Did you really convince little Steve Rogers that the fireworks on the fourth of July were for his birthday?
that was the handiwork of one mrs sara rogers, who used to take her little asthmatic arrhythmic tiny baby son on the roof to watch the fireworks on his birthday. (mostly so that they didnt have to be in the apartment with steves dad, who had shellshock which he medicated with waaaay too much alcohol, and he was always worse on the fourth, since it sounded like there were explosions going off everywhere. steves dad died when he was three, and my ma said once that mrs rogers might have missed him, but she didnt miss the bruises he left.)
as it happened, that was how i first met steve–on the roof of the building when i was four and he was turning three. i actually remember it, which is pretty incredible considering how old i was and how swiss-cheese my brain is. but there was mrs sara, with her tiny little baby on her hip. i’d never seen anybody so fair-skinned and blonde as mrs sara and stevie, and the lights off the fireworks painted them all sorts of colors. most of the other little kids were crying and had to be brought inside because the noise scared them, but not baby stevie–he was reaching his little bitty baby hands up, trying to grab the sparkly fireworks. probably the noise didnt bother him because he was partially deaf, but mrs sara always insisted that it was just that he had more courage than could fit inside him.
generally, she also mentioned that all that courage had taken up the space where his common sense was supposed to be.
when steve was three, he said his favorite color was america–by which he meant red, white, and blue, because that was the colors for his birthday, and everyone always celebrated with him.
even after mrs sara died, us barneses kept up the fireworks story, and i passed it on to the howlies eventually.
i dont know how old steve was when he figured out that the whole city wasnt just throwing him a huge birthday celebration, but im sure that if you asked him, he’d still insist the fireworks were for him.
whatever PR schmuck decided to name him captain america probably had no idea how accurate a name it was.
WHERE DID THESE RANDOM ASS SEB VIDS FROM STEPHEN COLBERT COME FROM?!?!?!? I FEEL LIKE THEY WERENT MEANT TO BE UPLOADED BUT ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT YOU JUST HAD THESE GEMS LYING AROUND THAT YOU WERE GOING TO KEEP FROM US??? DAMN IT WHY IS HE SUCH A NERD
Summary: Drabble. You used to think that you were the only person that Bucky would ever look at as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, until her.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky or anything related to Marvel (god I wish I did though)
||Please don’t repost anywhere or plagiarize||
Bucky Barnes x Reader
You watched him, a gentle smile curling his full lips. Blue eyes following every movement as you sighed ever-so-slightly. His metal arm gleamed in the moonlight as he rested it on the wooden rim.
You couldn’t deny she was absolutely gorgeous, more beautiful than you could ever imagine to be, but you couldn’t fault him for watching her like she was the most precious thing on Earth.
She was…so much more.
She was the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your eyes on too. Her beautiful blue eyes that caught the moonlight and shined, dark hair that framed her cherubic face.
She was just so beautiful and you could understand why he was so enamoured with her.
Because you were too.
She was gorgeous as she lifted her arms in the air, her fingers grabbing at the stars as if she could capture them in her grip.
Bucky chuckled softly as he watched her. “So beautiful,” he whispered to nobody in particular.
You walked deeper into the room and rested your hand on the muscular expanse of his shoulder and you smiled gently up at him.
“Looks like I’ve been replaced.” You joked softly, chuckling as he sighed exasperatedly.
“You could never be replaced, doll. But she…she is something else entirely.” Bucky reached around and rested his flesh arm around your waist, his thumb tracing little circles against the soft skin of your hip.
“Well, I should know,” you smiled, reaching down and you swept a wispy dark lock of hair away from her tiny forehead, “because I gave birth to her.”
“I was there, remember.” Bucky smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
“I distinctly remember you crying like a baby, more than Jules did.” You teased, resting your back against his chest.
“Hey,” Bucky chuckled, “my daughter had just been born and my wife had been so brave that day. Any man would cry after that.”
The little baby in the crib gurgled, her eyelids drooping slowly as she started to doze.
“Our little girl,” You whispered, smiling, “our Rebecca Barnes.”
“She’s the only other one that is just as beautiful as my wife.” Bucky whispered, his metal fingers gently caressing the front of her little onesie. “The only one.”
wore my new leggings for the first time today, immediately dubbed “science pants” by the biology teacher i work with
“what? they’ve got scissors, scissors are science!” she was immediately backed up by a student who pointed out that mushrooms are also science, as are pencils, hourglasses, cauldrons, and flasks. if you can make science with the pants, they become science pants.
a woman in her sixties stopped me at the bus stop today to say “those are just magical, aren’t they?” while pointing at my leggings. i agree.
Summary: Having been married for fifty years, you and Bucky had seemingly the perfect marriage, but even after those long years, you still felt inadequate with yourself and questioned your worth to be with him.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Marvel or anything associated.
Warning:Angst, sensitive topics (so I suggest if you are sensitive, then don’t read) and lots of fluff.
Bucky x Reader
||Please don’t repost or plagiarise||
That’s how he found you.
Seated opposite the window, the sun shining down on you as you sobbed over an old photo album, you were hunched into the photos as you wiped at the tears unsuccessfully with a wet tissue as an old instrumental song on one of his old vinyl records played on the electric gramophone loudly, to drown out your broken sobs.
“Y/N? What’s wrong?” His voice was full of concern as he crossed the room in long strides, before falling to his knees in front of you as his hands lifted to cup your face, but you batted his hands away, the slight clink of metal from your rings pushing against his metal hand resounded in the bedroom, “please, baby, tell me.” He begged.
You wiped at the tears with your liver-spotted hands, your rings slightly twisted as you sniffled, looking down at your worrying husband with such sad eyes. “Why do you stay with me when I’m such a burden?”
The sudden question shocked Bucky to his core, blue eyes widening, making the lines in his face that more pronounced and despite the pain in his knees and back, he leant up so he was face to face with you, looking deep into your watery E/C eyes. “You have never been a burden. How could you ever think that, after fifty years of marriage?”
“Look!” You shrieked, pushing the album against his chest, hiccuping, a lock of greying hair slipped from its place and fell into your line of view, but you didn’t push it back, “look at those photos and you tell me if I’m a burden or not! I should look at these memories with happiness and joy, but all I feel is sadness and regret.”
“Sweetheart. .” Bucky sighed, looking at their photos, their memories, his fingers gently running over the photo of you on your wedding day, you weren’t dressed yet, but your hair and makeup had been done and you were lounging on your bed, still tied into your silk emerald green robe, smiling at the camera warmly.
Another captured memory was of you and Bucky enjoying your first dance as husband and wife. Bucky had lifted you closer to his body, his arms clasped around your waist tightly, smiling up at you, your head had fallen back, eyes closed as you laughed up toward the ceiling at Bucky’s antics as he lifted you, your hair falling back as he twirled you around the dancefloor. His blue eyes showed nothing but love for you, his full lips parted, showing white straight teeth as he smiled at your happy form.
Another photo was of the both of you laying in the hospital bed, you had taken a selfie with Bucky’s phone, documenting the momentous occasion of your newborn son cradled in your arm with Bucky’s normal hand gently running through the thin smattering of dark hair that adorned his little head. Both of you were crying and smiling brightly, having defied the laws of nature.
Turning the page, he looked over the photos of you and him, going on dates, watching your children grow with you as you matured and wizened beyond your years.
“I thought I had stopped those thoughts, baby, but obviously not.” Bucky sighed, sitting on the window seat, opposite you, opening the photo album for you to see. “You see that woman? I married her, despite everything, despite the odds and all the naysayers.” Bucky pointed to a photo of you lounging on a beach in Hawaii.
“I married a woman who proved everyone wrong and changed a broken man, I married a woman who gave birth to my three children and gave me a family, something I wanted when I was so much younger. I married the woman of my dreams.” Bucky turned the page to show a picture of you when you first met your husband per the arrangements of the online dating app you both had initially met on.
“When I met that beautiful woman, she was in a long black skirt with a floral off the shoulder top, she wore only a little bit of makeup and her hair was neat. She didn’t stand to greet me, but she did something more astonishing.” You sniffled, tears rolling down your cheeks as you cupped a hand to your mouth, trying to reign in the sobs, “she rolled out from behind the table and stopped in front of me, she wound her hand around the tie I had hastily tied around my neck and she pulled me down until I was barely inches away from her face and whispered, ‘don’t worry, darlin’, I won’t need my legs to make you feel good.’ In that moment, I could feel myself falling for this beautiful, flirty and sassy woman that turned my world on its head, a wonderful woman who had been in a wheelchair all her life. Do you know who that woman was?” Bucky asked, leaning forward and wiped your tears away.
He didn’t wait for your answer, “it was you, baby-girl. I’ve carried a torch for you for over fifty years. Just like I carried you for our first dance on our second date, carried you all the way to the beach, carried you to your bedroom on the third date, carried you up and down the altar and I held you in my arms as we danced for the first time as husband and wife, carried you over the threshold of our home, carried you to our marriage bed and you know something else?” Bucky slowly stood up from the window seat, bent over you so his arms wrapped around your waist and he lifted you out of the chair, ignoring your protests as he held you bridal style, his old body straining but he ignored the pain in his back and knees. “I will continue to carry you, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your aged faces inches apart, “Bucky. .”
“You could never be a burden on me, do you understand, Y/N? Never look at those memories with negativity, because I’ll always be there to pick you up. I love you.”
You sobbed once, letting his unwavering love and loyalty wash over you as you pressed your lips to his gently, “I love you too, James.”
Smiling, he twirled you around, the sound of your laughter echoed in the room and for the moment, you were young again, feeling just as youthful as your wedding day as you shared a passionate and loving kiss, bathed in the warm sunlight glow.
“Always and forever, doll. Always and forever.”
Neither of you heard the front door open, or footsteps coming up the stairs, or your shared door opening as your eldest son stood in the open space, tears in his blue eyes. James was a spitting image of his father with as those same glittering eyes looked over the sunbathed room, the echo of your joined laughter echoing as the song ended and your dusty wheelchair slowly stopped spinning, the dust particles lazily drifting up in the air. His eyes drifted over the open album on the window seat and the pages turned to the back to the front page until the cover lifted and gently closed the album.
James sighed, wiping his tears as he walked into the room, his heart not racing like it normally would and he put his hand on the back of your chair and gently lifted the album off the cushion.
Looking out to the window, his shaky breath calmed, “he came to carry you away, didn’t he, Mum?”
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