To Die Alone

To Die Alone

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader (Soulmate!AU)

Word Count: 631

Warnings: a little bit of angst, but it’s fluffy

This idea popped in my head out of the blue and I just had to write it. Not proofread. Hope you like it! :D

Before he went to the war and his life practically ended, just to begin again, Bucky Barnes used to wonder why he didn’t have a soulmate. Though he usually just shrugged off and said that he wasn’t one to settle for one girl when someone would ask about it, the truth was he couldn’t help but think about his situation.

  Was he destined to be alone forever? To die alone? Was it some mistake of the Universe that he was the only one who didn’t have the first words that his soulmate was going to say to him on his right arm like everybody else?

  He got the answers to his wonders when he fell off that train and was captured by HYDRA. Of course I don’t have a soulmate. The Universe knew what was going to happen to me. He came to that conclusion once he was free from HYDRA and could think for himself. At the same time he felt comforted by that thought (that he didn’t let a lover waiting for him in the forties, alone), he felt sad, extremely sad. He was living free again, almost a century later, and he was still the only person without his other half. It is my burden to live alone. To die alone.

_______________________________________________________________

  Bucky now lived with the Avengers, he was a part of them.  That means he often had to sit in a room full of super heroes (and their super egos) for more than one hour discussing missions. He hated that part. That’s why the former Winter Soldier was more than relieved when one more of this meeting ended. Without a word to any of his teammates, he stormed off the room wanting to get to his floor as soon as possible.

  But, life has never been easy for him. The second he turned the hallway, his tall frame collided with one much smaller and fragile. If it weren’t for his enhanced reflexes, the woman who just ran into him (or him into her) would’ve ended up on the floor for sure. Lucky for her, he was able to catch her before that happened.

     - Sorry miss, I wasn’t looking where I was going and… - The words died in his tongue when his eyes found her face. She was beautiful, just like an angel. - Wow.

  Bucky, then, took in her wide eyes and startled face and realized he should be looking like a psycho or something staring at her like that. He took a step back, apologized again and went to go to his room when she stopped him by holding his arm.

  He looked at her face, then her hand on his arm and that was when he saw. She was holding him with her right arm, and on it he could see the words he had just said to this woman, this angel. Bucky’s mind now was a thousand miles per hour. I am her soulmate. But, how? He didn’t have a soulmate. Or did he?

  Once again his eyes went to her face and now she was smiling.

     - I don’t-I don’t understand. I never had anything on my arm. - He managed to say, still doubting this was really happening.

  The woman didn’t speak with him. Instead, she took a little notebook and a pen from the bag she was carrying and wrote something on it. When she was done, she showed him the paper. 

I’m Y/n. Lost my voice some years ago. It’s good finally meeting my soulmate.

  And she was smiling again. Bucky felt his own lips turn upward. The Universe hadn’t wronged him. He wasn’t going to die alone. He had a soulmate. For the first time in his life he felt like he wasn’t empty. He was worthy of love after all.

The photos that NASAHubble & NASAWebb took of The Pillars of Creation inspired me deeply. I had to draw what I saw in the formation: A hand reaching into the universe. What an accomplishment for humankind and what a symbol for exploration and knowledge. Credit 2nd image: NASA

Está fazendo um calor desgraçado aqui, mas eu continuo bebendo meu café quente. Percebe?

É que eu queria escrever sobre outra coisa, qualquer outra coisa que não fosse sobre você, do mesmo jeito que você faz, escrevendo sobre seus romances, mas meu romance é com o café e com as palavras e com o desejo de deixar de desejar quem deseja outra xícara que não a da minha casa.

E fico a observar essas pequenas contradições em tudo à minha volta, como quem vive a encontrar pedrinhas nos calçados mesmo depois de batê-los dezenas de vezes, porque o caminho é arenoso e não adianta mesmo. E tem sido impossível -até hoje - não relacioná-las com você.

Deixe-me explicar. Não é que você seja uma pedra no meu sapato, é o fato de eu bater os sapatos muitas vezes para me certificar de que você não voltará a pinicar minha pele e você voltar cada vez maior para dentro deles porque, assim como o caminho arenoso, você está em tudo e eu não consigo ver outra coisa se não tuas marcas na sola dos meus pés fugitivos e, honestamente, cansados.

Apesar de tudo, e com tudo eu quero dizer mesmo tudo, todas as coisas maravilhosas e horríveis que você sempre será - como todos somos feitos de delícias e desprazeres. Com tanta coisa pra ser, você sempre decide não ser nada. Quer dizer, você decide não ser nada para mim - mas sobre mim não é você quem decide nada.

O problema, meu caro Watson, é que você nunca - nunca - deixa nada claro. Eu nunca soube de você. Eu só consigo saber de mim, dessa lucidez e clareza e certeza que me acompanham há anos. E diferentemente do exímio Sherlock, que se ilumina em pistas e mistérios e chega sempre ao cerne da coisa por conta própria, eu nunca soube de você. E ainda hoje, ao te dizer tanto de mim, tantas evidências, você ainda se faz mistério. Ora dando pistas de sua sede, ora dando pistas de que não bebe mais café quente.

Eu não sei ler pistas, caro Watson. Tenho tanta capacidade disto quanto teria uma chaleira de água quente. E o que você não entende, meu caro, caro Watson, é que se você me escrevesse sobre como já não deseja minha cafeína, eu me derramaria feito água quente em coa(dor), mas eventualmente tomaria minha última xícara. Mas se você me escrevesse de sua sede, eu daria a volta ao mundo para saciá-la.

É que é ligeiramente exaustivo amar você na solidão, e mesmo fora dela, o coração ainda tropeça na mesma pedra. Mas eu não paro mais para derramar de meu café se você não me disser "ainda tenho sede de você, volta, fica" ou qualquer outra coisa assim bonita que me quisesse dizer.

M.P.

Neuron infograph but cute🧠 we love a woman in STEM<3

reblog to hug me

Just rants of a (almost) broken heart

Yet, when I found them, I couldn't see them. I guess, I was too busy looking at you.

People use to say it is hard to find someone that loves you, every part of you. Well, I found that someone, he wasn't shy about saying to me about his feelings. The sad thing is... I couldn't reprocicate. My mind only thinks of you and my hearth craves to be the object of your affections. And, in the depths of my soul, I feel that you will never be mine, you will never look at me the way that he looks at me and the way that I look at you, but I can't help thinking about the slightest possibility of that being true.

It's like a cruel joke and you are the only one allowed to laugh.