buckystories-3

[buckystories-3]

for better or for worse (6) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, bucky breaking down, flashbacks

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 5.1k

author's note: hi darlings! it's insane how we have reached chapter 6 of this series! i have had the best time writing it 💓, i have so much to be grateful for and the support and love from you guys is one of it 💌 i love you guys, and please stay safe out there!!

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You didn’t know how many hours it had been. The light hadn’t changed, just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere behind you and the pulse of your own blood ringing in your ears.

Your head ached, dull, slow, like the aftermath of being slammed too hard into a wall. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Your arm was the worst of it. A jagged gash tore down the outside of your forearm, raw and throbbing, dried blood cracked in thick, rust-colored streaks across your skin. 

Your lip had split too, probably from the backhand that sent you sprawling earlier, and it kept bleeding every time you swallowed. 

Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.

But it wasn’t the pain that scared you. It was the silence.

No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.

To him.

It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.

You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth. 

Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments. 

He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.

You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision. 

And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.

The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.

“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”

Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”

You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping. 

Maybe from strangling you. Or perhaps himself.

“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you decided it was?”

Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”

He stalked off, clearly done.

You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”

“Then what am I?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.

You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.

“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”

He said nothing. Denied nothing.

Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.

The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.

Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.

“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”

You looked away first.

Back then, you always looked away first.

You shouldn’t be this cold.

The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.

You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe. 

One slow breath in. One measured breath out. Again. 

Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.

Still, you bit down.

Just to remind yourself you were still here.

You didn’t cry. You never cried.

But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.

That he would come.

And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.

You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.

Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.

You hated him, sometimes.

Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape. 

You were thinking about him. And Madripoor.

And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.

You were never supposed to let it get this far.

This complicated.

You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people. 

And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.

But something in you had always pulled toward him.

The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.

Maybe it did.

But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.

A complication.

That’s all you were.

And complications always get left behind.

You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.

He’s not coming.

You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die. 

A quiet voice whispering: He will.

He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.

You couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t.

So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:

“Please.”

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Just enough for your own breaking heart.

The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first. 

The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.

You didn’t look up.

Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

Andrei.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken. 

“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. 

The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.

“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”

Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.

But that was all it took.

His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.

“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”

You said nothing.

“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.

He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.

“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”

He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.

“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”

“You know nothing,” you spat.

Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”

He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.

“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”

You didn’t move.

“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”

He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.

“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”

Your stomach twisted cold.

“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth. The part that scared you most was that he was right.

He saw it. He knew.

“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.

“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”

You flinched. Couldn’t stop it.

He smiled wider, satisfied.

“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”

Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips. 

Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear? God, you didn’t know.

“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”

He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.

Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Tried to steady your ragged breath. Tried to forget his words. Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.

And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.

The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

A faint crackle flickered through the feed. Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.

And a voice came through.

Not yours. His.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.

Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.

Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.

“Don’t call me that.”

What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives. 

Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

The room held its breath.

Not a single soul dared to make a sound.

Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.

And then—

“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”

“Not now.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.

“I need to find her.”

Time had stopped making sense.

You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you. 

Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.

Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.

You didn’t let it. Not yet. Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.

Then—something changed.

It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.

A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.

Then chaos broke loose.

Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.

Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door. 

You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.

A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.

Then silence. Just for a breath.

Two.

BANG.

The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.

And then—

A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.

Andrei.

He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.

But you didn’t see her. 

You saw him. Bucky.

His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.

He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast. 

Desperate.

“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.

His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.

“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”

You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”

You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.

He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him. 

You sagged into it. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

He held you like you were made of glass and grief.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes were already sliding shut. It felt good. Too good.

But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.

A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.

“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”

You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.

But none of it touched you.

Just him.

Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him. 

Bucky didn’t beg. 

Not for anything, not until now.

Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.

Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.

She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.

Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.

“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”

He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.

Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.

“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”

John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust. 

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”

Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.

“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers. The blade caught the light like a smile.

“We enjoy this part.”

Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.

“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”

“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.

“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”

Yelena stood. 

“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”

The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all. 

Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different. 

This was you.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.

Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion. 

Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.

“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”

“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light. 

He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.

He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”

“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”

The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.

It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking. 

You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it. 

He hated it. And envied it.

“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.

You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”

He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.

“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”

That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.

Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”

The brunette nodded, barely.

He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Bucky remembered that night.

You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.

He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.

You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below. 

You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.

He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.

It hadn’t hit him all at once. It crept in. 

A glance that lingered too long. A silence too full. 

The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you. 

But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.

You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.

“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.

Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”

Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all. 

He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”

You nodded. “You still want that?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if I get to.”

That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.

Then you said it. “You do.”

Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.

You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.

He looked at you. 

The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.

Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Belief.

And in that moment, something split open in him.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.

But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.

It’s you. It had always been you.

You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.

The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from. 

And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.

But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.

Because love wasn’t safe. It wasn’t calculated.

It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.

Love meant losing. Risk. Vulnerability.

And yet— When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.

No hesitation, no questions.

Just go.

But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.

Comfortable. Easy.

And he stayed beside you. He always would.

Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.

Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.

Not for you.

Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks. 

Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.

And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.

It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.

“I love you.”

You didn’t stir.

No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.

Just in case you heard him.

a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @that-daughter-of-hephaestus

[buckystories-3]

for better or for worse (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, possessiveness, jealous!bucky, deep conversations, a touch of angst

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 4.3k

author's note: hii my dears! i am so so excited to post this chapter because i had a great time writing it! i love it so, so much and i hope you will too! love ya guys and stay safe out there!

series masterlist

The moonlight spilled through the glass panes in long, soft streaks, painting the suite in muted silver. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs in slow, rhythmic intervals–their roar softened by thick walls and heavier curtains. The night had finally gone still.

The comms had gone silent. One final crackle from Ava confirmed the team was calling it, settling down, resting.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, there was peace.

You sat at the edge of the bed, your back to Bucky, one hand gripping the edge of a throw pillow as you carefully wedged it between you both—a makeshift border. 

You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. You just dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, arms crossing beneath your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers.

The room held its breath for a moment.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and quiet, but not soft.

“Didn’t think you disliked me that much.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint nod he gave toward the pillow. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.

“I don’t,” you said, after a beat.

His brow arched, his gaze flicking toward you. “Explains why you always have an issue with our mission briefs.”

You pushed yourself upright, the pillow sagging uselessly between you both now. Your hand came up to rub at your face, and for a second, the words stuck in your throat.

“I—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I just hate it when you tell me I’m too reckless.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said quietly. “Even when I was fighting alongside Steve. You know that.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened — steady and unblinking.

“Doesn’t mean you should run headfirst into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

You blinked. Your shoulders stiffened.

The words sank deeper than you expected.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then your voice broke the silence—quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable.

“It’s not that I don’t care.”

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the blanket.

“I care too much. That’s the problem.”

Across the space, you heard him shift slightly. The tension in the room thickened.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thoughtful, and edged with something that made your chest ache.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring.”

He paused. Swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“I’m asking you not to die over it.”

That landed harder than anything else.

A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, tired. Not amused, not angry, just exhausted by all of it.

“You always know what to say to piss me off.”

Bucky huffed, his voice rough but dry as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still in bed with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.

“Unfortunately.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile this time. It was something else—quieter, heavier. Like neither of you wanted to break it.

Bucky shifted under the covers, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, his arm tucked beneath his head.

You stayed where you were for a beat before turning as well, laying down slowly, your cheek pressed to the pillow. The pillow between you had tilted, half-fallen, no longer really separating anything.

Another long pause.

Then—his voice, tired but teasing.

“You ever gonna tell me what Steve saw in you?”

You smirked against the pillow, voice muffled.

“Probably the same thing he saw in you.”

That earned you a faint, almost inaudible breath—a half-laugh, maybe. Or a sigh.

Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t press down. It simply existed.

Then, gently—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—you murmured, “Goodnight, Buck.”

He didn’t answer right away. And for a moment, you wondered if he’d already drifted off.

But then his voice came—low and warm and careful.

“’Night, doll.”

Sunlight spilled into the suite before Bucky opened his eyes.

Warmth stretched across the room in slow, golden streaks, brushing over tangled sheets and quiet skin. It was still early—the kind of hush that only existed between dawn and the first cup of coffee. 

The air smelled faintly of ocean salt and something softer. Familiar.

Something was different.

He blinked, lids heavy with sleep, and let his gaze drift downward.

Your leg was slung across his thigh, your ankle hooked behind his knee like it belonged there. 

The pillow barrier, the one you’d so pointedly wedged between you the night before had disappeared. Kicked aside, maybe or forgotten entirely.

Your foot twitched gently against his calf. A soft brush, barely there.

His eyes traced the curve of your body, how you were curled up on your side facing him, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, lashes fanned across your flushed skin. 

Your lips were parted, breath coming in steady little huffs that bordered on a snore. The faintest one. The kind he would make fun of you for if he wasn’t completely, utterly still.

Hair spilled across the pillow in soft, wild waves, catching the sunlight like silk. A few strands clung to your cheek, and Bucky had the ridiculous urge to brush them away.

He should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back.

But he didn’t. He just stared.

His chest tightened, not with panic, not with dread, but with something harder to place. He thought about the first time he met you. Wakanda. Steve had brought you in, all bright eyes and that boyish grin like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.

“You’ll get along great,” that punk had said.

You hadn’t.

You and Bucky had argued within the first ten minutes. Something about strategy. Or maybe tone. He hadn’t cared. You had been sharp and loud and stubborn as hell.

Trouble.

That’s what he’d thought back then. And it hadn’t changed.

You were still trouble. Just a different kind now.

His heart gave a sudden, traitorous skip.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he slipped out of bed. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb you, and padded toward the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Steam curled in the air as he showered. Quick. Efficient. But even the cold water didn’t do much to calm the part of him that had stirred just looking at you, all soft limbs and sleep-warmed skin, wrapped around him like it was nothing.

By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel slung around his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead, you were awake.

Sitting up in bed, stretching with a soft groan, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

He froze for a second, towel clenched in one hand, before resuming his pace with practiced ease. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.

You squinted at him, voice gravelly with sleep. “Did you shower without me, husband?”

He smirked. Tired. A little crooked.

Before he could fire back, the comms unit on the nightstand crackled to life, loud in the quiet room.

“Hey, newlyweds,” came John’s voice, chipper and smug, like he had been waiting all morning to say it. “It’s showtime.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “I vote we shoot him first.”

Bucky just chuckled under his breath, reaching for his clothes.

And for a moment, the mission didn’t feel like the first thing on his mind.

Breakfast was held on the open-air terrace—one of those places designed to convince you the world was gentle and safe.

Tables spaced perfectly apart. Linen napkins folded like origami. No clatter of dishes or rushed servers, just soft laughter, chilled mimosas, and the scent of blooming bougainvillea drifting in on the sea breeze.

Couples lounged beneath wide cream parasols, draped in breezy linen and high-end sunglasses. They looked like stock photos of happiness, manicured hands, the kind of people who laughed at investment jokes and wore sunscreen that probably cost your month's pay.

None of them knew, of course, that this idyllic resort was a front for arms dealing, or if they did, they were too well paid to care.

You and Bucky sat side by side at a table near the edge of the cliffside terrace, facing the view.

The ocean stretched out endlessly below, a shade of blue so surreal it bordered on artificial. Waves crashed lazily against jagged rock far beneath, a perfect soundtrack for luxury.

The food was suspiciously good. Poached eggs drizzled in hollandaise, tropical fruit sliced like artwork, coffee brewed with the kind of richness that usually required a pay raise to enjoy guilt-free.

It made your stomach turn. Not because of the flavor, but because of what it was meant to distract you from.

Beside you, Bucky sipped his coffee like he was born for it—relaxed, unreadable, dressed in that effortlessly attractive way he somehow always managed.

Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Compression sleeve covering his vibranium arm, dark slacks. That serious tilt of his head when he was scanning a crowd like he already had three different exit strategies mapped and he probably did.

He leaned in slightly, barely a breath from your ear. “There are eyes on us.”

You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. Just tilted your chin like you were admiring the sea.

“What do we do?” you asked quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak right away. He simply reached across the table and extended his hand—slow, deliberate, steady. Palm up.

“Take it.”

Your fingers hesitated in mid-air for a heartbeat. Maybe less.

But your pulse stuttered all the same. Then you slid your hand into his.

His hand was larger than yours—warm and rough, the calluses along his palm catching against your smoother skin. He threaded your fingers through his with ease, like it wasn’t the first time. Like this was normal.

Like you did this every day.

And then, without a word, Bucky leaned forward.

It was smooth. Natural. Performed with the kind of calm conviction that made it impossible to tell if he was acting or not. His lips brushed against your forehead, just barely. A kiss that was technically innocent.

Technically.

But it lingered.

Just long enough to curl fire low in your stomach, just enough for your spine to straighten and your breath to hitch and your skin to prickle like he had whispered something obscene instead of just pressing his mouth to your skin.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He pulled back slowly. Deliberately. His breath skimmed your cheek before he spoke, quiet and dangerous and intimate.

“Good girl.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively.

The words hit low, sharp. Like he knew exactly what they’d do to you.

And of course he did.

You turned your head toward him, trying to glare but failing to keep the heat from your cheeks.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath.

He grinned, small, smug, and entirely unbothered. “You wish.”

You were reaching for your butter knife, not entirely in jest, when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hi!” came a woman’s voice—high, bright, dripping with vacation charm. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just had to say you two are adorable.”

You blinked. Then smiled, easy, polite, flawless, you were trained for this afterall. 

The woman was beautiful, her hair in beachy waves and her sheer cover-up knotted artfully at her waist. Her partner stood beside her, tall and tanned and radiating coastal wealth in designer sandals.

“I’m Layna, and this is Fred, my husband” she said, gesturing to the man beside her.

“Nice to meet you,” you replied smoothly, leaning into Bucky just enough to look natural. “I’m y/n. This is my husband, James.”

Layna lit up. “Oh my god, how long have you been together?”

You laughed like you hadn’t rehearsed this answer a hundred times. “Not long. We met at a barbecue actually. My best friend dragged me out, I didn’t want to go—”

“—And she showed up in a hot dog dress,” Bucky cut in, deadpan. “One of those cheap polyester ones with actual mustard stains. It was horrible.”

You elbowed him lightly. “It was themed.”

He looked at Layna. “I knew I was screwed the second I spoke to her.”

Everyone laughed.

You did too—maybe a little too easily, maybe because the tension still hadn’t left your body.

Maybe because you liked the way his hand never left yours, even while he cracked jokes and charmed strangers like he was actually your husband.

“Fell in love fast,” you added. “One of those whirlwind things. It was impractical.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. Something quiet passed between you.

“And here I am,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost sincere. “With the most amazing woman on my arm.”

You blinked. Your heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.

He said it like he meant it.

Fred smiled. “There’s a party tomorrow night, hosted by the resort. Most of the guests will be there. Music, dancing, drinks, the whole thing. You two should absolutely come.”

You glanced at Bucky, and he was already nodding. “We’ll be there.”

Fred offered a handshake, which Bucky returned with practiced charm. Layna gave your arm a light squeeze before the couple wandered off toward the next table, already chatting about cocktails and playlists.

You let out a slow breath and reached for your mimosa.

“That was smooth,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eye.

Bucky reached for his own glass. Shrugged. “You make it easy, sweetheart.”

The ice clinked softly as you took a long sip.

But the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the sun.

The afternoon sun shimmered across the infinity pool, casting golden halos over rippling water and polished tile. Heat clung to every surface, rising in waves from the stone and dancing in the air, thick with chlorine and expensive sunscreen.

From where Bucky sat—shadowed beneath the awning of the resort’s poolside bar — he had a perfect, unobstructed view of you.

Unfortunately.

His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the hard line of his stare as he nursed a whiskey neat like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something reckless.

Because there you were.

Stretched out on a lounge chair like sin itself, your skin glowing under a sheen of sunscreen. The black bikini you wore left almost nothing to the imagination—cut low at the chest, the delicate straps framing the full swell of your breasts like you were on a goddamn magazine cover.

The bottoms were worse—high-waisted and scandalously snug, drawing attention to every curve, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs.

You adjusted your posture with a soft sigh, arching your back slightly, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.

You had to know what you were doing.

You had to.

“You good, Barnes?” John’s voice crackled in through the private comm, dry as bone. “You look like you’re watching someone drown your puppy.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around his glass. His drink had gone warm, forgotten.

Because now some guy was approaching you.

Tall. Tan. Dripping with charm and artificial coconut oil. His teeth were too white. His confidence, too casual. Loud swim trunks, no shirt, and a body that looked like it had been spray-tanned into oblivion.

Bucky’s gaze sharpened as the man leaned down, said something, something smooth, probably—and you laughed.

Head tossed back, mouth parted, shoulders shaking slightly as your sunglasses slid a little down your nose. You tilted your face toward him with that lazy, practiced ease that Bucky had seen you use in interrogations. 

But this? This felt different. This felt…indulgent.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the tension in his frame spiked like a live wire.

“She’s working,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

“Uh huh,” John replied, sounding entirely too entertained. “With her hand on his bicep like that? Damn. That’s some dedicated espionage.”

Sure enough, your fingers had drifted up — a slow, playful touch along the man’s arm. You laughed again, shifting your weight on the chair. He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. The man gestured toward the bar, probably offering to buy you a drink.

You declined, gently, warmly, and smiled.

Flirted.

Bucky’s pulse was in his ears now, drowning out the pool’s background chatter, the music, the splash of distant swimmers. Then your hand moved again, slow, calculated, grazing just above the stranger’s wrist. You said something, lips barely moving, expression unreadable behind your shades.

And that was it.

His chair scraped sharply against the tile as Bucky stood.

He didn’t think, didn’t pause.

The glass clinked against the bar top as he set it down, forgotten and still full. His sunglasses were off in one hand, his jaw locked, every muscle in his frame tight enough to snap.

You noticed him immediately.

Of course you did.

Your smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. But your eyes shifted beneath the lenses, gleaming with challenge as you clocked the storm brewing in his expression.

“Babe,” Bucky said, voice clipped, biting.

The man glanced between you. Confused. Hesitating.

“Can we talk?” Bucky added, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even convincingly polite.

The guy blinked, his easy confidence faltering. “Everything okay?”

“She’s married,” Bucky said, flatly.

You arched a brow, turning your face slightly toward him. The stranger took a step back, reading the situation fast enough to not make it worse.

“Just chatting dude,” he said with a chuckle, hands raised in retreat. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

You waited until he was gone, until his retreating footsteps faded behind the laughter of a nearby couple.

Then, slowly, you stood.

It was all deliberate. Every motion, the way you stretched, the way your hips rolled slightly as you rose to your full height. The slow drag of your hand as it smoothed down your side, adjusting your bikini like you didn’t have a six-foot ex-assassin practically vibrating with tension in front of you.

“That was unnecessary,” you said, voice like honey laced with venom.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped, stepping closer.

“I was gathering intel.” you replied casually.

“You were feeling yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with a scoff, heading toward the shaded cabana at the edge of the deck. Bucky followed without thinking, fists clenched, his breath too shallow for someone trying to stay calm.

Inside the shadows of the cabana, you turned to face him.

Cool, collected, a slight tilt of your chin, you were the perfect picture of smug control.

“At least I found out that Raskovic is going to be at the party tomorrow night,” you said evenly.

Bucky stopped short.

His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re reckless.”

You stepped closer, fire flashing behind your gaze. “And you’re too fucking uptight.”

“Because I care if you get killed”

The words came out louder than he meant — sharp, frayed at the edges. The air crackled with heat between you.

You blinked. Once.

And then the space between you collapsed.

You didn’t know who moved first, or maybe you both did, but the distance vanished. His hand found your waist with a sudden, almost desperate pull. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt over his chest, clenching like you needed something to hold onto.

Your noses bumped.

His breath ghosted across your lips.

The tension was molten now, thick and stifling and electric, winding between your bodies like a fuse that was seconds from detonating. His head dipped, his lips hovering just above yours.

So close.

So fucking close.

You could feel the heat of him, the way his heart pounded through the space between your ribs and his. His hand splayed wide over your side, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or drag you closer.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered, his voice rough and breathless.

“Good,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his.

You tilted your chin.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

And then—

A door slammed.

A loud bang from across the pool deck—someone returning to their suite, laughing. Carefree. Oblivious.

The spell shattered.

Bucky blinked, jaw tight as you exhaled sharply. Neither of you moved for a moment, eyes locked like you could still feel the ghost of that kiss hanging in the air between you.

Then, finally, you stepped back.

One heel pivoting. Shoulders straight. Your hips swaying with each step as you turned and walked away, head held high, even though your chest was heaving like you’d just run a mile.

Bucky didn’t follow.

Not yet.

He stayed frozen in the quiet cabana, every nerve ending still lit up, his throat tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Because he almost kissed you.

And he knew, deep down, that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything fake about it.

The sun had long dipped beneath the ocean, bleeding into a sky bruised purple and gold.

The suite was silent now, too silent, save for the distant echo of water lapping the rocks below and the soft hum of the resort’s ambient music drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.

You lay on the far edge of the bed, curled on your side with your back to the empty space beside you.

And yet, it didn’t feel empty at all.

It felt charged, crowded with the ghost of something you hadn’t quite touched.

Your fingers curled into the soft silk of the sheets. They were cool against your palm, and for a moment, you imagined they were his shirt again, that black button-down, the one you’d grabbed by the chest like you were going to yank him forward and crash your mouth against his.

God.

You let out a quiet breath and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memory away.

But it didn’t go.

You could still feel it.

The way his voice rasped against your skin—you drive me insane.

The press of his hand at your waist, the exact distance between your lips and his.

It wasn’t just chemistry. It was something molten and sharp, curled deep beneath your skin.

You hated it.

Hated how he got under your skin. How easily he could unravel you with a look, a word, a low murmur that didn’t belong in any fucking mission.

You were supposed to be in control.

You always had been—reckless, sure. Bold, maybe. But calculated.

But now? Now you were pacing mental circles around a kiss that hadn’t even happened.

You could still feel the heat of him, still hear the low growl of his voice in the back of your mind, still smell the faint mix of his aftershave and sweat from where he’d been too close.

You rolled onto your back, dragging a hand over your face.

It would’ve been easier if he had kissed you. At least then you’d have something to pin it on. Something concrete to fight about or pretend to forget.

But no—now you were stuck in the grey space between almost and what if, and it was driving you up the goddamn wall.

From the bathroom, you heard the faint sound of water running.

Bucky.

You’d come in first, slammed a drawer a little too hard while getting ready for bed, and said nothing. He hadn’t said anything either. Just raised a brow, undressed in silence, and disappeared into the bathroom like he didn’t nearly kiss you into oblivion hours earlier.

The faucet turned off.

You stared at the ceiling, throat tight, chest buzzing with frustration.

Not just at him. At yourself.

At the way your skin still tingled like it remembered everything you were trying not to think about.

The bathroom door opened.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

You could feel the shift in the room—the way the air thickened, the tension crackling like static.

He moved quietly, bare feet on the tile, towel slung low around his waist. You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

He changed into a t-shirt and sweats, the fabric stretching across his chest and shoulders as he moved, slow and deliberate.

You pretended not to watch. Pretended not to notice how your eyes followed the way his muscles flexed, how the sleeve tugged slightly at the edge of his bicep.

He turned the lights off and approached the bed, pausing for half a second—like he wasn’t sure where to lie.

You didn’t make it easier.

Eventually, he eased into his side, facing away from you, careful to stay on his side of the bed.

A wide strip of cool linen separated your bodies. But it didn’t matter.

The tension hung between you anyway.

It pulsed like a live wire, buzzing beneath your skin, settling deep in your stomach, curling around your lungs and squeezing.

You could hear the faint shift of his breathing. Slower now. Controlled.

But not calm.

You stared into the dark, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to reach for him, god you wanted to hit him.

You wanted to kiss him until he broke whatever smug, controlled thing he kept wrapped around himself and finally admitted what you both knew was happening.

But you didn’t do any of that.

You just lay there, trying to breathe around the silence, trying not to imagine the press of his lips against yours.

Not to remember the way his fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

Not to wonder how it would’ve felt if you hadn’t pulled away.

And somewhere in the middle of all that tension, your eyes finally drifted shut.

You didn’t sleep well.

Neither did Bucky.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27

[buckystories-3]

The Line of Fire - Part 2

Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When a mission turns bloody in the middle of a frozen wasteland, you're the sniper with a perfect shot—and a red dot on your chest. Bucky Barnes takes the bullet instead. What follows is a desperate sprint for survival, a broken safehouse, a storm of panic, patchwork medicine, and the kind of tension that burns hotter than a sniper’s scope. You were never close. Now you're closer than either of you can handle.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gunshot wounds / injury detail, blood and field medical care (non-graphic but intense), heavy emotional content (panic, near-death scenario), sexual tension / suggestive content (semi-explicit, not full smut), language, mutual pining, angst, happy ending

Word count: 9.4K

A/N: Tumblr wouldn’t let me post the whole thing in one go, so I had to break it into two parts. Sorry for the weird cutoff — it picks up right where we left off. Enjoy! :)

You press two fingers to his neck. His pulse is faint, but steady.

You reach for the alcohol again, uncork it, and pour a slow stream over the wound. His body jerks slightly, even unconscious. You wince.

“Sorry,” you breathe. “I know. I know.”

You grab a length of gauze, press it against the edge of the couch cushion under him — just in case. You slide your gloved hand to his side, brace your fingers around the wound.

And then you lift the blade.

You hover for a second.

Just one.

Just long enough to feel the weight of it.

Then you set your jaw.

And press in.

The blade presses in.

Not far. Just enough.

You feel resistance give way under your hand — skin, muscle, tissue parting under pressure — and blood wells up faster, hot and dark, seeping over your glove and into the gauze wrapped around the handle.

Bucky flinches hard beneath you, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as his body jolts. One of his legs kicks out reflexively, and his arm shifts, trying to push himself up.

“Don’t—” you hiss, one blood-slick hand flying to his chest to hold him down, “don’t move! Stay down, damn it!”

But he’s already halfway upright, groaning, eyes fluttering open, glassy and unfocused but present.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice shredded from pain. “What—what are you—”

“I’m getting the bullet out,” you snap, more panic than anger, hand pressed flat to his sternum now, trying to pin him back against the couch. “You need to stay still. If you move, I’ll go deeper and we don’t what that.”

He’s shaking now — not from cold, not from the wound — from adrenaline, shock, maybe whatever pain is lighting his nerves on fire. But his eyes are clearer. And they’re on you.

And what he sees makes him go still.

Your hands are trembling.

Not just from exhaustion.

From fear.

From pressure.

Your lip’s trembling too — barely — but you clench your jaw hard enough to feel it in your ears. Your breathing’s shallow, your shoulders tight, your eyes red and shining and too bright.

You press the back of your wrist to your mouth for a second, smearing blood across your cheek, trying to focus. Trying to stay in control. But it’s slipping. Fast.

You don’t notice you’re muttering until you hear it out loud.

“Shit, shit, I can’t—I need—fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

You press the gauze harder into the wound, trying to slow the fresh bleed, but the moment you do, he groans again, twisting under your hand.

And that’s it. That’s when you almost lose it.

Your breath catches. Your fingers freeze mid-motion. Your vision blurs just a little, just enough. Your chin dips to your chest and you close your eyes tight.

No tears fall — not yet.

But they’re there.

Bucky’s hand reaches for your arm — weak, but deliberate.

You flinch.

But he grips you anyway.

“Y/N,” he rasps, voice broken but steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t move.

“Y/N.”

Slowly — carefully — your head lifts.

Your eyes meet his.

And even through the blood, the sweat, the blur — he sees it. All of it.

The rage. The helplessness. The terror you’ve been white-knuckling since the first shot rang out.

He exhales slowly, lips cracked, eyes darker than they should be.

“You’re doing fine,” he says.

Simple. Quiet.

But it cuts through the static like a gunshot.

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.

He squeezes your arm once — barely any pressure at all — but it’s the first thing that feels real in hours.

“Just breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re doing fine.”

His hand is still on your arm, too weak to hold you, but somehow anchoring anyway.

His words linger — You’re doing fine — like they were supposed to hold you together.

But they don’t.

They break you.

Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly it’s like there’s no air at all. The room spins. The warmth from his body, the metallic smell of blood, the sting in your eyes — it all swells up at once, choking the strength out of you. The blade in your hand falls, clattering dully against the floorboards.

And then you’re just—gone.

“Why?” The word rips out of you, raw and broken, like you didn’t mean to say it. “Why did you do it?”

Your voice cracks, high and panicked, and your hand finds his — the one not covering the wound — and grips it tight, too tight.

“Why did you take that bullet?” you whisper, and then it spills out all at once, fast and wild and cracked open. “Why did you jump in front of me? Why didn’t you yell, or grab me, or anything else but that? Why did you have to do it like that?”

You’re shaking again, and this time it’s not from the cold.

“I can’t—” your voice breaks entirely. “Bucky, I can’t—”

He tries to speak, but you shake your head and press closer, not even realizing you’re doing it, your forehead nearly against his, hands trembling where they clutch at his vest.

“I can’t lose you,” you whisper, and now the tears come. Hot and fast and merciless. “You don’t get it, I can’t. I can’t watch you die. I can’t sit here and feel you slipping and know I can’t fix it. I can’t go back to that quinjet without you. I can’t go back alone.”

You feel his fingers twitch around yours, weak and slow — but there.

Your breath hitches as the panic claws higher in your throat, almost a sob, but you hold it back with your teeth clenched, your chest heaving.

“I’ve done the missions. I’ve buried people. I’ve told myself it’s part of the job. But not you,” you say, shaking your head, eyes squeezed shut. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

You press your forehead to his — gently, blood between you, both of you freezing, everything burning.

“I’m not strong enough to walk away from this one.”

Silence.

Just his breath — ragged and shallow — fanning across your cheek. The faint thrum of his pulse under your fingertips. The weight of what you finally said — all of it — hanging in the space between you like smoke.

He doesn’t answer right away.

But he doesn’t look away either.

For a while, he just breathes.

Not well — shallow and raw and uneven — but steady enough to remind you he’s still here.

Your forehead is still pressed to his. One of your hands grips the edge of his jacket, the other still laced in his fingers, both of you covered in blood, both of you frozen in place, like the world might stop if you shift even an inch.

And then, finally, he speaks.

His voice is barely more than gravel, the words rough and deliberate — but they land like an earthquake.

“I didn’t think about it.”

You pull back just slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

His gaze is dark, bloodshot, but locked to yours. Unflinching. Honest.

“I saw the red dot,” he says, breath catching. “I saw it on your chest and I knew what it meant. And I didn’t think. I just moved.”

You shake your head once, weakly. “You shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t care,” he says, cutting you off, his voice still quiet but harder now, like it’s costing him to say it and he’s doing it anyway. “I didn’t care if it was stupid, or reckless, or suicidal. I saw you standing there, wide open, and all I could think was—not her.”

Your lips part, but no words come.

His fingers squeeze yours — barely — but it’s enough.

“I’ve lost people,” he says, softer now. “More than I can count. Some I was too late for. Some I couldn’t save. Some I was the reason they died.”

His jaw twitches.

“I couldn’t add you to that. Not you. Never you.”

You’re still holding your breath. Afraid to breathe. Afraid you’ll shatter again if you do.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he murmurs, eyes flickering toward your mouth, then back to your eyes. “I never do. But if you think I’d ever let you go down while I had a chance to stop it—then you really don’t know me.”

You close your eyes.

Not to shut him out.

To hold it in.

To anchor yourself to this second.

You breathe once — shaky, wet — and then open your eyes again. Wipe your face with the back of your hand. Blood and tears together, streaking across your skin.

And then, with no more words, no more questions — you move.

You pull away just enough to grab the knife again. Your hands still shake, but less now. You can see again. You’re not steady. Not really. But you’re focused.

He watches you. He doesn’t flinch.

You press a gloved hand to his chest, brace the blade, and say softly:

“Bite down on something.”

He doesn’t argue.

Just turns his head, grabs the edge of the blanket with one hand, and clenches it between his teeth.

You steady yourself. Count to three.

Then you press the blade into the wound.

He jerks once under your hands, groans loud against the blanket, whole body arching—but you don’t stop. You dig. You search.

Blood spills fast and hot over your wrists. You blink it out of your eyes, muttering under your breath—“Almost, almost, come on—”

And then you feel it.

Metal.

Small. Buried deep.

You pinch it between the tip of the blade and your fingers, grit your teeth—and pull.

It comes free with a wet sound, small but heavy in your palm. A lump of ruined copper. You hold it up just long enough to see it glint in the low light—then drop it to the floor with a clatter.

You don’t let yourself pause. You press gauze to the hole immediately and reach for the tape. Your hands are fast now, precise.

You’re doing it.

And he’s still breathing.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the bleeding slows.

Your hands are soaked again — wrists sticky, gloves half-peeled, knuckles raw. The blood’s still there, seeping through the gauze, but it’s not pulsing anymore. It’s sluggish. Controlled. Held in.

He’s stable.

You did it.

You sit back on your heels slowly, exhaling through your nose. Everything aches — your arms, your knees, your ribs, even your neck. You’re covered in sweat and blood and snowmelt. The air inside the cabin tastes like copper and dust.

Bucky’s head is tipped against the back of the couch, eyes closed, chest rising in slow, steady pulls. He’s not unconscious — you’d feel it if he were. There’s too much tension still in him. But he’s quiet. Silent in that Winter Soldier way that makes you keep checking for movement, just to be sure.

You reach for more gauze, wipe your hands off as best you can, then seal the tape across his ribs. It’s makeshift, uneven, half-held together by layers of pressure wrap and dried blood — but it’s secure. That’s what matters.

You press one last square of sterile cloth to his side, holding it with your palm, and sit there for a second. Just breathing. Letting the static fade from your ears. Letting yourself feel the weight of still alive.

Then, from above you:

“Thank you.”

His voice is low. Quiet. Almost lost in the creak of the cabin.

You blink. Look up.

He’s watching you — barely, just a sliver of his eyes open, but they’re on you. Steady. Real.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He shifts slightly, wincing, breath stuttering in his chest. Then:

“Now you.”

You frown.

“What?”

He nods — or tries to. “Your arm.”

You glance down at yourself. You’d forgotten about it, mostly — the slash from the fight. Torn jacket, sleeve soaked, blood crusted halfway to your elbow.

You wave him off immediately.

“It’s fine.”

His brow twitches.

“Y/N.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

He just stares at you.

You sigh, already rising to your feet, wiping your hands on your pants again.

“Don’t start. You just got a bullet dug out of your ribs. You don’t get to play nurse now.”

His voice is flatter this time. More himself.

“You’re gonna get an infection.”

“Oh my god—”

“Don’t roll your eyes.”

You stop, halfway to grabbing another wrap from your kit.

“You just watched me slice open your body cavity, and this is the part you’re upset about?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re bleeding.”

You pause.

You see it now, in the way his hand curls faintly into the blanket, in the tightness in his jaw — this isn’t him giving you shit.

He’s watching you like he did before the bullet. Like he still can’t believe you’re standing here. Like every drop of your blood feels like a direct threat to him.

You press your lips together and grab a cloth.

“Fine,” you mutter. “You want it cleaned? I’ll clean it.”

You sit on the edge of the table and start peeling off the sleeve of your jacket, hissing when the fabric sticks to the half-dried wound underneath.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

Just keeps watching.

Quiet. Sharp. Focused.

And even though your heart’s still racing and your fingers still shake, you realize — for the first time since the mission went to hell — you’re not alone.

Not really.

You tug at your sleeve, muttering under your breath as you try to get a better look at your arm.

The adrenaline’s finally wearing off — the buzz you’d been riding since the gunfire started hours ago is slipping out of your veins, leaving the pain behind like a burning receipt. Still, you think it’ll be fine. It has to be fine. You’ve taken hits before. Bruises. Cuts. Broken ribs once. What’s one more?

You peel the jacket sleeve back with a hiss through your teeth.

And then you freeze.

Because it’s deeper than you thought.

The cut stretches from the crook of your elbow halfway up to your shoulder — jagged, messy, gaping a little at the edges where your jacket had stuck and pulled. It’s not bleeding fast anymore, but what’s there is dark and ugly. The skin around it is already starting to swell.

Your breath catches.

You didn’t feel it — not really. Not when it happened. Not since.

You glance sideways, and Bucky’s eyes are on you immediately.

He saw it.

And every bit of color that wasn’t in his face before is gone now.

“Y/N.”

His voice is low — not sharp, not loud. But immediate.

You shake your head fast, turning away, already reaching for the little you have left in your kit.

“Don’t,” you say. “It’s nothing. Just—rest. You need to rest.”

“I am resting.”

“You’re glaring holes through my back.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m cleaning it,” you say, or at least you’re trying to. “It’s fine.”

You start trying to wipe it — but the angle is bad, and your hands are trembling again, and the rag sticks to the dried blood, and it hurts, fuck, more than it should.

“Y/N,” he says again, stronger this time. “Come here.”

“No,” you say, through gritted teeth. “You lie. I clean.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t start.”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t be stubborn.”

You whip your head toward him.

“Oh, me? I’m the stubborn one? That’s rich coming from the guy who literally threw himself in front of a bullet today.”

His brow lifts. “So you admit you’re being stubborn.”

“Not the point.”

You try again to wipe the wound, but your shoulder flinches, and the cloth slips out of your hand. You bite back a curse and lean forward to grab it—

“Y/N.”

You stop.

His voice isn’t sharp now. Just tired. Firm.

“Please,” he says, softer. “Come here.”

And it’s not an order.

It’s not even a request.

It’s a relief valve — that quiet space where both of you stop fighting, just for a second.

You stare at him. Then down at the rag on the floor.

You don’t want to let him.

You don’t want him to see more of you torn open, not after everything. Not after what he just went through.

But you don’t have anything left in you to argue with.

So you sigh. Quietly. Kneel beside the couch again and extend your arm — slowly, reluctantly — elbow bent, sleeve rolled halfway up, the fabric soaked and stiff with half-dried blood. The cut throbs beneath your skin, pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

But you hold it out anyway.

You don’t look at him when you speak.

“But the second you’re done,” you mutter, “you’re back to resting. No excuses. Do you understand me?”

A beat of silence.

Then:

“You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

Your head snaps toward him.

His voice is rough, dry, and low — but there’s a spark in his eyes now. The kind that wasn’t there earlier. Not when he was bleeding out. Not when he was fighting to breathe. But it’s there now. That subtle, infuriating flicker of amusement.

You blink.

And then your cheeks go hot.

You scoff, half-laughing despite yourself. “You definitely lost too much blood.”

He smiles. Just a little. It’s not smug. It’s just... relieved. Like for a second, things aren’t burning down.

You move closer, settling down on your knees in front of him. He shifts upright a little, wincing, using one hand to brace against the couch arm. His eyes flick down to your arm, narrowing.

The smile’s gone.

“Doesn’t look good,” he mutters.

You glance down.

The skin’s a mess — bruised, raw, puffy around the edges. Blood crusted in layers. You feel it more now that you’ve stopped moving — every nerve ending lit up.

He gestures, holding out a hand.

“Give me that bottle.”

You hesitate.

Then, carefully, you say, “There... isn’t any.”

He looks up. Slowly. Face blank.

“What?”

You swallow. “I used all of it. On you.”

The silence shifts.

Something cold threads between you again — not distance, but heat.

His expression tightens. You see it happen — his jaw sets, his brow creases, his shoulders pull taut again despite the pain laced through them.

“You should’ve saved some.”

“I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“You always need it.” His voice is sharper now — low and tight, but it cuts. “That’s basic field protocol.”

“I know field protocol,” you snap back, guilt threading into frustration. “I was kind of busy keeping you alive.”

“You could’ve—”

“I didn’t know the cut was that deep, okay?” you say, voice rising slightly. “I didn’t feel it. I thought it was just a scratch.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you.

And it’s not that kind of fight — not about who’s right. It’s about what’s left. How little either of you had to spare. How one wrong call could’ve made today the last day.

You sigh, breath catching.

“You were dying,” you say, quieter. “I’d do it again.”

He looks away.

Just for a second.

Then back to your arm.

“Hold still,” he mutters.

Bucky shifts upright with a quiet groan, grimacing as he leans forward just enough to reach for what’s left of your kit. You feel his fingers brush through it, the soft rustle of cloth and plastic, until he pulls out a mostly clean strip of gauze and the smallest remaining packet of antiseptic wipes — half-dried, barely usable, but better than nothing.

He peels one open with stiff fingers, glancing down at your arm again. You watch the way his brow furrows — not annoyed, not even angry anymore. Just… focused. Determined in that gruff, relentless way of his. Like he’s made it his mission to not let this get worse.

“This is gonna hurt,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “Everything already does.”

He doesn’t smile.

“You should brace yourself.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For the part where I scrub your arm open with something meant to sterilize metal.”

That makes you flinch — even before he touches you.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking up to yours.

“Grip something.”

You blink.

“What?”

“If you move, I can’t do this right. And I’m not letting you bleed out from a fucking infection, so—grab something. The couch. The table. Me. Doesn’t matter.”

You glance down. You’re on your knees again, elbow bent, arm resting awkwardly across his lap for him to reach. Your other hand is free, hovering, useless.

And then—

He presses the antiseptic into the open wound.

It hits like fire.

Your vision whites out for half a second — the pain rips through you so fast you can’t process it. You don’t even think.

Your hand jerks forward and grabs his hair.

Hard.

Bucky makes a low sound — somewhere between a grunt and a growl — his head jerking slightly forward under your fingers.

You freeze.

So does he.

The pain in your arm throbs. You bite back a full-body shudder and look up—

And he’s looking at you now. Really looking.

Eyes dark. A little surprised. A lot unreadable.

“…You could’ve just asked,” he mutters, voice low. Rougher than before.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head — or tries to, your fingers still tangled tight in his hair — and his mouth curves in that barely-there smirk you’ve only seen a handful of times.

“You wanted to pull my hair so bad,” he says, deadpan. “You could’ve given a guy some warning.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Oh my god— You’re the worst,” you mutter, finally, face burning.

He shrugs — his thumb grazing over the inside of your wrist as he reaches again for the gauze.

“And yet here you are.”

You’re still kneeling beside him, arm outstretched, breath shallow. The antiseptic’s already been wiped over your skin — it still burns, and the sting is only dulling slightly. You’re past adrenaline now. You feel everything.

And you know what’s coming next.

Bucky’s silent as he peels the last strip of medical tape from the kit — the only thing left between you and an infection. He sterilizes his hands with what’s left of the alcohol on the gauze, fingers moving with sharp, focused precision. He doesn’t say a word. Just braces your arm in his lap. His hands are steady. But his eyes keep flicking to your face — like he's checking whether you’re going to bolt.

He finally meets your eyes.

“This isn’t going to hold forever.”

You exhale slowly. “Didn’t expect a miracle.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You ever had your skin pulled shut with tape while the cut’s still weeping?”

You shrug, jaw tight. “Well, it’s just another Saturday.”

He huffs — not quite a laugh, but close. A flicker of something real in the middle of the pain.

But then his face sobers again. His fingers hover over the torn skin, gauze in one hand, tape in the other.

“Stay still,” he mutters. “This is gonna hurt like hell.”

Then his face sobers again.

“You need to brace yourself again.”

You shift your knees, trying to find a position that doesn't make your back scream. “I’m fine.”

“No,” he says, voice lower now. “You were shaking ten seconds ago.”

“From pain,” you mutter. “Not a crisis.”

“Still a crisis,” he says, “if your body doesn’t listen to you.”

You glance at him sharply.

He’s too calm. Too focused. That same Winter Soldier stillness — but this time, it’s not turned on a target.

It’s turned on you.

You try to sit back a little, relieve the strain in your shoulder — but the movement stretches the wound again and pain lances through you like a hot wire. You choke on a breath and flinch, hand shooting out instinctively to grip—

His hair. Again. Fucking again.

Your fingers curl into the strands at the back of his head and you pull, not on purpose, but with enough force to make him grunt under his breath and lean into it slightly.

You freeze.

So does he.

“Shit—sorry, I just—” you gasp, trying to yank your hand back, mortified.

But before you can, he lifts his head slowly and gives you a look — unreadable at first.

Then, dryly:

“As much as I love having my hair pulled…”

Your stomach drops. You go still, completely still.

Your throat tightens. Heart skips. He’s watching you now — eyes dark, lashes low, heat simmering right under the surface.

He sees what it does to you.

He definitely sees it.

“But,” he says, voice rougher now, pitched low enough that it almost sinks into your skin, “for the sake of my scalp—”

His fingers wrap gently around your wrist. Not a command. Just a suggestion. And with deliberate care, he moves your hand away from his hair… and presses it flat against his chest.

Right over his heart.

His skin is warm through the torn, blood-damp fabric of his shirt. You feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady thump beneath your palm. His heart is fast. Or maybe it’s yours.

“This’ll give you leverage,” he murmurs. “Keeps your shoulder neutral.”

You don’t move. You don’t dare.

He holds your wrist a second longer, watching you — like he’s waiting for you to pull back.

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers twitch against his chest, curl slightly into the fabric.

Only then does he let go.

He leans back in, eyes on the wound now. The moment breaks just enough for you to remember what's next.

“You ready?” he murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He doesn’t look at you again.

But his chest stays under your hand.

And somehow, that’s enough to keep you grounded.

He presses the last strip of gauze into place, winding the tape around your arm in one final, snug pass. His fingers are slower now — careful not to tug, not to jostle. You’re still curled slightly forward, palm flat to his chest, breath shallow as you wait for him to say it’s done.

He doesn’t make a show of it.

Just murmurs, quiet and simple:

“All finished.”

Your hand slips off his chest as he pulls away. You don’t mean to let it fall as slow as it does, but your limbs are leaden now. Your body’s done. Past done. Running on fumes and threadbare willpower.

“Thank you”

You sit back — or rather, you sink. Into the floor. Into the silence. Into the cold.

Then, finally, you shift just enough to push yourself up and onto the couch beside him, shoulder hitting the wall with a dull thud. You let your legs stretch out across the floor, boots scuffing uselessly at a blood-soaked medical rag. You tip your head back and exhale, slow and shaky.

For a second, you don’t say anything. Neither of you do.

Then you reach up with your good hand, press the comm in your ear.

“Yelena,” you say. Voice dry, cracked. “Come in.”

Static.

You press harder, even though it hurts.

“Alexei? Ava? Anyone, do you copy?”

Nothing.

Just the low hiss of empty channels.

You close your eyes. Let your head thunk back against the wall again.

“Shit.”

Bucky’s head turns slightly toward you, but he doesn’t ask.

You sigh, glance at him from the corner of your eye.

“They’re not responding. Comms must be jammed or out of range. I don’t know.”

You pause, swallowing against the thick, sour taste in your mouth.

You glance down at his side — the tape soaked but holding.

Your voice drops.

“You’re not gonna get better without antibiotics.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes. Then:

“You won’t either.”

You look at him.

He nods faintly toward your arm. “That cut’s practically begging for infection.”

You snort, dry and humorless. “Great. So we’ll race.”

He gives a slight shake of his head. “Please. You’re already behind.”

You raise an eyebrow, but the corners of your mouth twitch — the ghost of a smile, tired and reluctant.

“Is that trash talk from the guy with a bullet hole in his side?”

“Technically you left the bullet hole.”

“I saved your life.”

He tilts his head toward you, voice quieter now.

“Yeah. And you’re still bleeding for it.”

You look down. At your arm. At your hands.

Then away.

The silence stretches again.

But it’s softer now. Less suffocating.

The kind that holds space instead of tension.

You let your head fall back against the wall again, eyes on the ceiling, trying to will the pain down. The whole cabin creaks around you — low, old sounds like a house that hasn’t been spoken to in years. Dust hangs thick in the air. You can feel the cold settling in deeper with every breath.

The fire’s long dead.

You glance toward the small, rust-bitten fireplace on the far wall. Cracked stone, warped iron grate, ashes that look decades old.

Your voice comes out low, scratchy. “If the comms are down… and we don’t know how long we’re gonna be here…”

You trail off. Bucky’s watching you already. You feel it.

You nod toward the fireplace. “I need to find some wood.”

The second the words leave your mouth, his expression shifts.

“That’s out of the question.”

You blink, startled by the speed of it.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. He doesn’t have to.

You can feel the wall he’s just thrown up between you.

You frown. “I’m not talking about dragging a tree back in here. Just something dry from the edge of the clearing—”

“No.”

“Bucky—”

“You’re not going out there.”

Your frustration flares fast — not at the order, but at the implication.

“Why not?”

“You’re injured. You’re exhausted. You’re not even steady on your feet.”

You sit up straighter despite yourself. “That hasn’t stopped me once tonight.”

“That was during the fight,” he snaps. “This is after.”

Your jaw clenches. The cold is getting worse. You can feel it in your fingers already, that creeping sting of numbness. You glance toward the broken window. The light’s fading fast.

“If we don’t get heat in here,” you say, quieter now, “you’re gonna freeze. You’ve already lost too much blood. You won’t last the night like this.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“For Christ sake–” you fire back.

He goes still again.

The words ring out louder than you meant.

You exhale, looking away.

“This isn’t about me playing hero,” you say, voice rougher now. “We need fire. We need warmth. If I sit here and do nothing while your temperature crashes—”

“You’re not doing nothing.”

He leans forward, breathing heavier now. His eyes are sharper. Fierce.

“You patched me up. You carried me. You saved my life.” He gestures vaguely at your arm. “And you’re still bleeding. Still shaking.”

He drags in another breath.

“I’m not letting you walk out into the dark just so we can play house.”

You blink at him. Something hot flickers in your chest.

“This isn’t about house,” you whisper. “It’s about survival.”

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t realize how badly you’re shaking until you try to rub your hands together and your fingers won’t listen.

The cold’s sunk in past the skin now. Past muscle. It’s in your spine. Your teeth haven’t started chattering yet, but they’re close. Every breath comes out shallow and fogged, like your lungs forgot how to pull warmth from the air.

You sit stiffly at the edge of the couch, arm still taped, knees drawn halfway up, trying to stay small. Your eyes are locked on the rotted wooden floorboards. On the threadbare fabric of your cargo pants, stiff with blood.

You don't look at him. Not until he speaks.

“C’mere.”

You glance up slowly.

Bucky’s already watching you.

His head rests back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, face pale but alert. One hand still clutches the gauze at his ribs. The other rests loosely over his thigh, gloved fingers twitching like they want to do something but can’t.

You blink. “What?”

“C’mere.”

His voice is quieter this time. Slower. Like he’s not sure you’ll listen — but he’s asking anyway.

“You’re shaking.”

You open your mouth, but the words are slower now. Sticky behind your teeth. “I’m fine.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging down your frame — the way you’re curled in on yourself. The way your hand trembles where it rests near your bad arm.

“No, you’re not.”

You huff out a breath that fogs in front of your mouth.

“I’m cold. That’s all.”

He exhales slowly. “Exactly.”

You blink at him again. The ache behind your eyes is making it hard to think.

“I don’t…” Your voice drops. “Bucky, I’m cold. You’re the one who needs to stay warm. I’ll just—”

You pause, clutching your good hand into a fist, nails digging into your palm.

Then you say it. Quiet. Flat.

“My cold body’s not gonna help you.”

You see the flicker in his eyes as it lands.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t snap.

Doesn’t argue.

Just looks at you like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“I don’t care.”

You blink again.

“I mean it,” you whisper. “You’ve lost blood. You need every ounce of energy to keep yourself stable. If I touch you, I’ll pull heat. I’ll drain it.”

His gaze sharpens.

“And I said I don’t care.”

He shifts, just slightly — leaning back into the corner of the couch, creating space between his body and the armrest.

“I run hot. Serum. I’ll survive it.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “You, though? You’re freezing to death sitting three feet away from me trying to prove something.”

“I’m not—” you start.

“Then stop.”

The way he says it — quiet, measured, just firm enough — cuts right through your spinning thoughts.

You’re not sure what to do with that. With him. With the weight of his eyes on you like you’re not a liability. Like you’re not just another cracked rib for him to carry. Like he wants you close.

You lower your gaze. Voice small. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You won’t.”

“Bucky…”

He doesn’t interrupt this time. Just says it again, low and certain:

“C’mere.”

Your body doesn’t want to move. It’s locked in place, too cold, too tired. But something about his voice breaks past that last line of resistance — the part of you that still thinks you have to stay upright, useful, alone.

So you move.

You shift, slowly, dragging your legs across the uneven couch cushions. Your hip bumps his. Then your thigh. Then you pause — hovering, unsure.

His arm lifts — not to pull, not to grab. Just to offer.

And you go.

You lean into him, cautious at first. Then all at once.

Your head tucks under his jaw, your body curling against his side. His arm wraps around your back, solid and strong, and your good hand presses lightly to his chest, over the gauze. The warmth of him hits you like a wave. Not just heat — him.

He’s real. Alive. Still here.

You let your eyes slip shut.

Let your weight settle.

You feel the moment his chin dips gently to rest against your temple. Not close enough to trap you. Just close enough to hold the pieces together.

Neither of you says a word.

But his heart beats under your palm.

And for the first time all night, yours starts to slow.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this — wrapped up in the kind of closeness that doesn’t feel like safety so much as surrender.

You’re curled into his side, chest pressed lightly to his ribs, one leg half-folded beneath you and the other pressed along his thigh. The angles are awkward, but you don’t care. Every breath you take is filtered through the scent of blood, sweat, smoke—and him.

Your head rests just beneath his jaw, tucked into the space where shoulder meets neck. His stubble brushes lightly against your temple when he breathes. You can feel the faint rasp of it like static — constant, steady, grounding.

Your good hand is splayed across his chest, right over the thick tape and the faint, stuttering thump of his heart.

And he’s warm.

Unreal warm.

Not just skin-deep. It rolls off him in slow, pulsing waves — like he’s holding a fire under his skin and you’ve finally stepped close enough to feel it. It bleeds into you, pushes out the shaking in your limbs, softens the tight grip of fear in your chest.

It makes you feel human again.

You shift, just a little. Closer. Without thinking. Your nose brushes the curve of his throat, breath catching as the heat of him climbs through your skin.

“Jesus,” you murmur before you can stop yourself. “You’re hot.”

The words hang there, stupid and unfiltered.

And then you feel it.

His chest expands under your palm. Just slightly.

His breath slows, draws deep.

And the corner of his mouth — the one closest to your forehead — tugs upward in a smirk so faint you feel it more than see it.

Your heart thuds once. Twice.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I didn’t mean—” you start, flustered.

But he cuts you off without a word.

His voice ghosts against your hairline, low and scraped raw from exhaustion.

“Didn’t say a word.”

Your throat goes dry. You press your face deeper into the crook of his neck, wishing you could melt through him and into the floor.

“You didn’t have to,” you mutter.

He huffs a quiet breath — not quite a laugh, but close.

“You’re delirious,” you mumble. “You’ve fried my brain with heat.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Could’ve sworn I heard you’re hot, not you’re frying me.”

You groan into his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“You sure?”

And then — slowly, deliberately — his hand moves.

It starts at the base of your spine. Warm fingers, callused and certain, sliding up along your back in a path so steady it feels like a confession. He stops just beneath your shoulder blade, thumb brushing in a slow arc.

“You called me hot, sweetheart.”

His voice drops to something darker now — quieter. Not teasing. Not smug.

Just low. Tired. Dangerous in the way it curls in your stomach.

You go still.

Then, finally — voice weak, barely audible:

“I’m leaving.”

You don’t move.

You say it more like a warning to yourself than anything else.

But before you can even pretend to shift away—

He pulls you in.

His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you that last impossible inch closer, until your body fits against his like you were always meant to land here. Your knee brushes his hip. Your hand is pressed flat to his chest. Your pulse stutters beneath his.

You’re not sure if you breathe at all.

“No you’re not,” he murmurs into your hair — soft, rough, and absolutely final.

And he’s right.

Because your body won’t let you leave.

And your heart wouldn’t let you, even if it did.

It’s quiet for a long time.

The kind of quiet that hums beneath the skin. Not empty. Not peaceful. Just full — like there’s too much left unsaid and nowhere left to hide it. Neither of you speaks.

And then — finally — he does.

“I know you’re mad.”

The words are soft. Rough around the edges.

You don’t move. But your breath catches.

He feels it.

“I know you’re mad at me… for what I did.”

He exhales slow — a tired kind of breath. Like he’s been holding it for hours.

“Back there, I didn’t give you a choice. I didn’t warn you. I didn’t let you see it coming.”

His hand stills on your back.

“You were lined up. You were gonna take the shot. And I saw the red dot on you and—”

He swallows.

“I didn’t think. I just moved.”

You shift slightly, lifting your head just enough to glance up at him.

He’s not looking at you.

His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Jaw tight. Like he’s afraid if he looks down, you’ll vanish. Or worse — you won’t.

“I couldn’t risk it.” His voice drops. “I couldn’t stand there and watch it happen.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

He goes on, slower now — like every word costs him.

“I’ve seen enough people die. Teammates. Friends. People I couldn’t save. I’ve stood there too many times, watching it happen and knowing I was too late. Too slow. Too far away.”

His voice wavers — just slightly.

“But you were right there. And I was right there.”

He finally looks down at you. His eyes are dark. Quiet. Wrecked.

“So I took the hit.” A pause. “Because I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you.”

You don’t speak.

He shifts again, not away — just closer, somehow, even with no space left between you.

“You can be mad. You can hate me for it. I get it. But I’d do it again.” His voice doesn’t waver now. “Every damn time.”

Another breath.

Then, softer:

“Because I couldn’t live with watching you drop. I couldn’t live with knowing I let it happen.”

The words sit there, heavy in the dark.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t need to.

You don’t say anything at first.

Not because there’s nothing to say.

But because the knot in your throat is so tight, it’s choking you.

His words still hang in the air — quiet, firm, final.

“I couldn’t live with watching you drop.”

And all you can think about is the moment you saw him lying in the snow.

Face pale. Blood soaking into the ice. Chest barely rising.

How the world had gone soundless. How time had folded in on itself, shrunk to that one image burned into your brain: Bucky, unmoving. Bucky, bleeding. Bucky, gone.

Your mouth opens, and when your voice comes out, it’s small. Rough.

“I am mad.”

You feel him go still.

Your hand curls tighter into the fabric of his shirt. Not to push him away. Just to stay grounded.

You keep going.

“I am mad,” you whisper again. “But not at you. Not really.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens — the way only he can. Quiet. Focused. Like every word matters.

“Maybe a little,” you admit. “Because you didn’t even hesitate. Because you saw the danger and your first instinct was to throw yourself into it. And yeah, I’m mad at that. Because it’s reckless. Because it’s stupid.”

You draw in a breath — shaky, shallow.

“But mostly I’m mad because…”

Your voice breaks. Just a crack.

You blink hard, eyes stinging suddenly.

“…because when I saw you lying there in the snow, I thought you were dead.”

You feel his breath hitch — barely.

You press your forehead into his chest.

“And I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like the world was ending and I—”

Another breath.

“And I hated that. I hated how much it wrecked me. How much I cared.”

Your next words come out in a whisper — raw, frayed, terrified.

“I didn’t know it would hit me like that. That losing you would feel like… like it would undo me.”

Silence settles heavy between you.

His breath stirs against your hair, slow and silent — but you feel the moment he moves.

His hand leaves your back, rises carefully, and then you feel the rough heat of his palm cupping your jaw. The pad of his thumb brushes just under your cheekbone — featherlight, warm, grounding.

You let him tilt your face up.

You don’t want to look.

But you do.

His eyes find yours in the dark — storm-blue, ringed in exhaustion, but steady. There’s no flinch in them. No shadow of regret.

Only you.

All of you. Shaking. Scared. Wrecked.

And he looks at you like none of that makes you any less.

“Hey,” he says, quiet. Rough. “No, baby, stop. Don’t think like that.”

Your lips part. Your throat feels raw.

He leans in just enough to press his forehead lightly against yours, eyes closing for a beat as his voice drops even lower.

“Don’t think about me on the ground. Don’t picture it. Don’t carry that.”

You blink, and a tear slips free without warning. His thumb catches it.

“You didn’t lose me,” he murmurs. “You’re not gonna. I promise you.”

Your breath shakes.

“You can’t promise that.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you again.

And something flickers behind his eyes — something raw, something fragile.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I’m gonna spend every damn day trying to keep it true.”

He lets the silence hold for a beat. Then, softer, with the kind of gentleness you didn’t think he knew how to use:

“I don’t want you carrying grief for something that didn’t happen.” His thumb brushes your cheek again. “I’m here. I’m breathing. You brought me back.”

Another breath. Then quieter:

“And if it had been you…”

He stops. Swallows.

“I wouldn’t have survived it either.”

You’re still pressed against him — tangled up in too many layers and not nearly enough space. His arms are around you, his palm resting low on your back like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And maybe it is.

The silence between you hums. Thick. Charged.

Not peaceful.

Primed.

You feel it in every breath. Every brush of air between your lips and his. The way his thumb is still slowly tracing circles at your hip, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. The way your heart has not stopped pounding since the moment you saw him bleeding in the snow.

And now?

Now it’s pounding for something else.

You’re not sure who shifts first — maybe you, maybe him — but the moment his hand grazes bare skin just under your shirt, you inhale sharply. Not from pain. From heat.

His eyes flick up to yours.

And you swear the room tilts.

There’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there before. Something dark. Pulled tight. Like he’s been holding something back for so long he forgot what it felt like to need.

And now he’s starving.

His gaze drops to your mouth — lingers — and when it lifts again, there’s no going back.

You breathe his name. Just once. Soft.

And that’s it.

The moment breaks.

The second your lips crash into his, everything falls out of focus.

The kiss is messy. Immediate. Desperate. Your mouths fit like magnets snapping into place — no space, no time, no caution.

His hand flies to your waist, grabbing like he can’t stand not holding you anymore, like if he doesn’t touch you now he’ll lose the last of his sanity.

You gasp into him, and he swallows it like a man parched.

Then—

You move.

Without thinking. Without hesitating.

You climb into his lap like you need to. Like your body’s been screaming for this for miles and you’ve finally listened. You straddle him fast and sure, knees bracketing his thighs, pressing your chest flush to his like you’re trying to merge.

His hands drop to your hips instantly — gripping tight, grounding you there — and when you grind once, sharp and slow, he groans.

Low.

Rough.

Guttural.

The kind of sound that sinks into your bones and makes your stomach twist.

His head falls back slightly, jaw clenched, lips parted.

And then he bucks up into you.

Hard.

Like he can’t stop himself.

And god, he’s hard.

You grind down once — slow, dragging — and it punches the air right out of both of you.

He growls against your mouth, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

“Shit—baby,” he breathes, voice already wrecked. “You trying to kill me?”

You answer by rocking again — sharper this time — and his head falls back against the wall with a thud as your mouth drags down the line of his jaw, to his throat, to that pulse hammering just beneath his collarbone.

You suck a mark there. He jerks under you.

“Christ,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good.”

His hands slip beneath your jacket — warm palms on bare skin, rough and greedy and desperate. One slides up your back, dragging you down against him harder, while the other dips lower — splaying over your ass, guiding the rhythm of your hips against his.

“Been thinking about this,” he mutters against your throat, biting gently. “Every fucking night. Your mouth. Your hips. How you’d sound when I finally got my hands on you.”

You whimper.

You hate that it comes out, but it’s real.

He hears it — and laughs, low and dark and completely gone.

“There she is,” he rasps. “Knew you’d sound like that.”

You crash your mouth back onto his, gasping into him as he grinds up into you — rhythm tight, filthy, perfect. It’s too much and not enough. His metal hand slips back to your waist, gripping you hard, guiding every motion. He’s panting into your mouth now, teeth dragging over your bottom lip.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Just like that. Fuck—look at you.”

You roll your hips again, and his whole body arches.

“You gonna come like this?” he mutters. “Just from grinding on me?”

You choke on a gasp, forehead falling to his.

“I—I…” you stammer.

He smirks, cocky and ruined. “I think you will.”

You want to argue. You want to be clever. But your thighs are shaking. Your blood’s on fire. And you want it—him—so goddamn bad, you feel like you’ll snap.

His hand moves again — one dragging up your spine, one guiding your hips down against him with devastating precision.

“You were made for this,” he whispers into your mouth. “You were made for me.”

You moan, and it’s involuntary. His lips crash back onto yours.

And then—

You shift too fast.

The wrong way.

And pain hits you hard — searing through your arm and your ribs like a blade.

You jerk forward with a sharp cry, your whole body tensing as you fall against his chest.

“Fuck—!”

Everything stops.

Immediately, his hands are on you — holding you steady, breath going ragged as he realizes what just happened.

“No—shit—baby, easy. Easy.”

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your breathing’s all over the place. Your head drops to his shoulder, and he’s already cradling you, murmuring your name, his heart hammering like a drum under your palm.

“I’m okay,” you gasp. “I just—shit—it pulled. My arm—”

He exhales like he’s been punched.

You shift again, trying to keep going, and he grabs your waist — stilling you.

“No.”

His voice is different now — low, firm, ruined.

“I want you. God, I fucking need you. But not like this.”

You shake your head, breathless. “I’m fine—Bucky—”

“No.”

He grabs your jaw, tilts your face to look at him. His lips are red. His chest heaves.

But his eyes are clear.

“You’re hurting. And if I keep going, I won’t stop. Not tonight. Not with you on top of me like this.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes — from frustration, from adrenaline, from how badly you want this.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “You’ve got no idea how fucking hard it is to stop.”

You press your forehead to his.

“Rain check?” you whisper.

He huffs a ragged breath — and then smiles, slow and crooked and devastating.

“Yes, baby, raincheck”  His voice drops low. Velvet and danger. “But just so you know, next time you sit on me like this, I’m not stopping for anything.”

You exhale a broken laugh. Your lips brush his again. Just once.

“Promise?”

His arms wrap around you. Gentle now. Protective. Still hot with everything you just barely escaped.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

You’re still half on top of him, catching your breath, skin flushed and buzzing, when the static crackles.

It’s faint at first — buried in the low hum of wind outside, the creak of old beams, your own heartbeat still thudding like you’re in freefall.

Then—

“Y/N?”

A voice cuts through the cabin like a whip.

You both jolt, heads turning in sync.

“Come in. Barnes? Are you—did you make it?”

You scramble for the comm on the table where you’d dropped it hours ago and slap it on.

“Yelena,” you rasp, still breathless. “Yeah. We’re here.”

“Thank fuck,” she snaps. “We’re ten minutes out. We found the cabin. You two better be ready to move.”

Ten minutes.

You swallow.

Your hand grips the edge of the crate too tightly. Your legs still feel weak, your mouth is still sore, your thighs still press tight with leftover heat.

But it’s over.

You exhale and turn back to him.

He’s watching you.

Jaw clenched, pupils still blown wide, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Copy that,” you say, already turning to find your gear. “We’ll be outside.”

The comm crackles off with a sharp pop.

For a long second, neither of you moves.

Then you shift off his lap.

Slow. Stiff. Every nerve in your body misses his — the solid heat of his thighs beneath yours, the grip of his hands on your waist, the way he held you there like he needed it to breathe.

The second you’re up, the cold slams into your skin like a slap. You shiver and shove your jacket back into place, ignoring the ache in your hips, the throb in your shoulder, the curl still sitting low in your gut.

It was nothing.

It had to be nothing.

You bend down to grab your pack—

And freeze.

You see it.

You try not to.

You fail.

Oh.

Because there, still very much visible through his dark pants, is the problem.

You don’t even mean to say it, but it slips out like sin.

“I think you might have a problem.”

He stiffens — slow and deadly — and then turns.

His eyes meet yours like a strike of lightning. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Don’t.”

You blink, deadpan. “Just saying. You might not want to walk out like that.”

His jaw clenches.

Your gaze flicks south again, very deliberately. You let your lips twitch.

“I could help with that.”

The groan that leaves his throat is inhuman.

His hand flies to your hip, not rough, just tight. Like if he doesn’t grab something, he’s going to lose it.

“You can’t say shit like that.” His voice is low. Wrecked. Laced with something barely contained. “Not when we’ve got ten goddamn minutes and half of me and you is still bleeding.”

You grin — sweet, innocent, evil.

You lean in close, lips brushing just beneath his jaw, your breath warm as it spills down his throat.

“Maybe if you’d let me climb back on top, I could fix both problems at once.”

He groans again — louder this time and squeezes your hip harder.

“Jesus Christ—”

You giggle. Genuinely. It bubbles out of you.

Because he’s losing it.

Because his knuckles are white, and his brow’s furrowed like he’s in pain — different pain. Delicious, unrelieved, aching pain.

“You’re evil,” he growls.

You blink innocently. “Yeah, but I’m your problem now.”

That gets him.

He lunges forward — doesn’t kiss you, just gets close enough to burn. His breath is hot on your cheek, his voice a razor dragged against your skin.

“You wanna talk problems?” he snarls. “This—” he grabs your wrist now, presses your hand hard against the thick line of him still straining through his pants, “—this is your fault.”

Your throat goes dry.

Your fingers twitch on instinct, and he flinches.

“Bucky—”

He groans — loud, like it’s tearing out of him — and lets go of you fast, hands raking back through his hair.

“Don’t,” he pants. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t say shit you can’t follow through on, because if I put you back on my lap, we’re not stopping this time.”

You take one slow step back.

Breathless. Grinning. Wicked.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait.”

He glares.

You wink.

And just before he grabs his gear, he mutters:

“You’re not walking for days when I get my hands on you again.”

You shiver.

Smile like a dare.

“Good.”

[buckystories-3]

lessons in lovemaking [masterlist]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, clothed ejaculation,reader has dubious methods of coping, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey depressed, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each part

main masterlist

PARTS [2/?] part one part two

[buckystories-3]

not in that way master + tag list 🩶✨

bucky barnes x fwb!reader (series, in progress)

content: steve rogers is your best friend, which means that inherently bucky should be yours too. somewhere along the way, it became more than that for you. for bucky, it's just tolerance. he likes you, but not like that. not in that way.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, fwb, mutual pining, miscommunication, canon typical violence probably

"Should we—should I tell Steve about this?"

"Why would you when it's not serious?"

(comment to be in the tag list!!)

⭐️

part one

part two

- updated march 24 -

[buckystories-3]

Lifeline Pt 5

Bucky x Reader

Series

Summary: You have a past that you're running from and maybe Bucky can be the lifeline you had no idea you were searching for.

Word Count: 2,832

Warnings: Descriptions of bombs, Descriptions of guns, Descriptions of injuries

A/N: I haven't had chance to edit but I loved writing this and couldn't wait so I hope you enjoy it!

<-Previous Part Next Part->

Masterlist of Masterlists

You look down at the phone in your hands. You stare at the words until your screen goes black and you need to open it again. You read the words Bucky had text you a couple hours ago for what feels like the hundredth time, ‘on way back to the tower. Meet me there in a few hours, we need to talk.’ 

You keep repeating the last four words of the text in your head over and over. Nothing good ever came from those words. You know you’re the reason he’s doing this. It's obvious that he’s going to end it. But you know it's you that’s pushed him away when you asked for the space. When you couldn’t promise his family that you would stay.  

You know it's for the best. You know this is how it has to be. You know this is the right thing to do. But why does it feel almost impossible to walk into that building like your chest isn’t caving in?  

You look down at your phone again. Your eyes travel to the time and the time Bucky said they should be arriving back. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and this will all be over, and you’ll be back to a life on the run again.  

You step into the building, glancing around like you always do, clocking faces and exits. You catch the eye of the receptionist that you saw last time. She smiles and gestures to the elevator as she sifts through the mail she must have gotten that morning.  

You give a small smile back and a nod of acknowledgement, making small steps towards the elevators. The last time you were doing this, you felt just as nervous, but you were happy. Now? You feel like you could throw up.  

You push the button and wait, your muscles twitching with the need to run in the opposite direction. You haven’t had that twitch in a long time. It has you glancing around again. Stepping into the elevator but not taking your eyes from the crowd.  

They come back to the receptionist. Her expression making you hold the doors on the elevator. Long gone is the happy and confident smile of a woman who seems to have it all together. Instead, you see her eyes wide in shock, her lips parted in horror and her hands shake around something in her hands. And yet, no one notices. Everyone is rushing in and out with purpose, too distracted to notice.  

It pulls you in. Her expression. It pulls you towards her. Your feet stepping off the elevator and heading straight for the woman who seems almost frozen in time. You keep your eyes on her face, even as you reach the desk, they never stray from her face, except for when they briefly flick to her name tag.  

“Mandy, are you okay?” you ask cautiously.  

She doesn’t move. It's like she didn’t hear a word you just said to her. You try again and again. You only manage for her to shake her head over and over, her eyes never looking up.  

When you finally decide to look down your whole world shrinks to that one point. Your whole world is now in Mandy’s hands.  

She holds a rectangle of plastic and metal, small wires running in between all the plastic and a timer steadily counting down. A bomb. She’s holding a bomb.  

Mandy’s hands are getting shakier and shakier and if you can’t talk her down then everyone here could die today.  

“Mandy, you have to keep your hands still, okay?” You say gently.  

No response. 

“Mandy?” 

Nothing.  

“Mandy!” 

Her frightened brown eyes finally find yours. You manage to take a small breath, “you have to keep your hands still, okay?”  

She shakes her head so violently it has you wincing, “I can’t- I can’t- I can’t do this.” 

“Mandy, this is all going to be okay. You just have to be still while I go grab someone-”  

“No! No, you can’t go. I can’t do this. I’m not qualified for this.” Her eyes are flitting around the room.  

“Mandy, look at me.”  

She looks down at the bomb.  

“Hey, Mandy, look at me.”  

She looks to the door.  

“We can get through this, just look at me.”  

Her gaze finds yours, “I’m sorry.”  

She drops the device, bolting towards the door with tears streaming down her face. Which is probably what you should have done, but your instincts kick in and you catch the device before it can smash into the desk below.  

You squeeze your eyes shut waiting for your world to finally stop now that Mandy had let go but eventually the world starts to filter back in. The buzz of chatter and thunder of shoes as people go about their day like they aren’t in mortal danger.  

You stare down at the device in your hands. It almost feels like it has its own pulse. It feels like it is its own living, breathing thing and it gets to decide when it stops beating.  

Your heart? All its doing is beating. It’s beating so hard and fast its like it knows it only has so long to do it. The time for your heart to beat is running out and it wants to get as many in as it can.  

You glance to the red countdown. 12.43, 12.42, 12.41, 12.40, 12.39... 

When you can physically see your life counting down it has the same feeling as when your chest is caving in on itself. When your heart is breaking in two. It turns you into someone else. Or maybe it turns you into the person you were always meant to be.  

You turn to face the open room. You hate drawing attention to yourself. Your whole life has been about you trying to be small. Perfecting the act of invisibility. But if you don’t do this now, you won’t be the only one dying today.  

You whistle as loud as you can, grabbing the attention of most people in the room, “evacuate the building! I have a bomb!”  

You shout the words, trying not to tremble so hard as the room descends into chaos. It’s weird being so still while everyone screams and runs in panic. You feel frozen.  

11.06, 11.05, 11.04, 11.03, 11.02... 

You can’t stop looking at the device in your hands. You can’t tear your gaze away from the place your world has shrunk to. You keep thinking about Bucky. He’s all you can think about as you watch your hands slowly get worse with tremors.  

“Hey!” 

The voice bounces around in the now empty space. It’s loud enough to pull your eyes up. They land on a man you’ve never seen before, dressed in head to toe in what you guess is bomb squad uniform.  

You try to swallow but only manage to irritate your throat.  

He keeps his distance, “I’m sure you have a very good reason for doing this, but I need you to tell me how to disarm that thing.”  

It takes a second for words to penetrate the fog in your brain, “I don’t know how to disarm it?”, you say in confusion.  

“You must know how to disarm it. If you do that, then we can all go home today.”  

Your brow screws up in confusion, “I don’t know how.”  

“Don’t you want to go home today? Don’t you want to walk out those doors in one piece. Just neutralise the device.”  

“I don’t know how-”  

The man loses some of his patience, “you must know how because you built it!” 

You almost start laughing. The giggle bubbling up from your wrecked chest and sliding up your throat. Almost. And then you glance down, your eyes catching on the red dot sitting silently on your chest and it all dries up.  

You close your eyes, “I didn’t do this. You have to contact Bucky, uh, James Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. You have to get him here. I need to see him.”  

“Is that why you did this?” 

Adrenaline gives a fresh kick to your shaking, and you step forward involuntarily, as if your body is trying to expel the movement anywhere else but your hands, “you’re not listening to me! I didn’t do this. Please just get Bucky here. I can’t, I can’t do this without him.”  

Another step forward.  

“Stop! Stop right there! Do not move any closer or we’ll be forced-”  

“Forced to what?! Shoot me?! You’re going to shoot me while I still have a bomb in my hands? Just get Bucky, he knows me. He needs to know.”  

Another step. 10.01, 10.00, 9.59, 9.58, 9.57... 

“Sniper, do you have a visual?”  

You look down to see the unwavering red dot. He definitely has a visual.  

“Stop, please, just listen to me. He has to know. Bucky has to know.”  

You watch as the man gives a small nod off to the side and that laughter from earlier simmers in your throat once again. You thought the bomb was going to be the thing to kill you today, who saw the sniper coming?  

You screw your eyes shut and brace for the impact. But it never comes. In the quiet of the moment, with blood roaring in your ears, you swear you feel the bullet whizz past your face as it sinks into the ball behind you seconds before the door smashes open.  

“Stand down! Stand down now!”  

You keep your eyes shut because you’re not sure if you can face what is in your hands anymore. You can’t face this without him here. Or maybe you just don’t want to.  

“Open your eyes for me, sweetheart. I need you to open your eyes and look at me.” You hear the words, and you know the voice, but you know you won’t be able to take it if he isn’t really standing there in front of you. You’ll crumble and the bomb will go with you.  

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m with you. Just open your beautiful eyes and look at me.”  

But if you’re going to die today, why not go out brave?  

You do as he says. Opening your eyes to see Bucky standing in front of you in his tactical gear, blood drying on his face and a bruise slowly coming to bloom on his cheek.  

A sob rips from your chest in relief, your knees shaking along with your hands.  

His soft rumble greets your ears again, “I know. I know, sweetheart. But I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?” 

You nod.  

He smiles, “in time with me.”  

And you watch the rise and fall of his broad chest until the lump recedes from your throat and you can finally lock your knees into submission.  

Bucky nods, “that’s great, that’s really good. Now, I’m going to come closer so I can get a look at that thing in your hands, okay?” 

You shake your head and Bucky halts his progress, “you have to stay still for me. I need to have a look, so I know what we’re dealing with.”  

You glance down, 7.37, 7.36, 7.35, 7.34, 7.33... 

You shake your head again, “You need to get out of here, Bucky. You need to be as far away as possible.”  

Bucky steps up to you and the bomb, but he’s staring only at you, “I’m right where I need to be. Now stay absolutely still while I take a look around.”  

Bucky leans over you, he goes side to side, he even crouches down to look underneath not saying a word. And with every passing second it gets harder and harder to hold the bomb still.  

“Bucky”, you whisper, “if you can’t disarm this then I just need you to know-” 

He cuts you off, “we’re not doing that. Nothing is going to happen to you.”  

“But, in case it does, I need to tell you-” 

“No. You can’t do this. You have to concentrate. You have to hold on just a little longer as I figure this out.” 

6.10, 6.09, 6.08, 6.07, 6.06... 

“Just let me-”  

“Stop!” Bucky shouts.  

You manage to contain your outburst, “why? Why won’t you just let me tell you?”  

“Because...Because I need to know that you really mean it. I need to know that it has nothing to do with the bomb in your hands. And because I need you to have something to fight for right now. So, concentrate on keeping still and if you still feel like telling me, you can tell me when we’re not staring down oblivion.”  

You study his eyes for a few precious seconds, you look past the determination, past the worry and the concern and see fear. You see a man that wants to be chosen and loved on his normal days, his mundane days, his worst days. Not on the day he may save your life or lose you forever.  

You give him a nod of understanding and he goes back to tracing the wires with his finger ever so gently.  

He mumbles, “I leave you alone for a few days...”  

A small chuckle bursts past your lips, “I guess I’ve been jealous of all the people you’ve been saving lately.”  

His resulting laugh helps to soothe some of your wrecked nerves, “next time just wait until I’m in the same country as you and then I’ll save you any time.”  

“Deal.”  

Bucky goes back to concentrating and you watch the time slip away like sand in an hourglass and you get this rush seeping into your bones. This need to want to somehow live your whole life in just the few minutes you have left.  

“Bucky.” 

He doesn’t answer.  

“Bucky.”  

“Mhm?” 

“How does it look?”  

The silence has never felt so violent. 3.12, 3.11, 3.10, 3.09, 3.08... 

“Bucky.”  

“It’s complex. The wires are tiny and a lot of it is hidden in the plastic that has been melted so I can’t open it in time to get the full picture.”  

You chuckle again, “you could have just said ‘not good’” 

Bucky straightens up in front of you, “I think I know which wire to cut.” 

“You think? Are you insane? I can’t let you do this on a hunch. I can’t watch you kill yourself for me.” 

Bucky retrieves snips from one of his pockets, “good thing I wasn’t asking.” He flashes you a smile.  

He starts to trace the wires again, double checking his work before bringing the snips closer.  

“Wait!” 

Bucky pauses, looking to you.  

“I know I’m not allowed to tell you anything right now. I know why you don’t want to hear it right now, but this could be our last minutes on Earth so can I just ask you one thing?” 

Bucky nods, “you know I’ll give you anything you want if you ask.”  

“Kiss me.” It spills out on a whisper, but you know he heard you.  

Now it’s Bucky that finds himself studying you before he cups the side of your face, leaning over the bomb, and captures your mouth with his.  

It’s soft, but hard. Urgent but relaxed. You forget about everything for a few moments, everything except the way Bucky holds your face tightly and the way his lips mould perfectly to yours and the way his tongue runs lightly along the seam of your lips.  

It all melts away as you feel the whole life you want to live dance in between the heat and tension of all the things you’re not saying. With your lips desperately trying to memorise his, you live a lifetime. 

When Bucky pulls away, your shaking stops. You both glance down at the timer. 0.59, 0.58, 0.57, 0.56, 0.55... 

Bucky says, “it’s now or never.”  

You swallow. Watching his finger trace the tiny wire that will decide if you and Bucky will get to live more lifetimes together.  

Bucky positions the snips over the wire, his eyes finding yours, “I’ve got you.”  

You hold each other’s gaze as he presses the snips. It cuts through the wire, and both look to the clock to find it frozen on 0.14.  

You both smile, relief swimming in the air. The laugh from earlier making its way to the surface to revel in the pure joy of still being here. Still being here with Bucky.  

*Click* 

You look down to find the numbers counting down faster. Ironically, everything seems to slow down for you. Those seconds stretching to contain as much living as possible.  

Bucky grabs the device from your aching hands and tosses it to the back of the building, grabbing you and pulling you with such force you can feel the fear seeping into your skin.  

You don’t make it to the door in time before the ground shakes, the boom thunders, and the heat rolls across the room. You feel Bucky getting ripped from you just as the darkness swallows you whole.

Tag List: @ordelixx @cjand10 @identity2212 @sukaibg @bellabarnes1378 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @vicmc624 @scott-loki-barnes

[buckystories-3]

blunt force trauma [3/x]

SYNOPSIS: traumatized!Bucky x Brainwashed!supersoldier!reader.

Rating: M

Word Count: 5k

Content Warnings: Brief mention of a suicide joke made in passing. Bucky has issues, so MH/trauma topics will feature heavily in this work; I will CW for them every time. Canon-typical violence.

Check out the tag "fic; blunt force trauma" for Content (there's a playlist!!) + Ao3 chapter notes for extras if you're interested. <3

Read on AO3

[1] [2] [ 3 ]

That Wednesday, Yori has a cold. 

Bucky spends a few minutes just going back and forth with him through the cracked-open door of the guy’s apartment, asking if he needs tissues or aspirin or fucking— soup, or something, because he’s old, right, properly old, and he’s kind of worried about him. Yori insists it’s just a regular cold and that he’s fine and that Bucky is under no circumstances to buy him anything because he’s fine, and that he’s not going to be going out with him tonight or so much as opening the door all the way. 

“Might get you sick,” is what he says. “Bad manners.”

That’s not physically possible, Bucky wants to tell him, but doesn’t, can’t, for a lot of reasons, most of them— pretty fucking awful.

He tries not to think about it.

“Okay,” Bucky says eventually. “Okay, fine, but we’re still on for next week, right?”

Yori is silent for a beat. “Yes,” he says, from behind the door, and then, gruff and vaguely scolding, “You need to make friends that are-- younger. I am getting too old for this.”

Bucky scoffs. Yori tells him this a lot. “I’m working on it,” he says, which is what he says back every time. 

It’s bullshit. 

He thinks about that piece of paper, folded up and pressed between the pages of Steve’s notebook, heavy in the chest pocket of his jacket like it’s burning a hole right through it.

Mostly. It’s mostly bullshit.

~

Yori goes and— sleeps, or something, or whatever people do when they get sick, and he goes back to his apartment. 

Bucky realizes a lot of things really quickly, after shutting the door and locking it and flipping the lights; things like the fact that he’s not usually here, at this time, that he generally wouldn’t be back for another hour, sometimes more. That she’s probably been watching him, and that she’s probably learned his schedule by now, because it’s exactly what he would have done. That if she were to pick a time to go through his apartment and try to find answers without having to talk to anybody–which is also exactly what he would have done– she’d either be doing it now, or when he’s at therapy.

He realizes after shutting the door– kind of embarrassingly late, all things considered– that he’s not alone.

And then he remembers that being taken by surprise used to be a pretty significant trigger for him, in the early days. 

This time, when she tries to hit him, he doesn’t move out of the way— she’s not putting a fucking hole through his door, that’d be such a pain in the ass, there’d be no way to get out of explaining it to the landlord— and what he does instead of moving is step in past her arm and close the distance and shoulder-check her dead in the sternum. The force of it sends her sliding back across the living room, her foot twisting against the hardwood floor to find purchase and friction enough to counteract it, slow to a stop, and then she lifts her chin and she locks eyes with him and whatever he was going to say—hey, relax, it’s just me, it’s okay— it dies somewhere in the back of his throat.

She’s not there. There wouldn’t be any point. 

Instead, he sets his jaw and jerks his head to one side and then the other, cracking his neck and loosening his shoulders and waiting.

Part of him— it’s not that he enjoys this, he doesn’t think, just that it feels satisfying, like drawing poison out of a wound. That very first time, he kind of expected looking at her when she’s like this to make him uncomfortable, the way that it reminds him of all of that shit he tries not to think about for a lot of different reasons, but it’s kind of the opposite. 

It’s familiar. It’s comforting. Bucky understands this, which is saying something, because it feels like there’s not a whole lot in his life these days that he really understands that much at all. The way she’s looking at him right now— he knows exactly what this is. It doesn’t take him over like it used to, not anymore, but it’s not like it’s completely gone from him, this instinct.

He still feels it too, sometimes. Or— maybe he just wants to. A little of both, probably.

“Yeah, nice to see you, too,” he mutters, mostly to himself, his vision sharpening to a knifepoint and his heart rate solid, steady, ticking like a metronome. The seconds that always kind of feel like they slip from him before he can register them at all— they’re drawn out, now, bleeding into each other, stretching endlessly, and he’s there , inside his own body as the moments pass, present, not floating somewhere outside of it or trapped in his head. He breathes. He listens to the sound of his own blood rushing in his skull. He listens for hers. He can’t hear it, but he thinks if she gets close again, he might be able to.

“What are you waiting for,” he says, not really a question. Kind of a challenge. 

She lunges for him.

He meets her halfway. 

On purpose. By choice.

One thing he’d noticed the last time is that she’s real fucking fast– faster than him, and probably younger, by what he would guess must be a not-significant amount. The serum is about achieving peak human performance, or something like that; it doesn't reverse the effects of time or the reality of age, and it doesn't change how that peak just starts to gradually decline in terms of speed and reaction time at some point in your early-mid-twenties and then never really stops. Bucky doesn’t know how old he is, not concretely, but it’s old enough that the difference between them in terms of that is apparent. But reflexes are one thing, and experience is another, and he has a fucking lot of experience— more than she does, and that, too, is a stark and obvious fact. He’s better than her, and just a little bit stronger, and what she has on him in speed he more than compensates for just in skill and brute force. 

They’re not evenly matched, is what he’s saying, and he’d gotten the feel for that last time, too; had known, kind of, that this wouldn’t be a fair fight. 

The edge she has, though, the one he doesn’t, is that she’s trying to hit him— trying to harm him, trying to physically incapacitate him— and he’s not. He’s countering closed-fist blows open-handed, going for her shoulders and the insides of her arms to redirect and keep the damage to the apartment at a minimum, and that puts him at a massive fucking disadvantage. It means her target is the whole of his body, six-foot and something like a buck-eighty, and not only is she fucking smaller than him already, but the places he can hit and not hurt her are these little slivers of windows only a few inches wide, if that, and–

She clocks him in the jaw. 

It’s not that bad, it’d been her non-dominant hand and he’d moved back, he’d just been a little too slow– but it’s still hard enough to make his teeth fucking rattle in his mouth and his chest reflexively tighten up and the air force out of his lungs in this short, sharp hiss.

“Okay, ow,” he says, putting space between them and feeling the first prickle of irritation start to worry at his patience and trying real fucking hard not to let it as he moves back and away and grimaces, opens his jaw and shifts it to either side and hears it pop, sore and starting to smart and definitely going to be bruised tomorrow.

When he looks at her again she looks a little bit more human. There’s this furrow, just the shadow of it, tightening up between her eyebrows, but the line of her shoulders is tensed and her hands are still up and something in her eyes is trembling, like it’s tearing at itself, guilt, maybe, but also this kind of powerlessness, too. 

Wanting to stop. Not being able to.

Bucky thinks about the dream.

“It’s alright,” he says, “I know. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

He exhales, shaky, his heart beating harder and faster from the exertion, sweat starting to prickle at the nape of his neck, the air burning a little, like it’s sinking into somewhere in his lungs that he doesn’t usually breathe deep enough for it to reach.

“I don’t mind,” he says, and he’s not even really surprised by how much he actually means it. “Come on. Just- get it out of your system. It’s okay.”

Her expression doesn’t relax, but it— slackens, and something flashes in her eyes that looks a lot like relief, but it’s gone before he has time to be sure or think much about it.

When she comes to him a second time, the edge is missing and she’s not trying to hurt him— not trying to hurt him as much, he corrects, grunting when her elbow slams into the soft part of his stomach— and it doesn’t take long for him to get her off-balance and on the defensive. She mistimes a punch, finally, gives him the opportunity to reach for her and doesn’t react quick enough to the hand on her arm, and he gets the other flat on her shoulder blade and slams her against the wall.

She doesn’t do anything for a long moment; her chest is heaving, violently and with enough force that he can feel the muscles around her ribs straining up against the pressure of his forearm where it’s braced against the small of her back, and he has one hand— his hand— on her right wrist, and in the absence of any immediate threat Bucky realizes a bunch of things in quick succession.

 He realizes she’s wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt, which is new, and not technically surprising; it’s May and it’s started to get warmer again. He realizes he’s touching her, though, really touching her, without any kind of barrier at all, and that’s new, too, and it’s weird , because her skin is soft and warm and it feels almost fucking– delicate, makes him aware of the callouses on his palm and his fingers and the roughness of them, and contradicts so violently with everything else about her that it’s like his brain just can’t integrate the information at all. He realizes she’s come back— all of her is so human now, even her eyes, the corner of one that he can see with how her face is pressed to the wall, darting back to look at him and then looking away just as fast, fraught and expressive, all of that emptiness just– gone. 

And then he makes a mistake. He keeps fucking doing that. It’s getting annoying.

Bucky calls her by her name, and she freaks the fuck out again. 

He hadn’t grabbed her other hand, because she’d been calm or at the very least not-murderous for all of ten seconds, so she slides it up under herself and pushes and gets the leverage to slip out from where he’s holding her and she elbows him in the fucking diaphragm, hard enough to knock the air out of him and wrench her arm out from his grip.

And then she fucking runs away, again, and he’s left there trying to catch his breath, with a handful of fresh bruises and absolutely no fucking answers at all.

No holes in the apartment this time, though.

~

That night, he can't fall asleep.

The nightmares haven’t come back yet— yet, they’d been gone before, the times that Steve had needed him, and then for a while in the aftermath of the final battle, they always come back, though, it’s only ever a matter of time— but he still has trouble with it, just in general. Sleep. It flips, back and forth like a switch, between extremes; sometimes he has the control to just will himself into unconsciousness, and sometimes it’s like his brain fights back, his thoughts accelerate, defiant, no matter how hard he tries to focus on counting his breathing or relaxing each muscle or picturing the inside of his mind like this sprawling, snow-covered field, white and uniform and empty. 

He’s long since stopped trying all that, just has his eyes open, lying there staring up into the dark. His mind drifts, directionless, and he thinks about a bunch of things, random details connected by some nonsensical thread of logic that's somewhere beyond his conscious awareness. In Romania, he used to wander when he couldn't sleep, and then also when the thought of sleeping terrified him; he'd walk, sometimes for hours, until his body burned and the soles of his shoes wore out and sometimes until the sun came up again. There'd been one night-- multiple nights, multiple days, six or seven, at least-- that he'd gotten so exhausted he'd collapsed outside, leaned against the crumbled plaster facade of a building. One thing about the serum; he does still need sleep. It'd been raining, and he was soaked and shaking and delirious from lack of sleep. The old woman who'd found him when she'd gone out for a cigarette brought him an umbrella and made him a tea and sat there on the stoop nearby for a while, told him stories about her son. He'd moved to Sibiu, had a wife, three kids, called twice a week, but didn't visit enough. They'd just gotten a cat, he'd let the youngest name it; Șosetă. Sock.

"Prost," she'd said; stupid. Made this soft tch sound, ashed her cigarette against the railing. It'd been such a meaningless thing to complain about. It was the most human he'd felt in months.

Bucky thinks about the girl. Her expression, when he'd let her go that first time, again when he'd pinned her to the wall in his living room. It's still weird to think about, wondering if that's what he'd looked like, a long time ago-- wide-eyed and terrified and hopelessly lost.

He fumbles for his jacket at the foot of the bed, takes Steve’s notebook out and unfolds the slip of paper tucked inside and stares at it. There’s splotches where the lines had gone fuzzy, the paper had gotten wet and the ink had spread out; it’d been kind of damp, the morning he found it, dew condensed on the mesh screen and against the glass, so it could be from that. Or it could be that she’d been crying.

He hasn’t seen her cry, or even really look like she's come close to it. He wonders if she’s there yet. In the beginning, it was like his body wouldn’t let him, no matter how tight his chest would get or how much his eyes would burn— it just wouldn’t come. It’d frightened him too much, the thought of succumbing to something as intangible as an emotion. A loss of control that he just couldn’t submit to. Not when control was all he really had left.

In Wakanda, it felt like— relief. He’d been afraid. But they’d helped him.

He thinks about the way that she’d looked at him. Come on, just— get it out of your system. It’s okay. Maybe he should have said something else— that’s probably not what he’s supposed to have said. He was probably supposed to have said stop, or don’t, or something like that, but he’d tried those a bunch already, and he’d kind of known the whole time that it doesn’t really work like that.

Bucky folds the slip of paper, tucks it back in the notebook, and the notebook under his pillow.

If she could just stop any of this, he thinks, she would have done it by now.

~

“Is there another day we can do, next week?” 

Doc had been tapping the end of her pen against the edge of the notebook, the edges of the pages starting to curl, and there’s a millisecond of hesitation that disrupts the rhythm. Close to imperceptible, but not quite.

“Why,” she says, blunt.

Somebody keeps breaking into my apartment when I’m gone. So I’m going to– not be gone.

“That– veteran,” Bucky says. The lie is growing, which can be tricky; he’ll have to keep track of more moving parts, work harder not to contradict himself, but the game of it, he thinks, kind of makes this whole thing suck less. Now that is definitely something he should tell his therapist. “They’re in town, but usually just on Friday, and I wanted to– I was going to ask if they wanted to grab a bite to eat. Or– something.”

Doc raises her eyebrow at him. “In town?”

“She doesn’t live around here,” he says, shrugging. “Just a– friend of somebody in the building, I’m pretty sure. I only see her ‘cause we both– y’know.” He mimes a cigarette. It’d taken him a long fucking time to figure out how he was going to spin this; it’d hit him this morning, during his run, the pieces arranging themselves all real fucking neatly. It’s great when that happens.

Doc’s eyebrow raises further, and she does that lean-in, just a little bit; she thinks it’s a slip, which is what he’d meant for it to seem like. Best to get this over with now, have control of the information, before he actually does let it slip by accident. “She?”

“Yes,” he says, letting the beginnings of an edge sharpen in his voice, like he’s annoyed. 

He’d double-checked, actually figured out how to use Google, just to make sure it wouldn’t be impossible for a woman to have served in armed ground combat. 2013, it turns out. That’s kind of insane, because he’s worked with women– girls, honestly– from the Red Room since he first became active all the way back in the fucking 50s. It took over sixty years; not that there’s been any wars worth fighting in then, but still. That’s a long fucking time. 

Doc stares at him for a while, not saying anything. Just– looking. 

“Are you asking her on a date, James?”

It’s just ridiculous enough that he can’t help the laugh that escapes him, curt and sharp and entirely genuine– because it is laughable, Jesus Christ, it’s not a date, if things work out how he thinks they will it’s going to be a lot more like a fucking ambush than anything else. Bucky laughs, which is fine, good, even, because it makes this more believable, supports the act– but it also blindsides him so thoroughly that what he says next isn’t preplanned. 

“No,” he says, pointed and a little bit mean, like it’s a stupid question– and it is, it’s an extremely stupid question– and then because his mouth moves faster than his brain does, he continues, “No, she’s– she’s having a hard time, you know, adjusting, and I– I’ve been there. I want to-- I thought I could-- help.”

Doc stares at him.

He clenches his teeth. The bruise is gone, and he’s mostly healed up, but his jaw still twinges a little. Another thing the serum doesn’t do; keep his body from getting worse at handling this shit, the older he gets. 

A date, he thinks, not sure if he’s amused or irritated by the thought. Jesus Christ, she’d punched him in the face, and she’s likely to try again if this goes according to plan. That’s about as far from a date as you can get.

“I don’t think you’re prepared for a relationship,” Doc says, and then before he can open his mouth to inform her thanks, that’s great, I’m really not fucking interested, she tells him, “I don’t think that’s what this is, but I wanted to make my opinion clear. As your therapist.”

“Gee, thanks, Doc,” he says, his teeth bared too tight in some deeply irritated caricature of a smile, “Really appreciate the input. Can we do a day besides Friday, or not?”

She studies him for a moment longer, and writes something in the notebook. Sometimes he tries to sit forwards or crane his head to read it, and other times he doesn’t; this time he makes sure not to, because he’s on his best behavior. He wants answers, and he wants that a lot more than he wants to know what she’s putting in that stupid fucking notebook.

“Yes,” she says, when she finishes, snapping the book shut. “How does Thursday sound?”

“Thursday sounds great,” he replies, with as much blatant sarcasm as he can physically inject into the words.

~

He doesn’t even have to wait that long.

It’s Tuesday-- six days since the last time. He’s aware of it now, not on purpose, it’s just one of those details his brain keeps track of without ever really consciously deciding to do so, like loud noises and things moving in his peripheral vision. 

He has groceries, a plastic bag half-full bumping against the side of his leg, the handles held loose with two fingers; there’s nothing immediately perishable, fresh vegetables, mostly, and she’s between him and the fridge. He sets it down by his feet, against the wall where hopefully it won’t be collateral damage if this devolves. Again. Bucky’s never really been a betting kind of guy— never seen the point— but from the way she’s standing, he’d put money on this going south pretty quickly.

“Y’know, you should probably stop breaking into my apartment,” he says, without looking at her directly, in a tone that’s probably way too mild for the circumstances.

There’s a long beat of silence interrupted only by the sound of the door as he presses it closed behind him.

“I thought it was a trap, the first time,” she says back, and he almost startles. She’d been sitting in the one armchair he has in his living room, but she’d gotten up as soon as he’d crossed the threshold. He can feel her, now, standing closer to the kitchen, even with his back turned as he pulls his keys from the door. “I thought— it doesn’t look like you live here.”

“Okay, well,” he says, kind of surprised by the tone of his voice, the degree of familiarity in it. “I did the last time I checked."

It’s strange, because he feels like he knows her, even though he also knows, separately, rationally, that he doesn’t; maybe it’s because he thinks about her a lot, or maybe it’s because they’re the same in a lot of ways, but whatever the reason he knows it’s not really true. The reality is that it’s been months, right, and this— right now, that was the most she’s ever spoken to him. 

It was pretty warm today; he’d started to sweat as soon as he’d shrugged on his leather jacket when he’d left earlier, and he busies himself with taking it off now that he doesn’t have to be concerned with hiding anything.

She seems to relax when his focus isn’t on her, and—

Yeah, he gets that.

“Sorry,” she says abruptly, strangled, “Sorry, about before, I— I hurt you, I didn’t mean to.“

Bucky scoffs, hanging his jacket on a coat hook by the door; he fumbles with the chest pocket, slips that red notebook out and into the front one of his jeans. “You got me once,” he says dismissively. “Don’t worry about it."

He thinks maybe he sees her jaw set, something in her eyes flash; a human something. A stubborn human something. “Twice,” she replies, curt and a little bit testy, like there’s a part of her deeper than the need to apologize that’s maybe a little bit irritated at how easily he shrugged it off.

Bucky laughs at that, just this short, sharp bark of a sound. And maybe he shouldn’t do that, either; maybe he shouldn’t feel so comfortable at the idea that she kinda seems to have a sort of competitive streak with regards to actual physical violence, and maybe the fact that he is comfortable with it should be— a concern. 

It isn’t.

No, that little show of defiance, or whatever it was; it was actually kind of endearing.

“Yeah, all right,” he admits, “Twice. You want to maybe just— talk, this time?” 

She swallows and shifts her weight from foot to foot, clenches her hands into fists at her sides and then releases them, slowly, a little at a time in these jagged, abrupt bursts of movement, like she’s making herself do it. 

“Yeah,” she says, after a while, her voice strangely small. Her hands are forced out flat, now, open as far as they can go, her arms locked, and he watches her fingers twitch, all random and erratic like it’s unintentional, the only part of her body still moving. He wonders if she even knows she’s doing it. “Yeah, I— I want to, I keep trying, but I— “

“But then you keep trying to beat the shit out of me,” he says dryly, mouth pressed into a small, frank line; not really a smile, but not negative. Still entirely too familiar, because he doesn’t know, really, if that kind of gentle jabbing is going to set her off, but he’s decided he doesn’t really care one way or another.

When Bucky looks at her again she’s clenching her jaw so hard he can see a muscle twitching below her ear even from across the room. “I’m sorry,” she says again, through gritted teeth, the words bitten out and sharp-sounding, like she’s forcing them. “I can’t— I’m not doing it on purpose.”

Bucky swallows reflexively, and that not-smile twists into a grimace. “Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah, I know.” 

The silence stretches; he studies her for a while, until he’s pretty sure she’s not going to speak again without a push, before he says, “Think you can tell me something about who you are?”

She flinches, and it’s visceral and immediate and probably out of her control; she screws her eyes shut so hard that her face contorts from the effort, lurches back a step, and when she breathes, it’s so unsteady that he can see that, too, the shuddering rise-and-fall of her chest. 

Bucky takes a step forwards while her eyes are closed, and the stupid traitorous floorboards creak in a spot that he’s never fucking heard them creak in before.

She goes rigid and her eyes snap open wide, the whites stretch out so far it makes her irises look like they’ve physically shrunk, and he knows, he knows he’s fucked it, he knows she’s going to fucking run away again, but--

The thing is– he just doesn’t have a lot of fucking patience.

When Bucky was him, he’d had an overabundance of patience. He had an alarmingly inhuman excess of it– something that allowed him to do things like watch the same mark for hours on end from the grimy window of a building or the crumbling edge of a rooftop or a branch-covered hole in the ground, not moving or eating or sleeping or even thinking at all. There’d been times when he’d waited for over a day straight for a target to come within firing range, and then for hours after until the search parties had dispersed empty-handed and it was safe for him to move again.

If somebody had him try any of that shit now, he thinks he’d probably blow his own brains out. He has trouble just dealing with the train being a few minutes late.

I‘s been almost three months, and what he has to show for it is a first name, a patched-up hole in the wall, a lot of really annoying bruises, and fucking nothing else.

When she makes like she’s going to run again, Bucky moves to stop her.

That goes exactly as well as he thought it would.

[buckystories-3]

Always Read the Fine Print Chapter 10

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Who actually reads all the terms and conditions? After mindlessly checking a box years ago, our Reader unintentionally agrees to be part of a scientific study to create super soldier babies. To make matters worse, her fellow test subject is the brooding and intimidating Bucky Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The morning after the wedding, Bucky and the reader prepare for the next steps of the study.

Warnings: arranged marriage, forced proximity, lots of angst, violence, PTSD/nightmares, panic attacks, language, SMUT 18+ only, oral fem receiving, unprotected sex, size kink, let me know if I'm missing anything

You were half awake when morning came. You peeked your eyes open to see the bright sunlight flooding into the room. Too bright. You closed your eyes and groaned; you were too tired to be awake yet. Your body felt heavy and…sore? The memories of last night suddenly came flooding into your mind – you and Bucky finally had sex. And it was magical.

You looked over and saw Bucky, wide awake, watching you. His head was propped up with his metal arm, and his other hand was resting comfortably on your bare waist. You were both still completely naked, tangled in the soft sheets of your bed.

“Good morning, doll,” he whispered.

“Good morning,” you whispered back. “How long have you been staring at me?” He chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Sweetheart, when the view is this good, it’s hard to look away,” he replied, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to stare much longer,” he said, the joking tone diminishing from his voice, “we have an appointment with SHIELD at 11:00.”

You frowned. This was a short-lived honeymoon, that’s for sure. You’ve been pushing down any thoughts or emotions related to the study, and now it was time to face everything head-on. The reality was setting in. Your stomach flipped and you felt like throwing up. Sensing your sudden discomfort, Bucky pulled you into his chest and rubbed your back.

“Let’s just do what needs to be done, one step at a time,” he whispered into your hair. “It’ll be okay.”

All you could do was nod. You were scared. You didn’t know what they would do if you didn’t get pregnant fast enough – or if you couldn’t get pregnant at all. And no one knows what’ll happen carrying a super soldier baby to term. Would your body even be strong enough? Your mind went to Twilight when Renesmee literally ripped herself out of Bella’s body. Screw that so hard.

“Let’s get cleaned up, then we can go downstairs and get you a cup of coffee,” Bucky suggested. The moment you got out from under the covers, you were very aware of your nakedness. Now, in broad daylight, you were feeling insecure about your body. But then Bucky got out of bed, and you were too distracted to be embarrassed. He was so chiseled; it was like he was sculpted by the gods. The strong muscles in his back and shoulders rippled as he got up and stretched. When he stood up, you blushed – you had a full view of his bare ass. You blushed even harder when he turned to face you. From last night, you could feel how big he was. But looking at him now, you wondered how the hell his cock even fit inside you. It was massive.

Bucky was amused by your blushing. You two spent all night making love, and now you’re suddenly bashful at the sight of him naked. He flashed you a smile, putting his hand on the small of your back as he led you to the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, he grabbed towels as you waited for the water to heat up. Holding back the curtain, he gestured towards the shower. “After you,” he said.

You smiled and hopped into the shower, letting the warm water relax your sore muscles. You’ve never had sex so intense and passionate before; you didn’t realize what a workout it was. You weren’t expecting Bucky to join you, so the feeling of his hands massaging your muscles startled you.

“Relax, doll. Let me take care of you,” he whispered into your ear. Slowly, you released the tension in your shoulders and let him take the lead. Between the heat from the water and his strong hands digging deep into your muscles, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. It all felt so immaculate. You felt so pampered.

Bucky groaned in response. He couldn’t help himself – the sweet sound of your moan brought him back to last night, and he was quickly aroused. You could feel it pressing into your lower back. He turned you around, took a moment to study your face, and leaned in for a gentle kiss. It deepened but remained slow and passionate. There was no rush, he was taking his sweet time. He moved from your lips to your neck, down to your breasts, taking one of your nipples and sucking. You moaned louder, tangling your fingers in his hair as he sucked and kissed your skin all the way down. His touch was electrifying, sending shivers down your spine. You had goosebumps even in the steamy shower.

Before you could fully process what was happening, Bucky was on his knees, pinning you against the shower wall, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. He was slow and careful, wanting to remember every second of this moment. He looked up at you and murmured “my pretty wife,” right before he dove deep into your folds. You screamed in surprise - you weren’t expecting to be this reactive. Your clit was still sensitive from last night, making every touch more intense. He worked you over thoroughly, sucking your clit and pumping his fingers slowly inside you. It didn’t take much for you to come the first couple times (you lost track). Between his tongue and long fingers, you came undone quickly. Your legs were jelly. Bucky was the only thing keeping you upright against the wall.

You were in a wonderful euphoric haze when Bucky stood back up. He hooked your leg around his waist and held you tightly. Pulling you into another slow, passionate kiss, he slid inside of you. The intrusion made you gasp. You looked into each other’s eyes as he bottomed out. You’ve never felt more connected to another person in your entire life. Suddenly, you weren’t close enough to him. Pulling him into a more frenzied kiss, you grinded your hips, eliciting a growl from his throat. You needed more.

He dragged himself in and out of you, his eyes staring directly into your soul. You furrowed your brows – it still wasn’t enough. You needed to feel more of him. Sensing your desperation, Bucky picked up his pace until he was pounding into you. You were screaming, orgasm after orgasm ripping through your entire body. You were pretty sure he came at least twice, pulsing deep inside you but continuing his thrusts nonetheless. His cock was sinful. You were surprised he could last this long. Finally, when your pussy was too sore and his grip on your hips became too much, you tapped out. Resting your head on his shoulder, you tried to catch your breath. Your entire body was buzzing. Bucky was still holding you up, which you were grateful for. You’re pretty sure that if you tried to stand, you’d fall right over. Bucky softly kissed your temple, rubbing your back and murmuring praises into your ear - “so beautiful” and “all mine” were the only words you could make out in your incoherent state.  

Bucky was true to his word – he had every intention of cleaning you up, even after he made a mess of you yet again. He massaged your scalp as he worked shampoo into your hair, ran his hands slowly over your body as he soaped you up, and dried you off with a soft, fluffy towel. Carrying you back into the bedroom, he set you down on the bed while he started getting dressed. You were too damn tired to get up and get dressed, and he could tell.

“I’ll be right back with your coffee,” he said with a grin, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. Checking the time on your phone, you realized you should at least try to get dressed. The meeting with SHIELD was less than an hour away.

Taglist 💛

@kandis-mom @learisa @pono-pura-vida @smile1318 @stinkerbelle007 @glitterydeputyshepherdwagon @wonderland2425 @lowkeysebby @cookiie-c @mrsevans90 @touchit-pcy @vicmc624 @mrsbarnes32557038 @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @wonderland2425 @tsofo26 @missing-loki @aesthetic0cherryblossom @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @ladyvenera @buggy14 @emmsybucky @crist1216 @jessicaloons @vrittivsanghavi @avenirectioner

[buckystories-3]

Masterlist

Everything can also be found on my AO3!

I will write for Bucky Barnes (MCU); Cassian Andor, Poe Dameron, and Din Djarin (Star Wars).

Strikethrough means coming soon!

Tags: ☁️ - Fluff, 💔 - Angst, 🌦️ - Angst with a Happy Ending,  💞 - mutual pining,  🥊 - violence,  🔥 - smut, more to come!

Star Wars

Poe Dameron

Kid Krow  - Series. COMPLETE - 💔💔💔, 🌦️, 🥊

Part 1 - (Can We Be Friends?)

Part 2 - Heather

Part 3 - Checkmate

Part 4 - Fight or Flight

Part 5 - Little League

Part 6 - Comfort Crowd

Part 7 - (Online Love)

Part 8 - Affluenza

Part 9 - Maniac

Part 9.5 - Temper Tantrum

Part 10 - Wish You Were Sober

Part 11 - The Cut That Always Bleeds

Part 12 - The Story 

Silent Lovers - One Shot - ☁️ ☁️ ☁️

Can’t Hold My Heart - One Shot -  💔💔💔

       Alternate Ending -  🌦️

Cassian Andor

Social Cues - One-shot. 19k - 💞🔥🥊💔☁️

Marvel

Bucky Barnes

Power Over Me - Series. COMPLETE - ☁️ ☁️ ☁️ 💞 🥊 💔

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Dinner & Diatribes - One-shot. 5k - 🔥🔥🔥

Sorry, I Love You - Series. Ongoing - 🔥💔 🥊🌦️

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Epilogue

[buckystories-3]

WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE | bucky x avenger!reader 

summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.

warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, explicit language, heavy alcohol consumption, sarcastic!bucky, smut in later chapters

word count: to be updated  

author’s note: the series is based on The Unhoneymooners by Christina Lauren. also, let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, loves!

series’ SPOTIFY playlist

1. stuck in the middle 

2. unfinished business 

3. over the water & down below

4. as we slowly die 

5. hands on

6. ego’s one hell of a drug — March 12th

7. spite her, spite me — TBD

[buckystories-3]

Winterrogation, Chapter 7: Hunger

Previous chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six

Summary: The Winter Soldier pushes your limits. 

Pairing: Winter soldier x fem!reader

Work Count: 1.5K

Warnings: threat of death (not from the WS), minors DNI, biting, rough sex, overstimulation, penetrative sex, cockwarming, use of nicknames (sweetheart, good girl), taunting, restrained limbs, creampie.

A/N: Do not copy, translate, repost or rewrite my work, even if you credit me. I do not give my permission for my works to be copied or shared on other sites.

Picture source: buckybarnesj

Keep reading

[buckystories-3]

To Hell & Back masterlist

This is my entry for @sunflowerxbarnes’s 1.5K Meme Writing Challenge. Congradulations on the milestone and thank you so much for letting me participate :) xx.  This is a Bucky Barnes fanfic series (wasn’t intentional, i promise). It is inspired by the song ‘To Hell & Back’ by Maren Morris.

Summary: You hate Bucky. Which is understandable, especially since he and his friends are the root cause of almost all your problems. Unfortunately for you, life won’t let you live without him.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Prompt: “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.”

Warnings: [Placed accordingly] . Fluff. Angst. Implied violence. Mentions of mental health. Implied Injuries. Uh,, yeah?

–

“I wonder how you treasure, what anyone would call a flaw.”

Part one

Part two

Part three

Part four

Part five

[buckystories-3]

Can't Outrun the Past (Part 1)

A/N: Oh man friends. This is ANGST. That's it. Just angst. I am not sure where the series is going, but it's going to be a rough read until then. We're going to pretend that this works with the timeline, k? haha

Pairing: reader x ex!Bucky Barnes, reader x friend!Steve Rogers

Warnings: drug use, alcohol abuse, angst, so much angst, cute worried Steve Rogers, post End Game trauma, drug use. It's just angsty. Don't read if that's not good for you right now.

Word Count: 1907 words

You stumble through the door after a night of forgetting. The sun was beginning to peak through the window, and you yank the curtains closed with a huff. Your shoes come off one by one, and you barely make it to your bed before collapsing, asleep in a just a few moments.

You are awoken sometime later by your phone buzzing. You groan, fumbling around for it on your nightstand when you remember it was still in your purse, which was also, still, around your neck. You sit up, digging through it before finding it. It stops ringing just as you pull it out but seeing a missed call from Steve meant you wouldn’t have answered it anyways. You flop back onto your pillow, scrolling through your missed calls. Over the past few years, he had called you almost every month, but you never answered. All his messages were saved, and you’d replay them occasionally, especially when you were feeling particularly bad about yourself.

While you wait for his inevitable message, you plug your phone in on your nightstand, and stumble to the bathroom. You look in the mirror and chuckle. Your hair is like a lion’s mane and makeup is smeared down your face. The closer you inspect, though, the more you notice the smaller details. Your eyes are bloodshot. Your cheeks sunken. Your skin, always very vibrant, is dull and dry. It doesn’t take long in your self-pity to glance at the small orange pill bottle on the counter.

The first time you took pain meds was for a good reason. You can’t even remember the fight but fighting alongside the Avengers meant you were bound to get hurt once or twice. The Oxycontin took the edge off the pain. It was a welcomed relief from the crazy that was your life. The problem, though, was that you liked the feeling. It took the edge off the pain, yes, but also the edge off life. It didn’t take long until you were getting yourself injured on purpose, dodging a knife a little too slowly, or trying to take on more than you were capable of handling on your own. Then you met Bucky.

You shake your head at that thought and open the pill bottle. It calls to you with promises of peace and you take 2 in your hand and pop them in your mouth, not even needing water to get them down anymore. It only takes a few minutes before they start to work, spreading calm tingles through your body. You wash your face and try to put your hair into a bun, but remember that Steve had probably left you a message. With a huff, you walk back to your bed and sit on the edge. You unlock your phone and click on the New Voicemail notification. Steve’s voice fills the speaker.

“Hey Y/N, it’s… uh… Steve. Obviously. I am not even sure if this is your number anymore, but…” he pauses for a long time, and you swear you hear a sniffle. “Something has happened. Tony is… Tony is gone, Y/N. He’s gone and we’re doing a memorial at the lake house tomorrow. On Saturday. He would have wanted you there, Y/N. We all want you there.” He pauses again, then clears his throat. “Please. Anyways. Uh. Bye.” The message ends and your heart stalls in your chest. You stare ahead, not blinking. A tear rolls from your eyes.

Tony was more like a father to you than your own father was, but you hadn’t talked to him in a few years. Not since the blip anyways. He called, just like Steve, but you never answered. You knew he could track you. He could have showed up any time he wanted, but you also knew that he respected your privacy and knew you needed space.

Thoughts race around your head, dulled by the pain medication that suns through your blood. You feel the walls start to close in and, with shaking hands and unsteady legs, you make your way to the kitchen, to the unopened bottle of vodka that sits on the back of the counter. You open it easily and take a long swig. It burns going down the back of your throat, but you don’t even care. You continue drinking until the bottle feels heavy in your hand. Soon, you feel your head start to swim and you barely make it to the couch before your legs give out and everything goes black.

You wake up in the middle of the night, having slept for almost 18 hours. You feel like shit, of course, your head pounding and your skin crawling. You shuffle to the bathroom, popping 3 more pills before splashing your face with water. You don’t even bother looking in the mirror this time. You close your eyes, steadying yourself, then crawl into bed and wait for the darkness to come again.

You wake up to the sun and wish you didn’t. You roll over and see that it is the next day. There was a part of you that wishes you had just slept through it, but fate wasn’t so nice this time. You lay awake in bed, not even sure if you are going to the memorial. Your black dress hangs in the closet, all pressed and ready, but you stare at the ceiling and weigh the need for closure with having to see Bucky again.

Bucky came into your life in its darkest moments. He gravitated toward you because, like himself, you had your own fair share of demons. You never looked at him like a monster because you knew that everyone just had to do what kept them alive. He was the first person to notice your drug problem and held your hand through the detox and everything that came along with it. You comforted him through his nightmares and helped him through his trauma.

In the end, though, you were too screwed up and he simply wasn’t ready. Everyone knew it was mutual, but when you said you needed to leave, no one questioned why. It was too hard being there, in the compound. At first, you kept in touch with Tony and Steve. But everyone seemed to be moving on and you were honestly happy for them.

Then the blip happened. Life descended into chaos all around you and it was a chance meeting with an old friend that brought the pills back into your life. You ran into him while getting lunch and decided to catch up. He had told you that he was a doctor now, and suggested you go see him about an old back injury that had flared up. It wasn’t until he handed you the prescription for oxy that it even dawned on you that you could get more pills. You held onto that prescription for weeks, staring at it every now and again, before you filled it. And it took weeks before you took the first one. All at once, though, the world slipped away, and you got a good nights’ sleep for the first time in years, and it spiraled from there.

You kept telling yourself you could always stop. But that bottle turned into another, then another, and when your friend stopped prescribing them for you, you turned to your neighbor who you knew dealt. He knew a guy who could get you what you needed and more, but you never said yes to anything besides oxy. Until a few weeks ago when you went to a rave, and you weren’t even sure what you had taken. The days since then have been filled with booze and pills and whatever else you could get your hands on to lose reality.

Now, though, standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom trying to make your face look less sick and trying to make your dress lay right when you were sure it fit correctly, not hanging off your bones awkwardly, you realize that you may have a problem. You sigh.

“A problem for another day,” you say out loud to yourself while popping 3 pills in your mouth, swallowing them with a swig of vodka.

By the time you get to the lake house your bones are shaking. From nervousness or the pills or something else entirely, but you just know you’re shaking. You stare out the windshield toward the house and decide you can’t do it. You’re sure that you’re going to pass out or something. You are ready to put the car back in drive when you hear a knock on your window. You glance over, blonde poofy hair and Steve Roger’s face. You sigh. You put the car in park and turn it off. You take a deep breath before opening your door.

“Hi,” he says softly, looking at you. If he notices your eyes or sunken face, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he wraps you in a bone crushing hug, which you chuckle at.

“Hi Steve,” you mumble into his shirt, hoping not to wipe off any of your makeup, but you’re pretty sure you do anyways.

“You came.” It’s not a question, but as he pulls away from you, he touches your shoulders softly, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that you really were there.

“I came.” Your words come out a little shaky, but Steve just places his hand in your own. He gives it a squeeze but doesn’t move.

“You’re shaking.” You yank your hand back, cursing the shakes, but you smile, hopefully convincingly.

“Just nervous,” you say, but you don’t think he buys it. He doesn’t say anything, though, just nods.

“Shall we?” he asks, gesturing toward the lake house. You take a deep breath and nod softly. You walk beside him, your knees shaking and your legs threatening to give out. By the time you reach the doors, you are sure you’re going to pass out.

“You okay, Y/N?” Steve asks as you sit on the bottom step of the stairs up to the house, concern lacing his voice.

“Mmhmm, just need a minute,” you squeak out, trying to breathe deeply and get the darkness on the edges of your periphery to disappear. You almost curse under your breath when he squats in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes are filled with concern, and you want to tell him to go inside, that you’ll catch up, that you’re fine, but you can’t get the words out. You feel like you’re floating, just above unconsciousness, and you can’t move. You can’t talk. You just sit and wait.

“Y/N?” Steve says, probably about ready to call Bruce to come help by the look in his eyes, but you nod weakly.

“I’m fine. Just a bit dizzy,” you lie, quietly. The darkness recedes from your vision, and you decide you’re okay to stand up. Steve scrambles to stand up and help but you know that you’ve spooked him. He knows something is up.

“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.” It comes out as a mumble, which you don’t mean for it to, but you’re tired and just want to sleep. You climb the steps, Steve’s hand on your arm, his other on your lower back as if he believes you’ll collapse any minute. You walk through the door to the main room and are met by the waiting eyes of the Avengers.

[buckystories-3]

Long Story Short, I Survived

Did someone order some angsty Steve x reader that turns into Bucky x reader?

The first morning without Steve beside you, after five years of having him next to you, is like being doused with cold water. One moment you’d been blissfully asleep, warm under the duvet that still smelled of him, and the next–well, reality could be colder than any river of ice. He’d chosen her, chosen to go back to where he was really from. Maybe he was never yours to begin with, maybe you were living on borrowed time, safe in his arms.

Life restarts slowly without him. At first, it’s not much more than eating, sleeping, and doing what you need to survive. Surviving is…you don’t have words for what surviving is after. Steve is still around, hovering outside the apartment you’d once inhabited together. He drinks coffee in the café across from the building, lets himself in once or twice a week to make sure you’re alive and the place hasn’t completely gone to seed. You scream at him the first time, scream we were happy!, insist he should’ve stayed. The bastard ignores you.

Steve keeps cleaning, you keep surviving.

Keep reading

[buckystories-3]

Not You Again- Masterlist (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Years after escaping from Hydra experimentation, y/n goes on a Tinder date with none other than the Winter Soldier himself. With her powers now reveled to the Avengers, y/n is going to have to spend a lot more time with the one man she truly hates.

y/n is used sparingly, female reader but no physical descriptions, has some hella sick ghost animal powers

AO3, if that’s your style

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Bonus Chapter 2.5

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

To be continued!

Let me know if anyone wants to be tagged in updates!

NOTE: There are old versions of Chapter Two and Bonus Chapter 2.5, which are now no longer parts of the story.

[buckystories-3]

Remember

Chapter 4

Remember master list

A/N: I am not sure if anyone is still interested but here is chapter 4...Sorry! Also very sorry about typos and spelling errors. 

     The winter soldier had been gone for almost three weeks now, and with him gone, a new type of training began for me. It started small. I would be pulled out of my cell and locked alone in a room with only a table in the middle. The camera was always in the same place, and I knew the mirror wall was not a mirror on both sides. If I squint hard enough I could see the glow of the lightbulb on the other side, and the tall shadows of the hydra men watching. The tasks they ordered were simple. Use my power to move whatever was on the table, sometimes small things like a pencil, sometimes big things like suitcases filled with heavy objects inside. I knew they were testing my abilities, seeing just how far I could go. When they felt I was ready for a challenge, they would move me to a caged-in yard. It was filled with different sized things like cars, big trucks, even concrete blocks. It felt stupid but I’d move whatever they wanted me to as long as I could stay outside and feel the sun on my skin for just one minute more. It was all very routine. Move stuff, then go. But then it wasn’t so simple.

     “707, pick up the gun.” Himmel ordered. I stared at the black gun laying on the metal table. I reached out with my shaky hand an-

     “Not with your hands 707.” I nodded, I focused my energy, radiating down to my palms, tingling in my fingers. Red energy glowed around them and wrapped around the gun, slowly lifting it in the air.

     “Good. Now aim.” I turned my body towards the red target across the room, the gun following my hands. I looked at Himmel, ready for his order.

     “Fire.” The trigger squeezed and the bullet flew striking in the center of the red circle. I moved my hand to guide the gun back on the table. A large hand wrapped around my shoulder and it took everything in me to not flinch away from his touch.

     “Very good 707. You may go back now. Rest up, you will have a challenging day tomorrow.” He said, his tone dismissive. I nodded and turned to walk out of the shooting range. Two soldiers were there waiting to take me back to my cell. I wanted to go back, and ask what he meant by a challenging day, but I knew I wouldn’t get an answer and likely end up injured for questioning his authority. I was taken back to my cell and stayed there until I fell asleep.

The next day began much the same as any other day. Wake up call, breakfast, and taken back to the mirror room. This is where things began to put me on edge. There were many people in the room today, and the mirror wall was no longer showing my reflection, instead it was a thick window with even more men in suits all sitting neatly in rows and leaning in close to each other to say things I couldn’t hear. Himmel sat in a chair in the corner, next to him was the table with a black gun laying on it’s side.

     “707 today marks a new chapter. We have seen your capabilities and they have exceeded our expectations. We only have one final test for you.” He stood up, picked the gun off the table, and slowly walked towards me. With one hand he grabbed my hand and with his other, he placed the gun in my hand. The cold metal weighed heavy in my palm and a terrible feeling sat in my stomach. The doors opened again as two soldiers dragged in a man, fighting on his knees. A cloth bag tied around his head to hide his face. They dragged him until he sat kneeled across the room. I looked down at the gun in my hand and back at himmel. No...they didn’t want me to-no, please.

     “I...I don’t understand..” I stared down at the gun in my hand, and tried to erase my assumptions from my mind. Himmel placed a hand on my shoulder, and squeezed.

     “Shoot him,” He said calmly, looking straight ahead at the man kneeled across the room. I looked up at the man, and then to himmel.

     “N-no..” I whispered, sweat beginning to form at the back of my neck from fear. Himmel’s hand squeezed tighter around my shoulder. His cold eyes slowly moved to mine.

     “I gave you orders 707, shoot him. Now.” He said in a threatening voice. I dropped the gun at my feet, and ignored every instinct in my body that screamed for me to self preserve and follow orders.

    “I have done everything you asked, bring me objects, I’ll move all of them, I’ll shoot as many targets as you want. But please, not this, I-I can’t shoot him, ple-” a slap across my face immediately shut me up.

    “I said shoot him!” Himmel yelled, and I flinched away from him. My body was on high alert, but I stood my ground and looked at him definitely. I would not shoot that man.

     “707 is no longer compliant. Wipe her, and we will try again.” Himmel stated, calm as before. My body instantly froze in fear, and I frantically watched as soldiers approached me. Before I could react, a blow to the back of my head dropped me to my knees and the world began to spin. I tried to refocus and get up but the soldiers were already grabbing my arms and dragging me up.

     “No please! I’ll be good, I promise!” I yelled at Himmel as I was dragged out of the room. I was dragged down the dark hall and thrown into the room, the chair sat neatly in the center. I am not going back in that chair! I screamed and with all the force I could muster up, threw my body against the soldier grabbing my arm. The action caught him off guard and I thought back to compat practice with the winter soldier. Focus! I could practically hear him shout in my head. I grabbed the soldier's arm and used my small size to roll my back on his, breaking his arm behind him. He dropped to the floor crying in pain. Someone grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked hard enough to slam me down. My head slammed into the concrete. I blinked furiously trying to clear my vision. I crawled backwards, desperate to get away from the group of approaching soldiers. Someone was yelling but the ringing in my ear wouldn’t let me clearly hear. I fist slammed into my cheekbone, pain seared through my face and before I could I breathe another fist slammed into my eye, blinding me. I tried to get up but received a sharp kick to my stomach. I curled in on myself to protect my body, as if I could.

     “Please stop!” I cried out, but the blows continued to rain on my body.

     “STOP!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, a chorus of cracks was heard all around the room. The room was silent except for the sound of my crying. A clapping echoed on the room. I opened my eyes, but I stayed still on the floor, the pain not allowing me to move. All around me were bodies laying on the floor, bodies of the soldiers, their necks all in unnatural ways. Broken and mangled in horrible directions. My hands glowing red. Across the room Himmel approached me, a big smile on his face.

     “Well done 707, you continue to impress me. This is more than what we could have hoped for.” He laughed and kneeled down by me. “There is the beast I knew was hiding beneath the innocent act.” He whispered low enough only for me to hear. Hot tears streamed down my face and shock took over my body. What have I done? I killed them...I killed all of them...I am a monster. Sobs wracked my body and escaped in pained screams. I curled in on myself, but a new group of soldiers entered the room and Himmel instructed them to take me out of here. A soldier approached me slowly. My eyes opened, and anger surged through me. I raised my hands, red dancing between my fingers, and I shoved the red energy, the soldier flew back and slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch. My body began to function on auto pilot as I did the same with any soldier that approached me. I couldn’t focus on anything that wasn’t survival. Soon the soldiers stopped trying to get near me and I leaned back against the wall, hiding my face from them.

     “Get him down here.” I could Himmel speak, and heard a response through his radio. I wanted to try and decipher what he meant but I was just too tired. I closed my eyes and let myself drift. A hand on my shoulder snapped me back to reality and I raised my hands, the red illuminating the dark room.

     “Hey, hey it’s me, it’s me, calm down.” The winter soldier held his hands out in front of me, showing me he had no weapon or intent on grabbing me. No, this wasn’t the winter soldier, this was James, I could see it in his eyes. His blue eyes meeting mine in calming waves. I could feel my body still shaking but the red glow was dimming around my hands until it was gone. He took a step closer, another, and one more until he kneeled in front of me.

     “You know I won’t hurt you,” he whispered so quietly only I could hear. His arms wrapped around me, the metal cold under my knees, and he picked me up quickly. I hid my face in his chest and let the tears spill.

     “I’ll take her back” he muttered to Himmel and the others. He stepped over the dead bodies scattered around the room and the soldiers stepped aside as he walked down the hall leading to my cell. It was a quiet walk and I breathed in his smell and my body soaked up his heat. He gently set me down on my mattress, he covered me with the thin sheet, and pulled a vial of clear liquid and a needle out of his jacket. Morphine, I was eager to feel the numbness again. I allowed him to do the same as he did last time, injecting the liquid in my arm. He stood up ready to leave.

     “You were gone so long,” I said quietly. He looked down at me, took a deep breath, and sat down next to me. It was hard to see him in the darkness, but I could still see his outline as he leaned his head back against the wall.

     “I had unexpected challenges.” he muttered lowly.

     “I just killed a lot of men, I don’t want to think about it. Please, I could use a distraction,” I prompted quietly, desperate to just hear his voice after so long.

     “ On my mission, I fought someone, someone that I knew a long time ago. I didn’t know I knew him until I hit my head pretty bad, must have knocked some memories loose or something.” He looked up at the ceiling, reliving his memories.

     “Were you close?” I asked quietly, I wanted him to keep talking, to stay.

     “I considered him my brother.” He closed his eyes and sighed, his body remained tense.

     “Do you remember his name?” I was afraid to ask, unsure if it would trigger him or something.

     “Steven Grant Rogers.”

[buckystories-3]

Empathy- MASTERLIST

Pairing- Bucky x Empath!Reader

Summary- Y/N is an empath tasked with helping the Avengers but healing only comes if you want it. 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3