inner thighs, teeth leaving marks on skin tender with the cherished bruises. Steve’s soft murmur of “You like that don’t you?” Flesh twitching as the rough beard dragged across the evidence of his lingering, tongue dragging comfort to claimed patches, “You want me to do this right?” Bucky’s blissful smile and nod, hands catching Steve’s hair directing his willing mouth, releasing the confusion brought on by the Voice. Knees losing tension when Steve’s tongue teased sensitive skin, licking the length of his cock, the pulled moan answer enough. Bucky let his head drop, eyes open, pupils wide watching as Steve took him in, slow and careful, hands sliding to his ass, keeping him close.

Staggered deep breaths, hand tugging on his hair directing his attention, Steve knelt at his feet, head tilting up, mouth sliding along his length, his hand slow stroking up Bucky’s thigh, thumb circling the base of his cock, a pause in movement, eyes watching one another.

Steve pulled a teasing distance away, “Look at you,” hand stroking the dip and rise of his muscled body, wandering across the measured ripple of his abdomen, a teasing pull of his nipples, finding his way to fill his palm with his ass, pulling him close. “I don’t tell you how you look, how you feel under my hands, under my weight. How much I want you.” “He looks so much like the First Handler, Soldat. Don’t you think?” Bucky’s smile an echo from the distant past, “No. Steve. Look at you.” A slow stroke of fingers through hair, thumb dragging along his cheek, cupping his face, etching his features deep into his memory, storing him away tight-locked, to be protected forever. Eyes caught watching one another, heartbeats passing, no words, no movements only gaze connected. The moment broken by Bucky’s pull at Steve’s T-shirt, desperate tugging to free him of his clothes, pulling him to his feet, tearing at his jeans, frustrated whine when his shoes wouldn’t come off fast enough. He hard tugged at the pants, tossing them aside, stepping close, a skipped beat before they were full body skin to skin, consuming mouths pressed tight. Hands finding secret points to touch shared memories of intimate moments discovering one another. Steve’s hand caught Bucky’s neck, raking up to tangle in his hair, cautious pressure to pull him towards the bed, mouths still connecting. Bucky moved to crawl on hands and knees, giving himself to Steve. “No, no, this way, come here.” Steve sat cross-legged, back to the headboard, hands never leaving Bucky’s body, tugging to straddle his lap, hands wrapped around his thighs, pulling him into position, “This, I want this, I want to see you.” Bucky offered a faint smirk as his hand cupped Steve’s face, “Always watching me, Rogers. You’re always watching me,” forehead close to forehead, perplexed by the unconditional acceptance evident in his eyes. He raised up on his knees, breaths panting, teeth digging into his cheek, eyes forced closed as Steve’s fingers found their way inside of him, exploring intimate tissue, preparing his body to take him in. Steve offered an absent nod and half smile, distracted by Bucky’s slow matching push against his fingers, “Damn right. Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you, and I am the man to watch you and, I am the one to do this to you.” Steve brought home his point with an insistent drive and pressured raking into his body, tongue licking at the beads of sweat forming on his chest, sliding slow circles of wetness around each nipple. An aching need filling his gut, overtaking his thoughts, the taste of his skin needed, the way his body moved to fit to his, accepting his fingers, hand braced to the back of his head bringing his nipples to meet his mouth, asking without words for his touch, to feel his lips pressed to his flesh. His eyes closed exploration interrupted by Bucky’s begging whisper, “Do it. I need you inside of me, please.” Two hands, metal and flesh embracing his cock, bringing their bodies together. A new wash of sweat shimmering across hips to chase down their thighs with the slow descent and careful filling, mouths pressed in a languid kiss, stillness as their bodies adjusted. Steve’s hands wrapped tight around Bucky’s hips, controlling his motion, lifting and descending, fast then slow, bodies moving in counterpoint, eyes following Bucky’s expressions, every whispered word, furrow in his brow, turn of his head to watch nothing in the distance and every tremor that rippled across his chest. Steve caught his face, pulling his gaze to himself, hips moving a rhythmic reminder of their connection, he drew a thumb hard across Bucky’s lips bruised from his own mouth, “Watch me, only me. Only my words. It’s just the two of us.” Confusion flashed across Bucky’s face, eyes struggling to stay on Steve, body jerking with every push of hips, pulling groaned breaths with each pass across the spot made tender by Steve’s hand and cock. Steve braced on Bucky’s thighs, driving his legs wider, his hard push up forceful angled and insistent, taking the tender tissue, responsive to his every twitch and drive, a rasped question that already had an answer, “Can you feel me? Feel what I’m doing to you? Taking you?” Bucky’s whimpered sound his only answer as his hand reached to satisfy his own cock, denied by Steve’s insistent “I’ll take care of you.” He braced his hands on the head of the bed, raised up on his knees, dropping down, repeated filling, bodies moving coordinated well known to one another. Head falling back, letting Steve take him, eyes closed his mind following the ache of hands that pulled at his flesh, fingers deep pressed to thighs, twitching muscles, burning pain shooting across the small of his back with every deep excursion. “God, I’m close,” Steve’s low groan brought his hand to Bucky’s mouth, fingers reaching deep to pull wetness, then falling to Bucky’s cock, swollen and expectant, hard strokes pulling, a thumb raking across the tender head. Bucky's hair hanging wet around their faces leaving drops of sweat to run cold down Steve's chest.

Mouths brought together in a forceful kiss, tongues pushing deep, pulled away when they came, heads staying close, panting breaths hot on the other’s skin, sweat stung eyes, aching loud moans falling into laughter and Bucky’s “Fuck me,” muffled by Steve’s arms, his face buried against his chest. Steve's added, “I think I just did,” brought laughter but his whispered, “I love you,” fell unheard against his hair.

#stucky #stucky lemon #lemon #stucky fanfiction

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

@pambot3000​ is so freaking talented with The Bendy Boys! 💜❤️️💜

#stucky #stucky fanart #The Bendy Boys #Stucky on AO3 #The Bendy Boys on AO3

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

Source estelior

💕

I have an artblock, so the only thing I can draw in 5 days - this lazy making out

#stucky #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

The Weight of Perfectionism

It steals my soul. Numbs my mind, drives me to find anything to soothe the ache of trying to accomplish something but that effort is frozen in this wasteland of inaction. There’s a voice saying “You’re not good enough. You’ll fail, it’s too hard, too much. You’ll only disappoint.” 

So nothing is done. It sits; the project, the art, the story, riding a bike or a horse or learning to dance. It all comes to a grinding halt in the guise of not enough time or being overwhelmed or it’s frivolous and not deserved. It’s not for me to succeed or shine or even embrace the simplest of pleasures, just enjoy the “Thing” easy and secret and all for myself. 

And so the dream fades away, not a door closed emphatic but an entity decaying slowly over time, piece by piece, word by word, disappearing until forgotten, barely noticed on the periphery of my consciousness. A heart’s love lost not wrenched dramatic but slipping gone over time, allowed to disappear, to be forgotten.

This isn’t perfect, far from it, this is self-destruction. An assault insidious and personal, an attack from within, echoed message across years, heard real, drummed in over and again, “You’re not enough.” I take that message with me maybe to my grave. I hate that part, knowing it will never change, not ever getting free, encumbered by a dead voice taking stock of who I am, not knowing me, my thoughts, my dreams or hopes. Assuming she knew by default, never asking or listening or opening eyes wide to see who I was or am or might someday become. Blind to her own flesh and blood.

I let my soul be stolen by someone else’s emptiness. 

I will never please that voice, not the one in my mind or the one ghosted from the past. I want to own that lesson someday soon before time leaves me stumbling in the dark. I want dreams set free, awkward and clumsy and covered in mud and tears heated by the sun. I wish forgiveness for myself to be incomplete and still accepted, try and fail, and try over, close and near and laugh at the mess made without regret or grief or shame. Perfectly imperfect and allowed to be right there in that place, no past, no judgments, least of all my own. 

#personal #writer #writbr #perfectionism

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

*always adding more

General Writing Tips, Guides and Advice

How to be Confident in Your Writing

Start Your Novel Already!

Why First Chapters Matter

How to Outline a Novel

Incorporating Flashbacks

Word Building 101

Common Mistakes in Writing

Tips on Getting Started

What Not to Do

7 Tips to Become a Better Writer from Stephen King

How to Use Reading to Become a Better Writer

Why Writers Must Read

How to Finish What You Start: A Five-Step Plan for Writers

31 Ways to Find Inspiration for Your Writing

10 Tips to Write Fanfiction

Writing a Blurb

10 Writing Tips

Perfecting Description

Point of View

Speed Up Your Writing

Recieving Bad News

Useful Writing Apps

Avoiding Clichés

Writing Lessons

Finding Inspiration

Plot and Conflict

What is Conflict?

Where’s Your Conflict?

Adding Conflict to Your Scenes

Guides for Using Inner Conflict That Makes Sense

Plotting Your Novel

Internal and External Conflict

The Top Ten Plotting Problems

The Elements of Plot Development

Plot Help

Writing a Plot Your Own Way

Plot Development

Develop a Plot

Tension and Conflict

Your Plot, Step by Step

Plot vs. Exposition

Plot and Conflict

Character Development

How to Describe the Body Shape of Female Characters

Character Apperance Help

Words to Describe Voice

Body Language Cheat Sheet

Character Development Exercises

101 Character Development Questions

Art of Character Development

Introducing Characters

Characters You Need to Reinvent

Making Characters Likeable

Heros and Villains

Describing Clothing

Understanding Body Language

100 Positive Traits

Mental Illness in Writing

Conflicts and Characters

Indifferent, Distant Characters

Bitchy Characters

Describing Voice

Being a Bitch

Heartless Bitch

Writing Nice Characters

Character Questionnaire

Mental Disorders

Writing Characters with Mental Illness

Writing Male Characters

Playing Male Characters

Breaking Sterotypes

Characters with Glasses

Rebellious Characters

Writing Female Characters

Writing Intriuging Male and Female Characters

Spelling, Punctuation and Grammar

Placement of Speech Tags

Grammar and Spelling

Grammar Slammer!

American vs. British Grammar

HyperGrammar

Grammar Girl

Punctuating Dialogue

How to Use the Semicolon

Introduction to the Basic Rules of Punctuation

Comma 101

All About Dialouge

11 Grammar Tips

Comma Usage

Correct Use of Apostrophe

Proofreading

Transition Words

40+ Tips to Improve your Grammar and Punctuation

Better Writing: Grammar & Spelling

Semicolons and Colons

Underlining and Italicizing

Dashes and Parentheses

Hyphens

Apostrophes

The Ellipsis

List of 1000+ Adjectives

All About Names

List of Names

100 Most Popular Names

Sci-Fi Names 

Sci-Fi Names Part 2

Name Berry

Behind the Name

Fantasy Name Generator

20,000+ Names From Around the World

Victorian Era Names

How to Choose a Name

Naming Your Characters

Give Your Character the Perfect Name

Name that Character!

10 Tips to Name Your Character

Genre Based

20 Tips to Writing Love Scenes

On Love And Sex

All That Sex!

Writing “Real” Men in Romance Fiction

Kissing

How to Write a Kissing Scene: Valentine Edition

How to Write a Kiss? And Should You Write Sex?

The Keys to Conflict

Writing Gender-Specific Dialouge

Things Smut Writers Should Know

How to Write a Sex Scene

3 Secrets to Writing Sex

Writing Love Scenes

Why You Should Write Love Stories

How to Write Horror

Horror Sub-Genres

Horror Plot Cliches

25 Things You Should Know About Writing Horror

Plot and Character in Horror Fiction

7 Laws of Comedy

5 Secrets for Improving Comedy Writing

How to Break into Comedy

How to Be Funny

Mystery Writing Lessons

10 Rules for Mystery

Mystery Writing

Other

Word Count

Story Starters & idea Generators

Fifty Quick Writing Prompts

Write or Die

Writing Prompt Generator

Dictionary.com

Thesaurus.com

Oxford Dictionary

Spanish Dictionary

Medical Dictionary

Your Dictionary

A Bunch of Character Questionnaires

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

idk who needs to hear this but just because you read someone else’s work and you think it’s better than your own doesn’t make your writing any less good. there will always be someone who has “better” writing than you.

also. what people post is the highlights of their writing. the good stuff. stop comparing someone’s absolute best to your absolute worst

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

reminder to be kind to others and myself. 

You don’t have to write while you’re in quarantine.

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts about how you should get off of tumblr and take advantage of your newfound free time to work on your WIP. 

It’s undeniable that it would be a great opportunity to do a lot of writing, but also… If you don’t want to write, that’s okay.

If you’re trying to write, and you can’t, that’s okay too.

Nothing is wrong with you, you’re not a failure, and you’re not a bad writer for not writing. It’s a stressful time right now, and there are a lot of valid reasons to take a break.

You can write if you want to. You also don’t have to write if you don’t want to.

Be kind to yourself, take care of yourself. 

Don’t let the internet pressure you into doing something you don’t want.

Your writing will be waiting patiently for you until you’re ready.

#writer advice #writing during quarantine #writing

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

So, I have a character who is emotional, though he doesn't understand or acknowledge it and I want to show that yes he has emotions, he can feel without him understanding or acknowledging his feelings .I understand that i can show emotions by physical reactions but the character totally ignores even the physical reactions to his emotions. So is there a possible way in which I can show the readers that he is emotional, without any physical signs or is it simply not possible and if it is, how?

Ooo I like this. I have a weak point for characters who dismiss their emotions caus, heh, same. 

Characters who Feel but Don’t Acknowledge It

First port of call, find a balance between your voice, as the author, and your character’s. A really fundamental way of writing a character like this is making sure that you nail the right narrative viewpoint - none is particularly better than the other, but each has its own advantages. My personal preferences for a characterisation like this one would be:

Limited First Person - character tells the reader the story through their own eye. The reader only knows what the character does. If you were to write in LFP, you could have sentences such as “My throat began to close up and my hands curled themselves into fists. It was hard to breathe, but I couldn’t take the time to make sense of what was happening to me. Nor did I want to.”

Reflective First Person - The narrator is looking back on their life or a certain story of their life. The readers know everything that the character knows, but the information is given to them in smaller pieces. For your character, an example might be: “My throat closed up and my hands balled into painful fists. Even now it is hard for me to tell you what I felt in that moment, but I suppose that an outsider would have seen anger. Pure, burning anger. All I knew then was that I had to act, or I would explode.”

Deep Third Person - You, the author, tell the story, but it is filtered through the viewpoints and perspectives of the character in question. Eg, “His fingers curled into fists, and he only spared them a brief, uncomprehending glance before storming forwards.”

But how to actually convey to your readers that a character doesn’t or struggles to acknowledge and/or understand their emotions? I’ll break down the examples above to show you some of the techniques that you can then use. (Again, behold my Paint skills and tremble I really need to stop making these help me)

Above all, trust your readers and let yourself experiment. You’re not going to crack writing a character like this right away, because it’s counter-intuitive to most writing advice and personal experience.

I hope this helps you, and good luck! Xx

#writing advice

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

Crisp Shirt, Silver Foil Memories

In the settling quiet of night, sleep overtaking most of the world surrounding, murmured whispers intermittent, soft lilt of a Russian lullaby distant soothing a child into dreams. Natasha letting shoulders slack, head cradled by a cold glass pillow, legs drawn up on the bench, utilitarian blanket as a cover hailing childhood sparseness. Embracing that time when the past crawls back to the surface, nights endless without sleep or dreams, the needs of a life lived in the light shoved aside by history’s ghosts.

Her gaze slipping over the Widow curled opposite, awkward tucked to the corner of the bench. A mirrored image of herself, feet drawn up a blanket wrapped snug around her form, sprinkled random with the crinkled silver foils of the chocolate they had shared. Natasha dropping feet to floor not wanting to see herself in the old woman, not even in the curl of a restless sleep.

Sokolov’s chest rise and fall gentle, appearing asleep, muscles twitched erratic, a ruse easily taught and used for the uneducated eye. Natasha too seasoned, too wary to fall for the game. Not trusting her counterpart, not words or oaths or even her seeming drunken state.

Taunts and accusations replaying, their maneuvers dredging memories long-buried, heart twinging mixed feelings; schoolgirl adoration tainted dark with guilt and shame. Trust given youthful innocent in the beginning, a young girl taking a pasty-white hand offered as if nurturing, crisp white of shirt’s cuff, faint aroma distinct bay rum, a crown permanent inked to the finger toying playful with her palm.

No reason not to believe parents reassurance smiles given all around; no tears shed at their goodbyes. Love and faith insidious killed by the Red Room’s embrace; hope replaced with icy veins when the truth of her betrayal rose fleeting to the surface of awareness.

Natasha allowing dark-edged images to float rancorous through her mind, a life held rigid in the routine of her training freed brief and incongruous when the crisp white shirt came to visit. Moments stolen in a suite, her Madame hovering near, the man’s statements rumbled coarse affection, “Are you well? Are you a star? Have you killed a man today?”

Her answer obedient without elaboration, “Da. Da. Nyet.”

Natasha’s final day, gun trained steady in too young of a hand, aim precise. Cold-framed seeds of doubt buried deep beneath her emptied expression staring at a hooded figure bound seated across the room.

Standing apart, crisp shirt offsetting the dark inked tattoo, the man deferentially treated, an ominous observer to the testing of her mettle. Cold eyes glinting pride, lips quirk of a near smile, when her target fell dead-weight to the floor, red pooled evidence of her completion.

A single silver foil-wrapped candy palmed discreet in a hand as her benefactor passed by, the crown tattoo finger tickling her palm. His gaze never veering in her direction, parting words spoken impassive to the air beyond her shoulder, “Your mother is proud of you today.”

Natalia Alianovna Romanova never saw Ivan Petrovitch again.

(Photo by Allef Vinicius on Unsplash used with permission)

#natasha romanoff #short story #fanfiction #writer #fanfiction writer #natasha #natasha alianovna romanova #flash fiction

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

This is from a comic about being creative. Read the rest on my website:  8 things I’ve learned about creativity.

#writers #writing encouragement

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

Writing With Color – General Topics

A collection of WWC posts that deal with more general writing advice, character creation and diversity topics applicable to most marginalized people, particularly People of Color and some ethnic and religious groups.

Writing Characters of Color: The Generals

On “Overthinking” Writing Characters of Color

On White Authors “Getting it Right”

On White Writers Writing Characters of Color (I, II, III)

Researching PoC + Supporting Writers of Color 

So You Want To Save The World From Bad Representation

Writing POC with Little Experience

Writing Authentically From Your Own Experiences

Useful Non-WWC Posts

Diversity Exists in the Real World by shiraglassman

How to Write WOC and MOC if you are White by kaylapocalypse

“I feel pressured to be inclusive in my writing!” by nimblesnotebook 

On White Fear & Creating Diverse Transformative Works by saathi1013

Diversity/Representation Topics

Diversity vs. Exploiting Cultures

Diversifying a Predominately-White Cast

On “Diversity Quotas”

On Excluding Diversity Out of Fear

Different Heritage POV’s in a Story

Including Realistic Diversity Naturally

“Normalizing” Protagonists of Color

Villains of Color

White-Dominant Rural Areas and Diversity

White Privilege, Publishing, and Diversity Quotas

Writing: Making Efforts in Diversity 

Character Creation

Character Creation: Culture or Character first?

Character Design and Assigning Race and Ethnicity

Characters’ Races Added Last During Development 

Determining your Characters’ Race and/or Ethnicity

More on Assigning Race after Writing

Characters of Color & Culture

A Discussion on Culture and Erasure

“Culturing” Culturally-disengaged PoC

Characters of Color with “No Culture”

Mixed Race + Disconnect from Culture

Stereotyped vs Nuanced & Audience Perception

Tradition and Culture vs. Stereotype

Western Neutral Characters

‘Whitewashed’ Character of Color?

Fantasy & Coding

Defining Coding (& Islam-coded Fantasy)

Denoting Race in Fantasy Setting

Fantasy Races Based off of People of Color

Naming People and Places, Avoiding Explicit Coding

Racially-coding Aliens

Real Religions in a Fantasy World

Religion in Fiction & Fantasy

South Asian-Coded Fantasy Caste System

Whitewashing in a Fantasy Setting

Including Racism in Fantasy

World-building: A Fantasy World without Racism

Writing Sensitive and Controversial Topics

Do I Need Permission to Write About Marginalized People?

Writing a Genocide to which you have No Personal Connection

On Outsider-Written Stories About Issues Of Another Group

Outsider-Written Stories, Issues of other Groups, Speculative Situation

Writing about Prejudice between People of Color

Reclaiming negative, dehumanizing stereotypes outside the group

Representing yourself when “yourself” isn’t white

Racism and Micro-Aggressions 

Everyday Racism, Friendship and White Allies

Incorporating Micro-Aggressions in Writing

Racist Characters + Including Racism in Stories Not “About” Racism

The Pitfalls of Racist Character Redemption Arcs

PoC Educating White Privileged Friend (Context: Black Characters)

–WWC

[thevoiceinbuckyshead]

Do I Hear Your Heartbeat?

Written for an Instagram prompt: An Inaudible Thump

My ear pressed expectant, anxious, desperate to your chest, listen for your life. Heart and breath receding from my grasp, I run my fingers to your skin memorize your warmth. The cold seeping in, I think I hear your heart, a sigh hidden in the silence ringing in my hearing. “I miss you.” My whisper hangs unheard in the air around my body lying stretched across your death.

Photo by Martin Adams on Unsplash used with permission

#poetry #grief #short story #writers #writers of tumblr #wrtblr #writer prompt #Notfandom #not marvel #my writing #not a happy poem but real