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writingfics-passingtime · 9 months

Note

Omg the mixtape requests!! I love the idea!!

The song: like a tattoo by Sade with Bucky Barnes! Specially from the min 1:35 to 2:03 I think you’ll love it x fem reader

The Scar of Age

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Like a Tattoo

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (romantic, no pronouns used)

Word Count: ~2350

CW: Talking about death and killing, reader has killed people on a mission, kissing, allusions to rough kissing/six (consensual), overwhelmed response that could be interpreted as a panic attack (but isn’t intended to be one)

Note: Thank you for your beautiful request, anon !! (I wrote this for a female reader and then realised no pronouns/gendered descriptions were used, so have tagged it accordingly) When I heard this song the image I instantly had was riding a motorbike through a snowy mountain road, and what was supposed to be a steamy little safe-house number turned into something a little more heavy. I was so inspired by the lyrics of this song, thank you for sharing 💜

The war is still raging inside of me // I still feel the chill // as I reveal my shame to you // I wear it like a tattoo

It’s been growing for months. This budding, rising magnetism alive between you and him. Still unspoken, still untouched, now unfettered.

It started not long after he returned from Wakanda. The attraction was instant, the pull soon became hard to resist but, by the gods, you resisted it with all you had. You kept a respectful and professional distance where possible. He’d been through a lot.

But the breathing room has seen it grow beyond control and now, for the first time in forever, you and Bucky are going to be truly alone.

The frostbitten air bites at your leathers as you snake up the icy switchbacks, giving and taking on the throttle, gently guiding the electric motorcycle through the snowy mountain roads towards somewhere out of the way. To the solitude you had been gifted.

He's sitting behind you, and though he’s an anchor of his own his hands are on your waist. It distracts you more than once and you're sure he knows it because he firms his touch when the bike slows from your wayward thoughts. If he dared to broach the subject, you'd blame the ice on the road. Or would you?

The night had been long and rough. Snowcapped mountains begin to glow as you ride to one of Stark's more isolated houses. The beauty of the new day only makes you feel worse after the events of the night; three enemy guards, dead by your hand.

They will never see another sunrise.

Sure, you had an important job to do to keep the public safe, and sure, they were trying to kill you, but damned you'd be if every life ended by your hand didn't eat away at you.

The dirt feeling that gnaws at your gut is your only place of solace because it still hurts. If it ever stopped hurting, you'd walk away for good. Steve promised to help you disappear if that day comes.

Steve. A wry smile threatens to burst under the helmet as you finally see the house in the distance. Steve is the one who rostered this assignment, knowing where it was, knowing the airspace would be tightly monitored the days after your mission, knowing whoever was assigned to it would need to be under the radar until extraction would be less risky. A few nights at least.

He had arranged all of this in front of a room full of highly-perceptive people. No jibing comments were thrown from the other seats, which was so unusual that awkwardness rushed into the void. The panic of perception started to sink in your bones but when you met Bucky’s eye, you stilled. You ceased to wish the ground would swallow you whole the moment his usually stony glare was soft, almost apologetic, as if he was afraid you’d think he’d done this to get you alone. You didn’t smile, hyperaware of the eyes all around, but the look you returned to him seemed to smooth his frayed edges.

Now, there are no prying eyes. Your quickening heartbeat becomes the score of your final stretch towards this unusual hollow of privacy. The house comes more into view. It’s at the end of a straight stretch of road. You tilt your wrist and roll the throttle. As the bike picks up speed, Bucky’s hands slide from your waist down to rest at your hips. It makes your toes curl inside your boots, and you have to hone your focus on the house you’re fast approaching.

The sharp and grey abode look harsh yet at home nestled into the snow-covered bedrock, and the unforgiving structure looks strange bathed in warm pink sunlight. It’s one of those boxy houses made of cool concrete and glass that looks as if it should always be shrouded in cloud cover, but the windows are alive with the rising sun and it pulls a sad smile to your lips.

You ease the bike to a stop when you reach the gate. Both yours and Bucky’s right feet meet the ground to hold the bike as you punch the code into the gate, which opens along with a hidden garage door beneath the house towards which you slip through the fenced doors and quickly guide the bike down a ramp.

The lights gradually flick on as you slow the bike to its final stop next to a few others. You dismount with haste and pull your helmet and gloves off, blowing hot air on your fingers as you rub your hands together. Bucky swings his leg off the bike and removes his own helmet. Strands of his chestnut hair come loose from the knot at the nape of his neck, striking something real and imperfect against his cold-flushed cheekbones. You steal only a quick glance at his rugged tired eyes before he nods his chin towards a staircase that goes up. “Go warm up. I’ll unload.” All you can do is nod, thankful that you can skip off to find a hot shower. The cold is turning painful and the house, though industrial and cavernous, is already pleasantly warm. It isn’t ridiculously large though, and it doesn’t take you long to find a bedroom.

Earlier on in your career, the preparedness of these houses used to haunt you. Somehow, they always had fresh clothes in your size ready and waiting in the wardrobes. Now, you’re desensitised to it all. It’s just another part of the job.

The hot spray is soon welcoming you to your place of rest, easing that chill that had set into your bones, reminding you that you are now safe. Alone. Your pulse drops to your stomach, you breathe through it, and hope you’re not emanating something less savoury than contentment at being here alone with Bucky.

You’re soon dressed and in an industrial-styled kitchen that overlooks a sprawling, picturesque landscape. The floor is warm beneath your socked feet, a feature of the house, and the fridge is stocked for you to begin preparing some food to tame snarling stomachs. Somewhere in your field of sound, the spray of another showed subsides. That pulse picks up again and you focus on cracking some eggs into a white ceramic bowl.

Bucky needs a lot of food, that much is obvious, with the super serum cranking his metabolism, and a lot of protein at that. You’d just finished off breaking the last of the dozen eggs into the bowl when your companion enters the kitchen without a word.

You look up at him, because it would be weird not to, and give a brief, tight smile before opening a drawer in search of a whisk. His brief and welcome hand meets the small of your back as he passes behind you, making his way to start cutting the vegetables you put on the bench. It sends a surge of abashment through your nerves. You curl your toes against the smooth, strangely warm floor.

“I don’t mind cooking.” Your fingers close around a whisk and you close the drawer with your hip.

His head turns in your peripherals so you meet his eye. His stare is soft, framed by the drag of a sleepless night, but not by a hopelessness they once held. He shrugs with one shoulder and almost smiles. “It’s nice to do something normal.” He turns back to the counter and picks up a mushroom, and your eyes roam over him.

The African sun had been kind to him, tinting his skin with pinprick freckles and a tan that had almost faded. His hair holds the summer too. He keeps it pulled back but the shorter pieces frame his face and are laced with tiny threads of gold and the beginnings of grey. You can see the hues even through the post-shower dampness clinging to his waves. The colours are beautiful, you think, because they're signs of life lived after the stolen decades. Of all the scars, age is the only one he deserves. Maybe if you were a different person in a different life, you would've said it out loud. Romanticism doesn't seem to befit you. It feels too soft and too good.

He speaks again as soon as you turn back to the bowl.

“I should’ve got to them first,” he sniffs back the cold. “The guards.”

Your twirl your wrist to beat the eggs and keep your tone level. “I handled it just fine.”

“Yeah, well… I can see-” He lets a breath out and collects his thoughts. “I know y’don’t like it.”

You release your own deep breath through your nose, whisk stilling in your hand. “No one likes it, but it’s part of the job.”

He puts the knife down and turns his head towards you again. “I’m just saying… I can-”

“I don’t want you to do that for me, Bucky.”

Your voice is measured and the whisk doesn’t stop. You smooth a hand against side of the bowl and stare into the milky yellow mixture as it spins and spins and spins. He spent too long taking lives because other people couldn’t do their own dirty work.

“It’s not fair to you.” You sighed once, quickly, almost in a huff, before slowing the whisk again and correcting yourself. “It’s not fair to either of us, but that’s the way the world works.” Indecisive, you put down the utensil and turn your head towards him, shifting your eyes to his chopping board. His body heat skims your left arm. “I don’t want you to protect me from what has to be done. I don’t want you to see me as-”

The words die at your lips and Bucky’s head tilts. “As what?” He prompts in a gentle nudge. His hands are against the counter.

You close your eyes and smile involuntarily, so you force out a dry laugh to cover it up with a shake of your head. Every bit of air in your lungs is screaming out for him to come closer, to rid you of this mounting feeling inside, to break through this barrier of professionalism and fear that you wouldn’t be good for him.

“As one of them,” you can’t meet his eye. “As someone you have to kill for.”

You refused to be the reason he took a life. You weren’t going to do that to him.

You’d be no better than HYDRA.

He responds with something pained, something just above a whisper. “You know how I see you.” It’s not a question, nor an answer. It’s pure honesty simmering just below the horizon.

A strand of his hair is the first thing you feel as he draws closer. It ghosts along your cheekbone and catches the breath in your throat, only for a second though. Your eyes flit upwards, your chin lifts and turns ever so slightly towards him. You soften, to say yes. To say please. And it's all he needs.

His kiss is the opposite of what you expected. It's warm, and gentle.

It's a passion like you've never known.

There's this expectation, with passion, that the intensity should feel like a bolt of lighting or a supernova. Tension builds and builds and it's supposed to break. And sure, it's breaks, but so does the day over the darkness.

If the sun can pour dawn over the horizon, giving a gentle wake to the earth with rosy hues and still remain as powerful, who's to say something as good and inevitable surging through you at the speed of light has to explode. Why couldn't it fill you to the brim and stay full, keeping you bathed in a vivid sunrise.

Everything about him has been severe and guarded, until now. For the first time, while feeling the tenderness of his kiss, you consider that he hadn't built his walls so high because he wanted to keep others out but to keep himself in. You take note that his open palms are still on the counter. His hands were used for so much destruction, perhaps he didn't feel right putting them on you.

Your younger self would have resented his restraint. You would've goaded, chastised, pushed him away until he could meet you with a power you deserved. Why shouldn't he? You can take it; the fingertips sinking into you skin, storm-coloured bruises levied from fun, the gentle ache that pulses through your back from being pinned rough against a wall.

But you’re tired. Exhausted, even. Drained from tensing and flexing and always having to show every ounce of strength. Always a solider, silent and stoic. Always with a job to do. But maybe here, you were just a person.

He pulls away after several moments, still close enough for his breath to graze your lips. You don't look for his eyes because you know he won't meet you there. His tongue peaks out for half a second and he releases a breath before he lifts his head. The gentle warmth of his kiss lingers and emanates.

There's something inside you clawing to get out. A confession, maybe, or a sigh of relief. Or a declaration that you don’t deserve anything as good as what just happened. Whatever it is, it cuts through the air in a haggard little breath.

Sleep deprivation hangs like a thick chain around your neck, your hands are still numb with the lives you ended, you’re filled with an overwhelming warmth that you don’t feel worthy of. It all hits. Every fibre of you aches with the impact.

Bucky turns to steady you before you slouch against the counter.

Maybe he didn’t have to kill for you to make you feel okay. Because more than you could ever know, he gets it. He’s felt it, lived and bled it. All the shame and fleeting doses of heroism that make it all seem justified.

He holds you close. You bury your face in his shoulder with breath heavy and conflicted. His fingers curl against the base of your neck and his arm tightens around your waist, his sure breath is hot above your ear, his heartbeat loud in his chest.

His body say it so his words don’t have to:

I know.

#jj’s mixtape #bucky fanfic #bucky fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x gender neutral reader

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writingfics-passingtime · 9 months

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I know u don't know me but I just stayed up all night and read your Story of the recorder and it was amazing I have never got the chills with a story and it was only 3 chapters your characters and they way u used art and painting like the one with ophelia and that it was found above the bed gave me chills and my eyes started to water. Your writing is amazing never give it up. The best story I have ever read. It felt like a movie and to be honest loved the ending but also sad it ended. I loved through the protagonist and now I feel empty but happy. It's weird.

Thank u for giving us this story.

And thank u for reading this message and be sure that there is no need for reply if u see this

I just wanted to show how this affected me.

This is a beautiful message and I’m at a loss for the words to express how much it meant to me. Please know that this was a beam of sunlight during a time shrouded by stress, busyness, big/hard life things, and so much self-doubt.

I hadn’t logged into tumblr for weeks but I saw this as soon as I did and it completely made my day. Stupid grinning, from ear to ear.

Thank you for your kind words 💜 I’m so glad you loved the story!

#answered #Thanks elenaskola!#This ask was like a forehead kiss from an angel

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writingfics-passingtime · 9 months

Note

Hello my love!! For the mistake prompts:

Miracle Baby by Nothing but Thieves + Dealers choice!

This is such a fun idea😮‍💨 Happy drabbles!

Wasting My Time

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Miracle Baby

Pairing: Matt Murdock x reader (romantic, no pronouns used but disclaimer that this one feels more female-implied than others)

Word Count: ~1450

CW: Swearing, mentions of drugs, explicitly implied sex

Note: First, I love the subtle roast calling this a “mistake prompt” thank you Ella 😂 this song is so cool and gave me hazy dive bar feelings, and going-home-with-hot-stranger feelings. Hope you enjoy!

Matt hated things like this.

His fingers idly tapped against the cool condensation blanketing the beer bottle on the bar in front of him, halfway torn between thinking about his trial in the morning and debating whether to go out tonight. Either way, he was itching to leave.

It was loud. The obnoxious kind of loud, not the kind where you could feel the appreciation for life and joy and merriment. Being dragged along to these stupid law school alumni mixers was the worst way to spend a Sunday evening. Yeah, you hated things like this.

But you’d just spotted the perfect distraction.

At your 10 o’clock. Tall, dark, handsome, sitting alone at the bar. Better yet, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, so, common ground.

You made your way through the masses, through the thick and clogged atmosphere saturated with terrible work-related jokes and the desperation to impress. Everyone else was in a sea of familiar faces but not you. You didn’t go to Columbia for law school. You only came because your roommate was too shy to come alone and promised she wouldn’t abandon you the exact way she did about five minutes ago.

Besides, you’d only lived in New York for three months and you’d spent so much energy settling into your dream law job that you hadn’t given much attention to making friends. Or to sex. But that was about to change.

Hence, the lone wolf at the bar.

After ordering some kind of sour cherry and lime cocktail with an over-the-top name, you settled on the stool next to the man. He didn’t acknowledge you and a quick glance at his walking stick gave you an indication as to why not.

“Let me guess,” you turned your head towards him and he looked your way. “Criminal law?”

He nodded, smiling with half his mouth. “What gave it away: the cheap suit, or the air of constant dread?”

You laughed, and the sound of it made Matt’s smile crack open. “You didn’t hand me a business card the second I sat down. And the lack of white powder around your nose.”

He laughed back, and you were successfully distracted.

His name was Matt, you soon learned. Past knowing he practised criminal law and that he graduated from Columbia you learned nothing more about his law career. You told him you were new in town, he told you he’d lived here his whole life, you told him you were grateful to meet someone so normal who’s been around forever and still thinks this city is worth staying in. He asked you why you chose New York and you said it just seemed like the right place to be. You couldn’t explain in. You blushed when you admitted it and your heartbeat picked up, so maybe you were doubting that decision.

He asked you about your hometown and turned his body completely towards you. You told him about it, about escaping on scholarship to Princeton, and your knees were soon gently resting against his. Somewhere throughout the course of the conversation, he rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to just below his elbows. He took his time, made a subtle show of it.

You sipped slowly, Matt noticed; you weren’t here to get drunk. The citrus of your drink complimented the lavender in your shampoo, body wash, whatever the fuck it was that was the calmest thing in this place. It was clear you two were getting on well. So much so, no one bothered you.

Finally, he asked: “Where do you practise?”

“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head and pulled a knotted cherry stem from your teeth. “You and I are having a nice conversation here, Matt,” you chuckled. “All I do, all fucking day, is talk about law, think about law, breathe the fucking law-”

He grinned and held up an apologetic hand. “Message received.”

“Let’s talk about anything else.”

“Okay,” he held up that same hand towards you, putting the ball squarely in your court. “Shoot.”

You narrowed your eyes and twirled the stem between your fingertips. After a moment of contemplation, knowing very well where this may lead, you decided that this tall, dark and handsome distraction was worth the risky line.

“Do you think you could beat a grizzly bear in a fight?”

His eyebrows shot up but he didn’t stutter. “Excuse me?”

“No weapons. Pure brawn. One-on-one. Who wins, you or the bear?”

“The bear,” he waved his hand decisively. “No question.”

“Thank god,” you breathed in relief, nursing a smirk behind the stem in your fingers. His puzzled look was his question, so you answered. “Six percent of American men think they could beat a grizzly bear in a fight. Which means, there are about…” you looked around in a estimate head count, “four men in this bar who vastly overestimate their abilities.”

Matt bumped his eyebrows. Another question.

“I’m just making sure you’re not one of the four,” you said after another sip. Your glass was almost empty.

“Oh?” Matt cocked his head and found himself drawn in closer. “And why is that?”

You placed your now-empty glass down, letting it hit with a finality against the wooden bar. “Forgive me if I read you wrong, just seemed like you were searching for a reason to get the hell outta here too.”

Matt let your comment linger, and lifted the bottle to his lips to take another swig. He drained the last little bit and placed it on the counter next to yours. Your heart was beating pretty fast and you tried to calm your cherry-stained breathing, tried to look cool and collected. You wanted him, and you were the perfect distraction.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

Your breath in was shaky. Risky. No one else would’ve heard it.

“I’m just making sure I’m not wasting my time,” you said. “It’s not usually that fun, going home with a man who thinks they’re more capable than they actually are.”

He laughed once through his nose and pulled his beaten leather wallet from his coat pocket, placing thirty on the table to cover his beer, your cocktail and a tip for the bartender. “Trust me, sweetheart,” he stood and held his open palm out to you. You took his hand and left your stool with your coat and bag over your other arm. He leaned down, leaned in, so you could hear his husky promise over the sound of the bar. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Sufficed to say, you had never met a more capable man.

His place was nice, his sheets were clean, he was strong and generous and attentive and that was a big problem. Because this was supposed to just be a distraction. A one-night thing. But it was hard to leave his bed at two thirty in the morning, it felt like tearing yourself away. And that was a problem.

Stay, he’d said. He had fresh towels, a toothbrush, he’d call you a cab in the morning after he’d made you coffee. I can’t, you said. On any other night you would have, but tomorrow was a big day. He understood, didn’t press the matter, and he called you a cab after wishing you a twenty-minute goodbye.

It was only at quarter to nine that same morning, when you were walking up the front steps with a takeaway coffee in hand, that you realised you didn’t have any way to contact him other than through your roommate, who might have his information. You didn’t even know Matt’s last name.

Matt thought about you as Foggy prepped the client in hushed whispers from the defence table. As he straightened files and pens and his personal voice recorder, he wondered when he’d run into you again. You’d been a good distraction. Too good. It was like you were still next to him, like he could still smell the cherry and lime, the lavender and honey and-… wait.

You settled next to your boss and put thoughts of last night out of your head, ready and focused to take on the day. It was a big one. For the first time since moving to New York, you were the lead on a case.

Matt’s mind raced as he listened to every whisper in the courtroom, and as he listened to them hush as the judge kicked off proceedings from the bench.

“Are we ready to begin?” Judge Wallace asked in a deadpan, looking straight to the defence’s table. Foggy stood.

“Defence is ready, Your Honour.”

From fifteen feet away, Matt heard the prosecutor stand. He closed his eyes behind his glasses and held in a sigh when he heard your voice say:

“Thank you, Your Honour. The State is ready to proceed.”

Oh… fuck.

#spicy matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock Drabble #matt Murdock x you #daredevil x you #daredevil x reader #i love enemies to lovers but is this the opposite ???#Yes I’ve been gone for three plus months #But im just in the mood to write today #and I’m on a Matt Murdock high right now #Marvel x reader #JJ’s mixtape

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writingfics-passingtime · 1 year

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Would you write for Hawkeye? If so my song is ‘Que Sera Sera’. If not, please could you do it with Loki instead? :D x

Of My Own

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Que Sera Sera

Pairing: Clint Barton x reader (platonic, no pronouns used)

Word Count: 770

CW: Minor swearing, hospitals

Note: Thank you for your request! I thought this little story fit quite nicely with the feel and lyrics of the song. I hope you love it too 💜

“It’s gonna be okay, Clint,” you murmured with firm eyes fixed on the console and knuckles turning pale and sore around the controls.

One of Clint’s hands shielded his eyes, the other clutched his stomach. “This is controlled airspace, you-”

“You think I give a rat’s ass about controlled airspace right now?” You tensed further, pushing the chopper close to its limits. The cockpit rumbled with the speed. Air resistance felt different when it was holding you back from the hospital. It felt like an enemy.

Curse the atmosphere, you had places to be.

Clint made a concerning noise from the jump seat and you felt the weight of the moment. “We’re gonna make it,” you promised in a whisper. He clutched his stomach tighter. “Hold it in, Barton.”

You could sense his eyes were closed behind his hand. This was a new kind of anxiety - one you hadn’t seen from him in all the years he was your partner.

“Just get me there in one piece,” was what he managed to mutter out before you jammed a finger onto the comms transmitter.

“HAWK32, hotel-alpha-whiskey-kilo-three-two, requesting permission to land on MercyOne helipad. Two minutes out. Repeat, hotel-alpha-whiskey-kilo-three-two, requesting permission to land. Over.”

The silence that followed was unsettling but you surged ahead, knowing you weren’t really asking permission. You’d land this chopper on that hospital roof come hell or high water.

“MercyOne air traffic control to HAWK32. Permission granted. Can you advise condition of the patient? Over.”

You’d way overestimated the amount of time it would take to land since you’d never pushed the bird this hard. “Thank you, control. HAWK32 approaching to land. Patient is not with us. HAWK32 out.”

Your fingers found the volume and turned it all the way down before they could question you. Clint forced a wry smile from the corner of your eye. He was white as a sheet. “You’re gonna be okay, Clint,” you called over the whizz of the air shifting and swiping all around the cabin. “You’re gonna be great, in fact.”

The helicopter touched down with less finesse than usual, but you got the job done. Clint was frozen in place, perhaps a bit shocked. You didn’t turn the engine off, reaching over to start unclipping his seatbelt but he seemed to realise this was really happening. He freed himself, giving you one final and severe look before bolting out of the chopper and towards the hospital wards.

Your anticipating smile lingered after him. Only after he disappeared into the building did you take off again, on a mission to bring the helicopter back to a S.H.I.E.L.D-sanctioned hangar.

It was a couple of hours before you made your way back to the hospital, but that was okay; Clint was going to be great. You didn’t doubt that for a second. He was always great.

Still, that didn’t do much to ease the incessant bouncing off your leg in the waiting room as you tried and failed to focus on anything else.

After another hour or two, and a few cardboard cups of terrible hospital coffee, an older nurse entered the waiting room to call your name. You stood at once, almost spilling the granulated coffee remnants, and looked to her with something of a question in your glance. Her smile-framed brown eyes were warm and relieved behind her mask, and she said you were welcome to come in and visit.

The walk to the room was the longest you’d had in your life, but you’d climb Everest to live that moment all over again: that moment you entered the room to see the most perfect picture for the first time.

Clint looked over at you, beaming. Laura, from the hospital bed, looked over with the fondness of an old friend and welcomed you in. The image of the two of them was familiar enough, but there was something new to add to that portrait.

“Hey,” Clint grinned at you, though, mostly at the tiny bundle in his arms.

He turned to give you a better view of the little piece of heaven wrapped up in cotton. Something in you swelled at the sight of the tiny nose and the tiny rise and fall of steady breathing from beneath the white fabric.

You breathed out a “wow,” before taking a step forward, eyes beginning to blur with the joy of the moment.

Clint locked looks with you only for a second to say, “This is Lila,” before turning back to his daughter, cocooned in a love so tangible it reminded you of the way the sky wrapped you two up safely and delivered him here for this moment.

He already acted like the most natural parent in the world. You grinned.

He was going to be great.

#clint barton #clint x reader #Clint Barton imagine #clint Barton drabble #Marvel reader insert drabble #Marvel reader insert #Marvel reader insert platonic #clint barton x you #clint Barton x reader #hawkeye x reader #no y/n #platonic reader insert #gender neutral insert #gender neutral imagine #gender neutral reader

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writingfics-passingtime · 1 year

Text

writing should be fun.

make oc playlists. spend hours on moodboards that have no purpose. write self-indulgent fluff that’s never going to be published. scribble three lines of poetry in the back of your history notebook. draw fanart of your own characters. write stupid dialogue that your publishers might hate. start new wips that you might never finish but write those three chapters that make you happy because if you don’t write them, who else will?

writing shouldn’t always be about “will publishers like this” or “i have to reach this word count” or “how do i get the most likes”.

have fun with your writing.

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writingfics-passingtime · 1 year

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For the mixtape drabble:

I hear a symphony + bucky or loki (ur choice)

Plsss :))

Who We Really Are

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: I Hear a Symphony

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (platonic, no pronouns used)

Word Count: 1700

CW: Mentions of relatives passing away, mentions of HYDRA/neo n*zi groups, guns, very mild violence

Note: Thank you for this beautiful song, anon. This story idea came almost immediately and I couldn’t quite imagine it with Loki but I think Bucky fit so very sweetly. Hope you like it 💜

“Thank you,” the bespectacled theatre manager gushed his thanks towards Bucky and then, in turn, to you. “Thank you both,” he nodded and smiled as much as he could, revealing lines of worry etched so deep he must have been managing people for most of his career.

“It’s no problem,” you nodded back before you all got distracted by the commotion of some beat cops hauling the suspect through the lobby and out the front door.

Bucky’s breath turned heavy next to you. He pulled his handgun from his concealed carry holster to check the rounds left; it was a sure fire sign he was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. Besides, you two weren’t even supposed to be here.

Sam Wilson had been in contact a few days before to deliver some intel on a fringe neo-Nazi group based out of Chicago that was starting to stink of HYDRA. Could be some descendants of the original genocidal maniacs, or just some wannabe badasses, but in the past year you worked together you’d never seen Bucky so restless. Which, you supposed, was the reason Cap put you both on the job.

You two were walking down the street to find food and debrief when some uniformed workers had scrambled out of a grand stone theatre building.

Then, gunshots.

You both bolted inside, fearing the worst.

It turned out to be a jilted ex-lover of one of featured performers of tonight’s symphony, who “just wanted to have a conversation” with the woman who’d left him months ago. The gunshots had thankfully been towards the roof, as a warning, as a demand for attention. The man was so distracted delivering his monologue that he barely noticed Bucky had effortlessly disarmed him… until he was on the ground with a knee against his upper back and a metal arm smooshing his cheek into the carpet.

Some real hero shit, you’d mumbled to Bucky and he’d given you some side-eye. But now that the threat was in custody, Bucky was itching to go.

“Local PD will handle it from here,” you straightened up and shifted on one foot, Bucky relaxed now knowing you two wouldn’t be stuck here. You had an important job to do.

Bucky nodded politely after being thanked again, and let his shoulders drop when the manager had walked away, now knowing you three wouldn’t be trapped in an awkward loop of gratitude and reassurance.

The recon trip you and him were on wasn’t urgent by any means but the mere thought of a HYDRA resurgence made his skin crawl. He had to admit, when Sam pointed out that The Vanishing was a good distraction, a good cover for these people to regroup, Bucky felt like he had fire ants burrowing through his veins.

He turned to leave but saw your eye catch something. “What?” He asked, snapping his holster shut with a gloved hand.

Your mouth hung slack but you quickly closed it and physically shook away some memory. “N-nothing, it’s just-” you paused and shook your head again. “Nothing,” you turned and smiled to him. “My grandfather was a concert pianist and my grandma took me to this show when I was younger. I was just a kid when they died, and I think it was one of the last times I ever stayed with them.”

Bucky saw you smile, but this was different. There was a sadness swirling in your eyes, and a longing for some piece of the past. Everything was so different now.

It was hard to admit to himself, because he was desperate to make bigger strides in the potential HYDRA investigation, but that nagging feeling whispered what he should do.

“Well, do you wanna go tonight?”

He knew it was a stupid question the second it left his lips. Of course you’d say no; you’d seen how agitated he’d been and there was no way in hell you’d let this mission be steered off-course for one more second.

As expected, you shook your head. “We’re not here for that,” you gave a firm look and started walking towards the entrance.

He caught up and matched your step, sighing, “They owe us, you know. They’d let us in for free-”

“Barnes,” you halted and turned to him, levelling him with an honest stare. “Let’s be real for a second: we keep the world safe so the public can come to shows. We don’t wear the fancy clothes and sit in the audience. That’s not who we are.” You turned and kept walking, throwing over your shoulder, “C’mon, we have a job to do.”

Bucky clenched his jaw at your stubbornness, and he internally mapped the layout of the theatre, the exits, the seats, the stage.

He knew was he needed to do.

You had no idea what he was planning.

Not even later that day, when he let himself into the room of your hotel suite. You shot a look from where you were lounging on your bed and reading through an updated dossier Cap had some analysts draw up. “You forget how to knock?”

He tossed your jacket and it landed right on top of the tablet in your hand. “Get up, we need to go.”

Your heart rate spiked. “Did something happen?” You turned and slipped on your boot, already with one arm in the sleeve of the jacket.

“We’re gonna be late,” he called from the living room. Key twinkled in his hand.

“Barnes!” You scoffed and rushed to follow him. He was already in the hallway walking towards the elevator by the time you caught up. “What’s going on? Shit, my gun’s in the-”

“You don’t need it.”

He jabbed the elevator button and it opened immediately. Your impatience manifested in you planting your feet, crossing your arms and sticking your tongue against the inside of your cheek. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and snatched your wrist just before the doors started to close, hauling you inside as you protested with more scoffs and grunts. “Hey!” He released your wrist after you shoved his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

With a decisive turn of his body, his stormy blue stare descended on you, halting the protests rising up from your belly.

“Do you trust me?”

A wave of abashment swarmed over you, because despite his behaviour he looked more gentle than you’d ever seen him.

“With my life.”

He almost smiled.

“Good,” he eased, though his voice was low and gravelly. “No more questions.”

It was several blocks of walking in silence before you put together the pieces of what must be going on. To your credit, you figured it out before the theatre came into view but still, you stopped in your tracks when it did.

“We can’t,” you protested weakly. Bucky stopped and turned to you, taking another step to turn his body into a shield from the cold-snapped wind. “Look at those people,” your hand gestured from within your jacket pocket. “We’re so underdressed.”

Bucky looked at the line of people filing into the theatre and then back to you. Worry was etched into your forehead, into the way your mouth shut tight, and how you drew your arms further into yourself. You locked eyes with him, and he nodded towards an alleyway. So you followed.

There was a fire escape and a ladder hanging down, about twelve feet off the ground, and you saw Bucky look at it.

“Oh, no way,” you smiled despite yourself. “We’re not really sneaking in, are w-woah!” You spluttered when Bucky’s hands gripped your waist, and after a few more steps he was effortlessly hoisting you up towards the ladder. You grabbed on and swung yourself up onto the metal-framed escape before clearing the way for Bucky to use his super-strength to jump up and join you. He was by your side in a second, and he’d left a dent where his vibranium fist had gripped the balustrade. You chuckled, shook your head, and challenged him, “So what now, Sergeant?”

“Follow me.”

With the natural finesse of an agent trained in reconnaissance, you followed Bucky as he led you up the escape, through a window, down a hallway, through another door that had a sign with all kinds of warnings about safety, and then onto a darkened metal walkway. The theatre was still dimly lit, alive and buzzing when you two began sneaking across the suspended tracks that housed various cables, wires and coloured lights.

A show like this wouldn’t have dramatic moving lights so you could be certain that no one would be manually operating them. Hence, you had the whole floor to yourself.

After waiting a couple of minutes for the lights to dim to near-nothing, you once again followed Bucky’s lead as he snuck towards the centre of the walkway that stretched over the middle of the audience. He took a seat, lazing his elbows around his knees, and you sat cross-legged next to him.

You didn’t really know what to say to him, but you didn’t have much of a chance; the second the music began, you were hooked in. The melodies transported you back to all those years ago.

Your hand clasped around your grandmother’s. The buzz of excitement as patrons filtered into the show. The room going dark, the music starting, your grandfather’s solo performance, the applause he got, how he was one of the stars of the show but all he wanted to do afterwards was sit in an ice cream parlour and talk about how soccer tryouts went.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the flood of emotions that surged with the dynamics of that same piano solo, played by the hands of someone who’d never personally known the greatness that’d graced those notes before. It brought you closer, your heart pulling you into the music. You leaned in, gripping the safety rail. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. It was magnetic, melancholic, joyous in parts, vibrant and nostalgic but hopeful.

When it ended, you looked at Bucky. He was a little blurry and your eyes felt sort of strange and tender.

He shifted closer, you rested your head against his shoulder, and as the music played on you let the tears fall.

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