dollyrouge

[dollyrouge]

“Do you think about me?” You asked. You shuffled the ivory sheets back to face JASON. The question gnawed at your heart and festered inside you.

The dim room's only source of light is the hanging alabaster moon in the obsidian sky. Its glow illuminated every crook of his face laid next to you.

Surely it is a privilege to have a seat in his mind, tangled in his thoughts—a never ending cycle of you. All the messy parts of yourself laid bare in his watchful gaze. The stray hairs and uneven, crooked smiles. The sly hands that barely graze the corners of his mind.

“Sometimes it feels like I think about you every minute,” he whispered.

The words he truly wants to say get lodged in his throat. His eyes shy away in shame of the fact he cannot tell you the maddening ache you spark in his heart. It’s the most beguiling, damnable thing, but there it is. You hold the match—light it—doesn’t matter.

He already burns for you.

“Kiss me,” you whispered back.

He smiled, a pearl-iridescent grin that lures you in. “Bossy.”

“Kiss me.”

“Are you sure?” The corners of his smile curled, turning into a teasing smirk. “I didn't think you were this needy for me—”

Your hands grasped the fabric of his collar and yanked him down, something you've grown comfortable to do—something he wishes you continue to do.

Your lips capture his. A dance ensues that he's grown addicted to. Your plum lips feel addictive to him—a saccharine drug he's willingly to lay down his life for, an altar he kneels for.

“I love kissing you.” You murmured.

So does he.

Damn it, so does he.

He opened his mouth. The words are still on the tip of his tongue. “You make me feel… you make me feel.” His desperation sits heavy on his heart. “I don't think you understand how much that means. I want to be for you what you are for me—the reason you light up, I want to make you laugh, I want to kiss your shoulders and see the grin and blush on your pretty face as I lean back. I want to do everything you do to me.”

His words rest in the air like a confession upon an altar, whispered and prayed to—to the only holy being he's ever known—you.

“You already do. Now sleep. I'll fight off the bad dreams if they come to get you.”

[dollyrouge]

“you could’ve killed him,” you mutter, dabbing at the split in his lip. jason shrugs, as though it barely stings. “he had it coming.”“you can’t just go ahead and beat up every guy who says something gross,” your thumb brushes the edge of a bruise that’s already blooming sickly green and purple across his jaw. it doesn’t make him any less beautiful. if anything, it just makes you want to kiss him better. you want to — god, you want to — but you know you’re supposed to be talking sense into him instead, like you’re not two seconds from caving in to the urge to snog him until he forgets why he threw the first punch.

“you didn’t have to hit him that hard,”

“yeah, i did,” he says, dead serious. “disrespecting you’s a valid reason to get his teeth knocked out.”

you glare reproachfully at your boyfriend, but it’s useless. he’s already stopped listening, green eyes fixed on your mouth. “idiot,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. but you don’t resist when he hooks two fingers into your belt loop and pulls you closer, so that you’re standing between his legs now. the curve of his mouth still tilted in a half-smirk as he looks up at you.

“you’re makin’ it real hard to regret it.”

[dollyrouge]

Jason had always been too much.

Too loud, too fast, too stubborn. He could never just be in the way that people seemed to want him to. Even now, years after resurrection, after countless fights and the League’s brutal remaking of his body, after the Pit had burned away all softness, he still caught himself moving like that scrawny, half-starved kid from Crime Alley — slipping between shadows, ducking his head to avoid attention, bracing for the next blow.

But he wasn’t small anymore.

He could see it in the way people looked at him — sidelong glances, half-hidden wariness. He towered now, broad-shouldered and heavy with muscle. A wall of a man. Built like a weapon.

And sometimes he hated it.

There were nights when his body felt like a costume he couldn't take off — too large, too loud even in stillness. He’d lie awake with his hand curled against his ribs, willing his heart to slow, not even sure why he felt so wrong in his own skin.

But not with you.

You didn’t flinch when he brushed past you in tight hallways. You didn’t shrink from his size, or his moods, or his silences. You had a way of just… existing beside him, calm and steady, like the eye of a hurricane.

It was late when it happened. A long patrol, a bruised shoulder, dirt still under his fingernails. He didn’t say much when he walked in, just stripped off the Red Hood armor piece by piece, until he was bare and quiet and aching.

You were already in bed, curled in loose sheets, and when he sank into the mattress beside you, something in him gave out. All that strength, all that careful control — gone in an instant. He reached for you instinctively, spooning behind you like muscle memory, tucking his face against your neck.

But then you turned in his arms.

“No,” you whispered gently, not unkind. Your hands were warm against his chest, guiding him, shifting him — and before he could ask what you were doing, he was the one being cradled.

You pulled him in, let him rest his head on your chest, your arm curling over his wide back like you could hold all of him — and the strangest thing was, you did.

No one had ever held him like that.

Not Bruce. Not Alfred. Not anyone.

He wasn’t a weapon here. Not a soldier, not a ghost, not a lost Robin who had clawed his way back from death. He was just Jason. He was your Jason.

You carded your fingers through his hair, slow and unhurried, and asked softly, “Wanna take a bath with me in the morning?”

He nodded against your collarbone, eyes closed. His breath evened out.

It was the best night of sleep he’d had in months.

He didn’t say it out loud — not yet — but he was possessive. Fiercely, utterly yours. But not in the way people might assume.

He didn’t need to own you.

He needed to belong to you.

Every night he came home and saw the light still on, your smile still waiting, he felt the weight in his chest ease just a little more. He could live with the monster in his mirror, the blood on his gloves, the ache in his bones — if it meant this. If it meant you.

He didn’t care if he was your first. Didn’t care about perfect love stories.

He just wanted to be your last.

And if you’d let him, he’d be yours forever.

[dollyrouge]

you find him in your apartment. again. window cracked. boots still on. jacket slung over the back of your chair like it belongs there.

he’s sitting on your couch like he owns it, flipping through a half-read paperback he definitely didn’t bring. probably something you left lying around — some crime thriller he’s already tearing apart in his head.

“make yourself at home,” you say, dropping your keys.

he doesn’t look up. “already did. your lock’s still crap, by the way.”

“you say that every time you break in.”

“because it’s still true.” he finally glances at you, eyes tired but sharp. “what if i was someone else?”

“then you’d be bleeding on the floor right now.”

his mouth twitches. “cute.”

you toe off your shoes, drop your bag, move toward the kitchen. “what do you want, jason?”

“wow. straight to the point. no hi jay, how was patrol? want something to drink? here, take my couch and trample my boundaries some more?”

“you don’t drink anything that isn’t ninety percent caffeine or eighty proof.”

“true,” he says, stretching his legs out. “still rude.”

you eye him from the kitchen. his holsters are off, but the rest of the suit’s still there — the compression shirt, scuffed boots, scraped knuckles. he’s vibrating under the surface like he hasn’t slept in two days and isn’t planning to.

“you get hit again?” you ask, softer.

he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “nothing important.”

“so yes.”

“do you want a play-by-play? i can act it out, real dramatic. throw myself against a wall. bleed on your furniture.”

“you already bled on my rug last month.”

“and it really tied the room together.”

you exhale through your nose. grab a glass of water, bring it over. he takes it without comment, drinks half in one go.

“why are you here, jason?”

this time, he doesn’t have a joke ready. his fingers tap the side of the glass, jaw tight.

“quiet,” he mutters. “it’s quiet here.”

you sit beside him. not close. not far.

“you ever gonna just ask to stay?” you ask.

“don’t need to.” he leans his head back, eyes closed now. “you always let me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“yeah,” he says, voice rough. “i know.”

the silence stretches. his foot nudges yours, casual, like he didn’t mean to. like he did.

“you gonna yell at me if i fall asleep here?”

“depends.”

“on what?”

“if you do that thing where you mutter weird half-words and twitch like you’re being electrocuted.”

he opens one eye. “that’s called trauma. look it up.”

“ever heard of therapy?”

“yeah. didn’t vibe with being psychoanalyzed by someone who’s never been shot in the face. weird, right?”

you huff a laugh. he shifts a little closer, not quite touching.

“you still smell like gunpowder,” you say.

“better than blood.”

“barely.”

he doesn’t look at you right away. just stares ahead like he’s watching something you can’t see. then, like it costs him, he says,

“couldn’t sleep.”

that’s all he gives you. not can I crash here? not I don’t want to be alone. just that.

but with jason, that’s enough.

you don’t ask. you just nod toward the blanket on the armrest.

“you want that, or are you gonna steal mine like last time?”

“wasn’t stealing. it was strategic heat distribution.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you say that a lot,” he murmurs, already leaning back into the cushions.

and still — he doesn’t leave.

not for hours.

[dollyrouge]

you always knew your boyfriend was good-looking. that was never the problem. it’s just… sometimes, sitting across from JASON in public, it starts to feel feel like a cosmic mix-up, like you’ve wandered into a life meant for someone else. the girls sitting two booths over doesn’t help either. they’re giggling behind french-tipped hands, three pairs of eyes glued to jason as if he’s something decadent on the menu—something they’re hoping gets delivered to their table instead.

“he’s so hot,” one of them says, not even trying to be subtle. “oh my god, look at those biceps.” of course they’re looking at him. he’s beautiful. jason’s got the kind of face that makes everyone go stupid, and a body to match. throat dry, you drop your gaze to see that the ice in your drink have long melted, the straw squeaking against the bottom as you sip at nothing. the sound is thin and papery, an admission of your own awkwardness. jason stands, reaching for his jacket.

“you good?”

“yeah. just a bit tired, is all.” the skeptical look on his face tells you that he doesn’t believe a word of it. but instead of calling you out, he drapes the heavy leather over your shoulders.

you hadn’t even noticed the chill until it was gone.

outside, jason walks beside you, close enough that your arms might touch, but they don’t. usually, you don’t mind the space. it isn’t until you’ve made it halfway down the block that he finally says, “you’re doing that thing again.” there’s no rom-com script to fall back on. so instead of a coy what thing? you reply, “i’m fine. just…” your eyes drift to an oddly shaped crack on the pavement. “sometimes i think you could do better. that’s all.”

his frown deepens—not in irritation, not even exasperation. just tired. it pains him to hear it, because it’s not the first time you’ve said something like this. “unless you think i’ve got bad taste,” he deadpans, “i’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk shit about someone i care about.” then, his arms are around you—bridging that small but seemingly infinite space. one hand settles at the small of your back, the other gently cups the back of your head. a gesture he’s done a hundred times, but still means it every time.“i’m yours,” he murmurs into your hair. “you get that or no?”

and just like that, your chest doesn’t ache the same way it did.

꣑ৎ ‎ :‎ masterlist﹒꒱ requested by the lovely @soulsforsales

[dollyrouge]

Margin of Error | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You skip the med bay after a mission that left you bruised and bleeding to keep Bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood, injury, self-treated wounds, dislocated shoulder, medical trauma, mentions of nerve damage, panic responses, protective!Bucky

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: been running on caffeine, stress, and the vague memory of sleep the past few days and wrote this instead of doing literally anything productive. i’ll probably regret it tomorrow but i’m sure you all will thank me for this. do something gentle for yourself today!

────────────────────────

The door clicked shut behind you, too loud in the hush of 3 a.m.

You winced, not from the sound but from the blooming ache along your ribs—a dull, thudding thing that had grown teeth somewhere between the quinjet and the car ride home. You hadn’t bothered with the med bay. You couldn’t. Not when you knew what it would trigger.

A simple scan, a single ping, and Bucky would know. No matter where he was. No matter what state or country he was in. The notification would be flagged priority, something about shared permissions and ‘partner alerts’. And you knew him, knew the way he’d abandon his own mission, skip debrief, tear across continents just to put eyes on you.

You couldn’t let him do that. Not again. Not after last time.

The scrape of your jacket zipper echoed through the apartment as you peeled it off. One shoulder dipped lower than the other, dislocated and popped back into place two hours ago with a groan and a tree trunk for leverage. Your shirt was tacky with blood. Not all of it yours, but enough that you didn’t want to think too hard about it.

The apartment was dark. Not just empty-dark, but heavy. The lights were off, blinds drawn, the kind of quiet that meant no one had touched the space in hours. Maybe days. You exhaled, shallow.

Good. He was still gone.

You padded through the kitchen barefoot, leaving a faint smear of red on the tile that you’d wipe up later. 

You opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers. Your grip was going. Blood loss, maybe. Or nerve fatigue. You weren’t sure.

You sipped. Swallowed. Braced your palm against the counter. Waited for the floor to stop tilting before heading to the bathroom.

First aid kit. Bathroom cabinet. Top shelf. You knew the drill.

The light over the bathroom sink flickered when you flipped it on. You stared at yourself in the mirror for too long, trying to make sense of what was staring back.

Dark circles. A bruised jaw. Dried blood crusted beneath your nose.

Not the worst you’d looked.

The pain flared as you bent down to grab a towel, wrapping it around your palm where a shard of glass had made itself a home just beneath the skin. Stupid mistake. Rookie mistake. You muttered under your breath, pulled open the bathroom drawer.

But the med kit wasn’t there.

Your brows furrowed. You checked the cabinet under the sink, then the one behind the mirror. Nothing. You opened the linen closet next, rummaging through shelves of folded towels and spare shampoo bottles, making too much noise—plastic rattling, wood creaking under your weight.

And then—

A sound pricked your ears. Soft, but unmistakable. A dull thud. Followed by the shift of a floorboard.

You stilled.

Every part of your body snapped back to attention, like it had only been waiting for an excuse. Your breath stilled in your chest. Blood surged hot through your ears.

Not an empty apartment.

You dropped the towel in your hand.

Your knife was still sheathed on your thigh. Part of you had forgotten it was there. But you reached for it without thinking, fingers locking around the hilt, thumb flicking the clasp. The steel was still warm from your body, the leather tacky with blood.

Another creak. Closer now.

You stepped back from the cabinet, blade drawn, posture squared—not wide enough to agitate any wounds, but firm enough to hold your weight. If someone had followed you home, if the mission had trailed into something worse...

A figure stepped into the doorway, framed by the soft glow spilling from the bathroom mirror.

Bucky was shirtless, barefoot. Half-asleep. Hair tousled. Eyes fogged with sleep but rapidly clearing. The moment he saw you—saw the blood, the blade, the way you were braced like an animal cornered—

He stopped short. Hands up, palms open.

“Hey, hey—baby, it’s just me.”

You didn’t lower the knife. You couldn’t move.

Because your brain couldn’t reconcile it immediately. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t home. He was supposed to be halfway across Eastern Europe dealing with something messy and classified and very much not here.

He took a few steps closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded thing that hadn’t decided if it needed help or if it still intended to bite.

You didn’t realize your breathing had gone ragged until he was in front of you, reaching out slowly. His left hand came up first, the metal one, movements practiced and calm, palm open. No sudden movements. The kind of control that came from too many years disarming bombs.

“Sweetheart, can I take it?” he asked quietly, eyes locked on yours, not the knife. “Please.”

You hesitated but, slowly, your fingers began to unfurl. The blade shook once, then slipped from your hand into his.

He caught it with care. Set it down on the counter beside you.

You tried to speak. Swallowed instead. Your throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere behind potentially cracked ribs.

“I thought you weren’t home till Friday.”

“Got back yesterday.”

“You didn’t—why didn’t you call?”

“I was gonna surprise you. I thought…” He trailed off, gaze lowering to your shirt, your side, the blood. “Christ.”

He stepped back like he couldn’t stand seeing it up close. Ran a hand down his face. Metal fingers scraped against his jaw.

You didn’t say anything. You just leaned on the wall like the exhaustion was catching up.

Bucky stared for a moment longer. Then, quietly, firmly, “Sit.”

“What?”

“Please sit down before you fall over.”

His voice was gentler this time. Not just quiet, but low in a way that coaxed more than commanded, like he was trying not to shatter whatever thread was holding you upright.

The porcelain was cold against your thighs as you lowered yourself onto the closed toilet seat, hands braced on either side of you, breath sharp through your teeth when your ribs caught against gravity.

Bucky knelt in front of you, the light from the mirror catching the jagged scar that ran from the edge of his collarbone to the meat of his shoulder.

His eyes flicked across your body, cataloging damage. That precision never left him. One look and he knew what was surface-level and what was deeper. His jaw flexed as he looked at the soaked side of your shirt.

He stood, moved fast, but quiet. Like he was afraid if he took too long you’d vanish or pass out or both. You watched him go., the broad line of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He moved like he was still halfway in a war zone, even barefoot in your shared apartment.

He was back before you had time to think about closing your eyes. Med kit in one hand, a fresh bottle of water in the other.

“Drink.” He held it out, waited until you took it.

You cracked the cap. Sipped. It felt colder than before. Or maybe your hands had gone hotter. Shaking again, too.

Bucky crouched in front of you, laying out supplies like it was muscle memory. He didn’t speak right away. Not until he’d pulled a pair of shears from the kit and slid the blunt edge beneath your shirt hem.

“Gonna cut this off you.”

“S'fine. Didn’t even like this one.”

A small sound escaped him—half exhale, half broken chuckle. “Still. Hate seein’ you in blood.”

The blade sliced clean. Fabric peeled away. He didn’t flinch at the wound beneath. Just cleaned it, steady and efficient. No dramatics. Just careful hands and the occasional furrow of his brow when you hissed between your teeth.

You weren’t watching the injury. You were watching him.

The line between his brows. The way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back. How his hands never hesitated, but his eyes never lingered too long either. Like looking too close made it worse.

Finally, after he’d flushed the gash and applied a waterproof bandage, he sat back on his heels. Rested his forearms on his knees. Looked at you.

“Why didn’t you go to med bay?”

Not angry. Not demanding. Just…there. A quiet question hanging between you.

You swallowed. Didn’t answer right away.

“I asked Hill to scrub my exit from the mission log,” you said eventually. “Went out through a side hangar. Didn’t even file my return time. Just…got in the car and came home.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not what I asked.”

You pressed the bottle to your lips again. It gave you something to do. Something to anchor you.

“If I showed up at med bay, it would’ve triggered the system,” you said softly. “Partner alert. You would’ve gotten pinged. Would’ve seen the scan, seen the treatment order, the vitals. You’d have thought—”

“I would’ve known,” he interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “That’s the point.”

You glanced at him. “And what would you have done, Buck?”

He didn’t answer.

You let the silence answer for him.

“You would’ve left wherever you were. You would’ve dropped everything. You wouldn’t have slept, or eaten, or breathed until you got back here. And I—I didn’t want that.”

He exhaled slowly. Ran his hand down his face again. You could tell it was habit, a tell. One of the few he hadn’t trained out of himself.

“I get it,” he said finally. “I do. But, baby…you don’t have to protect me from your pain.”

Your throat tightened.

“I wasn’t trying to protect you,” you said. “I was trying to spare you.”

His gaze lifted. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.” You shook your head. “One’s love. The other’s fear.”

He sat with that. Let the words settle. Then leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. 

“You don’t have to be strong when you’re home.”

“I wasn’t trying to be strong,” you murmured. “I was trying not to make you hurt with me.”

His hand came up, thumb brushing your cheek. The skin there was warm, too warm. Maybe a fever. Maybe just him.

“I’d rather hurt with you than without you.”

The words were quiet. Rough around the edges. But they landed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his metal hand settling carefully over your thigh. The weight of it made something in your chest loosen.

“I know what this life costs,” he said. “I’ve paid it too many times. I just—” His voice faltered. “I don’t want to get a message at two in the morning and find out you’re three floors underground across the world with a code red next to your name.”

You nodded once. Just enough for him to see.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, Buck.”

That seemed to ease something in him. Not all the way, but enough.

You reached for his hand then, the flesh one. Twined your fingers through his. They were still a little cold from rinsing off the blood.

He squeezed back.

“Come to bed,” he said.

“I should shower first.”

“I’ll help.”

You arched a brow. “Are you trying to make it sexy?”

He huffed a dry sound, shaking his head. “No. ‘M trying to make sure you don’t pass out standing up.”

Fair.

He squeezed your hand again, firmer this time. Then released it to kneel beside you, one hand steadying your knee while the other reached behind you to turn on the shower. The spray stuttered to life, sharp against the tile, steam already beginning to curl at the edges of the mirror.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a moment.

The idea of standing felt distant. Like something your body used to know how to do, but had since unlearned. Everything hurt. The kind of hurt that came with deep tissue damage, bone-bruising impact, whatever internal bruising you hadn’t dared look at too closely yet.

But Bucky was already moving.

He stood again, leaned over to the cabinet for a spare towel, then turned back to you with the kind of gentleness he never gave anyone else. Only you. Always you.

“Up we go.”

You braced your good arm on the counter and let him lift you—not because you couldn’t, but because fighting him on it would’ve taken more energy than you had. His arm wrapped around your back, careful to avoid your ribs. You leaned against him as he helped you to your feet.

The room felt too warm now. The steam was climbing fast.

“You got this?” he asked, voice low, right at your ear.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. “Just… slow.”

He nodded once and helped you shuffle toward the shower. He helped you peel what was left of your shirt off, eyes never lingering where they didn’t need to, hands always checking for resistance before moving again.

When your left arm jolted mid-lift, you hissed through your teeth.

Bucky stilled.

“What?” His voice sharpened, immediate.

“I—” You swallowed. “Popped my shoulder earlier. In the field. Had to get it back in before exfil.”

He went still.

“You did it yourself?”

You nodded. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you couldn’t quite raise above chest level now. You could see the gears turning in his mind—injury assessment, timeline, recovery window, potential complications.

“You could’ve torn the rotator cuff,” he said flatly. “Could’ve pinched the nerve. You dislocate at that angle and it severs the bundle near your clavicle, and you’re not just numb—you’re done. That’s a full paralysis risk.”

“I know,” you said, voice small. “I didn’t have another option.”

“There’s always an option,” he muttered, not at you, but to himself. “There should’ve been someone with you.”

“There wasn’t.”

You met his eyes. He looked away first.

He helped you out of the rest of your clothes in silence. Unbuckled the strap at your thigh. Peeled the blood-stiffened fabric down your hips, careful not to drag against any bruises. When you reached for the support bar to step into the shower, your fingers trembled.

Warm water slid down your spine. Over your ribs. Across the bruises you hadn’t seen yet. You stood there, letting it hit you, head tilted down, hair plastered to your skull. Blood spiraled at your feet. A rust-colored helix circling the drain.

“Here,” Bucky said quietly, stepping in behind you. His sweatpants were gone now, boxers too, but he kept to the far side of the stall until you leaned into him without needing to speak.

He took the body wash from the shelf, worked it into a lather with slow, circular movements. The scent was familiar—his, not yours.

He  worked around the bandages he’d already placed, avoiding the raw edge of the worst wounds. But when he hit the spot beneath your ribs, your breath stuttered.

His hand stilled.

“You breathing okay?”

You nodded.

He waited.

“…Mostly.”

“D’you think anything’s cracked?”

“No.”

“You feel tingling anywhere? Pins and needles?”

You nodded once. “A little in the fingers.”

He exhaled, pressed a slow kiss to the curve of your neck—not for comfort, not for softness, but something deeper. Like an apology. Like sorrow. Like grief at what you had to do just to make it back to him.

“You need to let someone run a scan,” he said, voice low against your skin. “Nerve damage can build. It gets worse over time. You’ll lose strength, coordination—”

“You know I hate the med bay.”

“I know.” He kissed your temple this time. “But I’d rather you go willingly than when I have to carry you there.”

That silence between you rang louder than before. Steam coiled around your bodies. Water ran down your spine.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” you said quietly.

“Too late.”

You lifted a hand to his face. Touched his cheek, thumb brushing the scar there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

“You’re here,” he corrected. “That’s not the same.”

You didn’t argue.

Because he was right.

He reached for the shampoo next, squeezing some into his hands and carefully working it through your hair. Gentle, slow circles. He tilted your chin back beneath the stream when it was time to rinse. You kept your eyes closed the entire time. Let him take care of you in all the ways you wouldn’t let anyone else.

When the water turned cold, he shut it off, wrapped a towel around your shoulders. Dried your arms like you couldn’t do it yourself. You let him.

He guided you out of the tub, hand firm on your waist.

“I’m carrying you to bed,” he said.

“I can walk.”

“Don’t care.”

He toweled off your hair a bit, ruffled it gently, and bent to press his lips to your sternum. As if he had to physically remind himself you were here, alive, still warm.

And then he picked you up.

Lifted you with both arms like it cost him nothing, though you knew his back probably ached from his last op, that he hadn’t even finished unpacking yet. You didn’t resist. Your arms looped around his neck, tucking your face into the place just beneath his ear.

The bedroom was dark, just like the rest of the apartment. He hadn’t turned on a single light since stepping out of the bathroom. 

He paused beside the bed, nudging the rumpled blanket back with one arm before lowering you gently onto your side. His touch was slow, like he was afraid too much movement might split something open again. Your breath hitched when your ribs protested the shift, and his hands stilled instantly.

“Sorry,” he said, voice hushed, thick. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer that. Just adjusted the pillows behind you, pulled the covers over you, then crawled in on the other side—not climbing over you like he might’ve on a normal night, not brushing it off with a flirt or a laugh. He took the long way around. 

You felt the mattress dip under his weight.

Then, the weight of his arm—the metal one—sliding under you. A tentative pause. Then the warmth of his other arm curling around your waist, hand settling just above the bandages he’d wrapped himself. 

You moved, leaned in, slow and instinctive. Let your head rest against his shoulder, your hand splay across the space between his ribs. He exhaled, and you felt it vibrate through his chest.

“Cold?” he asked quietly.

“A little.”

“‘Kay. Gimme a sec.”

He adjusted, drew you tighter, pulling the blankets closer around you both. His flesh fingers found the back of your neck and rubbed soft, slow circles there. He always ran warmer than you—something about his body trying to regulate the metal of his arm and the serum in his veins—and you leaned into it now, greedy for it.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

“I didn’t like waking up to you not being there,” he said softly. “Didn’t like the quiet.”

You blinked up at him.

“I thought you were asleep when I came in.”

“I was.” A short breath. “Too deep. Think that’s what scared me. That I didn’t hear you come in at first. That I wasn’t ready.”

“You don’t have to be ready all the time, Buck.”

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “I do when it comes to you.”

You shifted your hand across his chest. Felt the hard flutter of his heart. Too fast for a man lying still.

He swallowed. “You came home bleeding. And I didn’t feel it.”

“You were exhausted.”

“I was asleep.”

There was no self-forgiveness in his voice. Just something close to shame.

“You’re not a sensor,” you said gently. “You’re not a failsafe. You’re a person, Bucky. One who deserves rest.”

You nuzzled closer, burying your nose in the place just under his collarbone where the skin was softest. He let out a quiet sound when you did, like he hadn’t realized how much tension he was holding until you settled there.

You wondered if he ever truly relaxed when you were hurt.

“I didn’t want to come home like this,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. You felt him shift, just a fraction, enough that his hand could move from your waist to your back, the pads of his fingers drawing slow, idle lines across the blanket there. 

“I know,” he said.

You let the silence return for a moment. Let it press down, warm and clean and unsharpened. There were no bombs in this bed. No shadows behind the door. No mission timers running out.

Just his heartbeat. Your breath. The soreness in your limbs. The whisper of fabric between you.

“You know what’s weird?” you said, voice thin and drifting.

“Hm?”

“That I didn’t even think about you until I got back here.”

He went still.

“I mean, of course I thought of you. Not like that. But in the moment. The worst of it. When I realized I was bleeding and alone and probably too far from help—I didn’t see your face. Didn’t flash to you like some cinematic dying thought. I just got practical. Tactical. Kept moving. Like that part of me doesn’t exist until I stop.”

You heard his exhale. Long. Slow.

“That’s not weird,” he said finally. “That’s how you stay alive.”

You tilted your chin slightly, enough to look up at him. His face was shadowed in the dark, but you could see his eyes—open, fixed on the ceiling, lashes still wet from steam.

“That part of me scares me a little,” you admitted.

He didn’t flinch.

“I like that part of you,” he said.

You blinked. “You do?”

He nodded once, chin grazing the top of your head.

“I like all your parts,” he said, and somehow it didn’t sound even remotely flirtatious. “Even the brutal ones. The ones that patch bullet holes in the dark and walk three miles with a sprained ankle. I don’t want that to be the only version of you, but I’m not afraid of it.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just let the silence fall again.

It was strange—how quiet things got when you were together like this. How still he could be. For a man who used to breathe like every second was an apology, Bucky had become so good at silence. Not the brittle, tight-lipped kind. Not the silence that screamed with things unsaid.

This was something else.

This was simply presence.

His fingers drifted to your jaw. He traced a line up to your temple, brushed a damp strand of hair away from your cheek.

“You gonna let me take you to the med bay tomorrow?” he asked.

“Mmm.”

“That a yes?”

“It’s a we’ll see.”

He huffed out a breath. “I’ll take it.”

You shifted slightly, and the movement made something in your ribs twinge. He noticed. Of course he did. His hand immediately steadied you, thumb brushing the edge of your back.

“I keep thinking,” you said, “about how easily this could’ve gone the other way. That if I hadn’t found cover, if I’d been five seconds slower—”

“Don’t,” he said, quiet but firm.

You looked at him again.

“I do, too,” he said. “Every time you leave. I do. But if we live there—in the what-could’ve-happened—we won't make it back either.”

That shut you up.

Because he was right. And it was too true.

You curled tighter into him. Let your forehead rest beneath his jaw. Let his arms bracket you in completely. He didn’t hold too tight, didn’t smother. Just held. Like he’d learned exactly how to without squeezing the breath from your lungs.

“You gonna sleep?” he asked after a while.

“Not yet.”

He nodded. “Me either.”

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[dollyrouge]

Hold Fast | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: A winter mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake under fire. The ice doesn’t hold—and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS, hypothermia, near-drowning, descriptions of drowning, blood, injuries, limb trauma, hospitalization, PTSD symptoms, emotional vulnerability, protective behavior, team banter, soft angst with resolution!

Word Count: 9.5k

Author’s Note: had so much fun with this request!! this one really reminded me of no way but through, which holds such a special place in my little cold-weather-loving heart. i loooove icy mission settings, hypothermic chaos, and painfully soft bucky barnes, so this was basically a dream to write. also couldn’t help myself and had to bring in the full thunderbolts/new avengers crew at the end. i am nothing if not predictable <3

────────────────────────

The wind off the lake bit harder than it had twenty minutes ago.

Not that it mattered. You’d stopped registering the cold a while back, after the second ridge, where the frost had started creeping into the inside seam of your gloves. Or maybe when you heard the first round of gunfire echo through the trees, half-muted by the thick snow-laden branches overhead.

Your teeth weren’t chattering. That would’ve meant your body had enough energy to waste on something so useless. Instead, everything inside you was pulling inward. Tightening. Conserving. Slowing.

“Keep moving,” Bucky’s voice snapped, low and close behind your left shoulder, and you did.

Not because he told you to. Because you had to.

The mission had gone wrong in the kind of way that didn’t leave room for debriefs. No secure exit point, no external comms, no second wave coming in behind you. Just you, Bucky, and the last evac flare tucked in Yelena’s pack two klicks east—across a frozen lake, through the trees, past whatever was still hunting you from the west ridge.

You hadn’t seen what hit the quinjet. Just felt the shockwave under your boots, then the plume of smoke curling over the horizon. Yelena had been the one closest to the treeline. She moved faster, covered more ground when it mattered, and she was carrying the extraction beacon. So when everything went to hell and the team scattered, it was you and Bucky left circling back to pull recon on the ones who shot your ride out of the sky.

Bucky walked behind you now, a half-step slower than usual. Calculated. Watching your six, probably watching your feet, too. 

“Northeast ridge is clear,” Yelena’s voice crackled softly in your comms. “Found an evac point. I’ll hold position.”

“Copy,” Bucky muttered. He was closer now. You could hear the rough edge in his voice, the constant scrape of concern just underneath it. “Let us know if anything shifts.”

There was a pause, a soft click, and then silence.

It had been thirty-two minutes.

Thirty-two minutes of sprinting across a frozen forest, every breath burning in your lungs. Thirty-two minutes of feeling Bucky’s presence hovering behind you like a shadow stitched to your spine, keeping pace, always watching. Watching your six, probably watching your feet, too.

“We’re near the lake,” Bucky said quietly.

You nodded once. Didn’t slow.

The lake had shown up on recon, a massive spread of black and silver on the satellite map, completely iced over and ringed by skeletal trees. You hadn’t planned to get near it. No cover. No depth perception. And the ice…

There were warnings. Cracks. Inconsistent freeze. The warm weeks earlier in the month had made it unreliable. Solid in places, dangerously thin in others.

Your fingers flexed around your weapon. You could still feel the scabbed-over cuts along your knuckles from the last mission. You hadn’t even gotten the blood out of the gloves. It had frozen stiff.

“They’re pushing,” Bucky said, eyes scanning the treeline. “Trying to flank.”

“We keep moving.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Not bad.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your jaw locked.

There was blood soaking into the seam of your left leg, trailing down to right where the fabric met your boot. You didn’t look down. Couldn’t. It hadn’t slowed you down yet. If it did, you’d think about it. Not now.

You didn’t tell him how deep the cut went. You didn’t need to. He could smell it by now, metallic, sharp, slicing through the scent of ice and pine. It left a trail behind you, carved like a signature across the snow. If any of the hostiles had dogs, you were as good as marked.

The lake came into full view as you crested the ridge. It didn’t shimmer, didn’t glint—it was too dark for that now. Instead, it stretched wide and waiting, flat as glass and just as merciless. A wound in the landscape, glossy and black, veins of fracture spidering out across the surface where the snow had been blown off by the earlier blast wave.

Bucky said nothing, but he stopped just behind you. You could feel the weight of his silence.

“We don’t have time to go around,” you said, voice thin. “They’ll have us before the trees thicken again.”

“There’s no cover out there.” His tone wasn’t harsh. It was worse, quiet, steady, resigned. “If they catch sight of us, we’re open. Sitting ducks. You know that.”

“They won’t.” You adjusted your grip on your weapon. The trigger guard was sticking, your blood had frozen at the seam. “There’s mist coming off the surface. It’ll give us some visual buffer if we move fast.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Which is why I can’t climb another fucking ridge.”

Your voice barely made it past your lips. It felt thinner than the air you were pulling into your chest. You didn’t need to look at Bucky to know he was staring at you again—sharp, narrowed, assessing you the way he did before a breach. Not checking for weakness. Measuring the cost.

But there was no time for costs anymore.

The crack of gunfire ricocheted off the ridge behind you. 

Not the echo of distant threat, but close. Immediate. 

Bark splintered off a tree trunk ten paces from your position, and Bucky moved instantly, grabbing your arm and yanking you down into a crouch behind the lip of an ice-encased boulder. 

You landed hard on your knee, your injured leg screaming in protest. Warm blood surged and stuck to the inside of your pants, and it was only then that you realized the muscle was torn. Not grazed. Torn.

Bucky didn’t flinch at the impact, but you caught the way his jaw clenched. “They’ve got fucking elevation,” he muttered under his breath. “How the hell did they—”

Another round cracked off a rock to your left. You ducked lower.

You didn’t answer him. You were trying not to pass out.

The second ridge. That was where they’d circled back. They must’ve doubled back around while you were sweeping east, using the wreckage and smoke trail from the quinjet as cover. You should’ve clocked it. Should’ve seen the trail crossing itself on the HUD.

But you’d been too busy bleeding.

A comms stutter broke through your earpiece. Yelena’s voice, brittle and curt: “Multiple heat signatures—tracking southeast. Six or seven. Aggressive push. Fast. You need to move.”

“Noted,” Bucky muttered, and clicked off.

He turned toward you, and there was something behind his eyes now. Not fear. Urgency. That hard-edged tension you’d only ever seen once before, when he’d carried your unconscious body out of a compound fire and spent the next forty minutes in complete silence.

“We’re not getting around the lake,” he said flatly.

Another shot cracked the air.

You flinched. He didn’t.

“They’re herding us,” you said quietly, barely audible. “Driving us into the open.”

He nodded once. “They want the intel. They don’t want to kill us. Not yet.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

More shouts. They were getting louder. You heard the low whine of an engine somewhere, a snowmobile, maybe. Not yours. Yours was ash.

“We need to split,” Bucky said suddenly.

You turned sharply. “No.”

“I’ll draw them off. You follow the lake’s edge. Keep to the trees.”

“They’re tracking us both. They know there’s two.”

“They don’t know where you are,” he said, already rising to his feet. “Not exactly. You haven’t fired since the breach. You’re harder to trace. Let me pull them west, and—”

“No.”

It came out louder than you meant it to. It silenced the forest.

You were breathing too hard. The edges of your vision had started to smear. Your leg was going numb.

“Bucky—”

Another shot. Close. Too close.

He didn’t hesitate.

He turned and hurled a flashbang toward the sound. The white light ignited against the snow with a violent hiss, smoke billowing out and momentarily masking your position.

Then—

Movement.

From your left. Fast.

You turned, raised your weapon, but it was too late. Something barreled through the trees and tackled you full force, body slamming into yours and driving you back, pain blooming white-hot in your thigh where the wound tore wider.

You hit the ground hard, your weapon flung into the snow. The hostile landed on top of you, mask fogged, breath rapid. He went for your throat. You reached for your boot knife, fingers numb, clumsy.

The lake was right there. Ten feet behind you. Maybe less.

You heard Bucky shout your name.

The knife slid into your hand. You didn’t think. You just moved.

You drove the blade up under his jaw, hard and clean, and rolled him off you before he could finish choking.

You were on your feet again—limping, half-hopping, gun lost, blood pouring down your leg now—and the others were coming.

You saw five through the smoke. At least five .

Too many.

You could try to crawl back to Bucky. Hope they didn’t shoot you in the open. Hope he could carry you.

Or—

Or you could do the thing you shouldn’t.

The thing that would buy you time.

The thing that would probably kill you.

You turned and ran toward the lake.

Bucky was still shouting, but his voice was muffled now, lost to the scream of your pulse and the way the air changed as you broke through the treeline.

Your feet hit the ice, and it sang beneath you.

A deep, haunted groan that vibrated up your legs and through your spine. The kind of sound the earth makes when it doesn’t want to be touched.

You didn’t stop.

The mist coming off the surface curled like fingers, wrapping around your boots, your knees, your breath. It shielded you, just enough. You heard the men behind you shouting, confused, uncertain. They’d lost you in the fog. For now.

But they’d find you again if you stopped moving.

You didn’t expect to make it across. That wasn’t the point.

You weren’t stupid. You’d seen the fractures on recon. Knew the freeze was uneven, knew the surface tension wouldn’t hold under sustained weight, and certainly not without punishing you for the arrogance of trying. You also knew there were at least four men behind you, maybe more, and you weren’t going to outrun them through another ridge. Not on a torn leg. Not dragging blood like breadcrumbs.

But you could give Bucky a chance. A window.

You weren’t going to last much longer anyway. Your sidearm was gone. Your rifle was jammed. Your limbs were starting to seize—not from fear, not from cold, but from simple math. The cost of staying alive had begun to outweigh what your body could give.

So you played the only card left.

If you could get two of them on the ice. Maybe three. And if you timed it right, kept your distance, baited them into giving chase, made them run heavier than you walked, there was a chance the lake would decide who stayed topside and who went under. You weren’t built like them. Smaller frame. Lighter gear. You knew how to move soft. They wouldn’t.

They were cocky. Angry. Trigger-happy and armored to hell. That kind of weight broke tension in seconds. You’d seen it happen. Watched it once during a training exercise, how a man with sixty extra pounds of ammo sank in four seconds flat when he tried to follow a sniper across a riverbed in spring thaw.

It might kill you too. But it might not. And if even one of them went in—

That was one less gun Bucky had to deal with. One less bullet in the air. One less thing clawing for your neck.

That was something.

Your breath came faster, colder. The cut in your leg had gone numb, finally, but you could feel the wetness inside your boot. The weight of it. The imbalance.

You didn’t know how far out you were.

The fog was thicker now, curling up your spine, swallowing the tree line. You could’ve been ten meters from shore or two. Could’ve been standing over solid ice or the thinnest patch on the lake.

Didn’t matter. You had to keep going.

There was shouting again. Closer. Heavier footsteps now, rapid and uncoordinated. They’d spotted your prints. One of them yelled to the others. Someone fired, blind and stupid, too far to your left to matter. The shot cracked across the lake and echoed, turning the world sharp and brittle.

You heard the ice answer.

A moan beneath the surface. A shift. A warning.

Still, you didn’t stop.

Another shot hit near your feet, spitting a web of cracks like a warning flare. You stumbled. Went to one knee. Pain flared up your hip. You hissed through your teeth and scrambled upright.

Behind you, closer now, another shout.

And then, footsteps on ice.

They were following you.

You felt the lake notice. The way it strained. The way it listened.

You started weaving, not running, but changing angles. You knew better than to move in a straight line. Spread the pressure. Make them adjust their balance. You could almost hear their weight dragging the surface down. Could hear how reckless their strides were. One of them slipped, boots sliding, cursing and shouting, and the others answered in angry Finnish.

You adjusted again, shifting your weight to the balls of your feet as you zig-zagged across the ice, lungs straining, vision speckled with spots. The cold had crawled under your skin now—made a home in the corners of your elbows, the hollow between your shoulder blades, the soft hinge of your jaw. You weren’t shivering anymore. That would have required your body to care whether it was dying.

Behind you, the men had begun to split. Two followed your path directly, weapons raised and boots clumsy across the frost, the third veering wide, trying to cut off your arc. You didn’t know where the fourth had gone. You didn’t have the capacity to guess. You’d passed beyond the edge of tactics and into instinct.

The ice beneath you moaned again, longer this time, a groaning, glacial sound that rippled underfoot like a living thing. The cracks spidered wider at the edges of your vision, faint lines of fracture glowing pale beneath the frost-dusted sheen. You counted every step in your head, each one a wager against weight and water.

You needed them closer. Just a little closer. You needed them to get stupid again, greedy for the kill.

And they did.

One of them shouted something guttural in Finnish, laced with adrenaline and mockery, and opened fire. The shot missed your side by inches, skimming the air close enough that you felt it kiss your ribs. You dropped hard into a crouch, used the momentum to pivot left, and rolled back into a full sprint. The surface answered with another shriek of pressure.

You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a promise.

Then another sound, behind the gunfire—something real, something known.

Bucky’s voice.

Low at first, almost lost in the chaos. Then sharper, clearer, a shout that carved through the storm like a blade. He was yelling your name. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. You could barely see anymore, and the fog curled tighter now, clouding everything but the space directly in front of you.

A second burst of fire came from the opposite edge of the lake—sharper, faster. Controlled. You recognized it immediately. Not hostile. That was him.

He was flanking.

You caught the flicker of movement through the mist just ahead and to your right. Bucky breaking the line of trees at a full sprint, a blur of black and gunmetal, eyes fixed on you like he could will you to stop. He was shouting again, but your ears had gone dull. All you could hear was the ice. The awful, pulsing hum of it underfoot, vibrating with your heartbeat.

And then one of the hostiles did what you’d hoped. He fired while running.

The recoil jolted his center of gravity, boots sliding out from under him as he fell sideways. He hit the ground hard, and the impact buckled the surface beneath him, cracks detonating outward like glass under a hammer. It sounded like thunder.

The other two tried to stop, but it was too late. One went down to a knee, skidding, scraping across the slick, and the third barreled into him, toppling them both in a tangle of limbs and shouted curses.

For a breath, you thought it had worked.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the fourth man, the one you couldn’t see, had circled wide, just like you feared. You didn’t hear him until he was right behind you. There was no gunshot. No shout. Just the thud of weight as he tackled you square in the back.

You hit the ice with a sickening crack, elbows slamming down first. The pain stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision whitewashed. Your cheek scraped frozen mist and split open.

He tried to roll you, get leverage to pin you down, but you were already moving. Already driving the knife from your belt up under his ribs, your fingers so numb you couldn’t tell if it connected.

It did. You felt him grunt, deep and surprised, before he staggered back, and you surged to your feet, but—

But the ice had had enough.

It screamed beneath you. A seismic groan, deeper than the others, wrong in every register. You felt the surface ripple like a muscle torn mid-strain. Your knees bent automatically, weight shifting light, trying to disperse, but it was too late.

The cracks burst outward from where the hostile had landed. The seams raced under your feet, intersecting, multiplying, fracturing the world beneath you in real time.

You heard Bucky shout your name again.

Closer.

Desperate.

And then he was there, just at the edge of your sightline. His face was bloodless, teeth bared, feet skidding to a stop as he reached out like he could catch you from twenty feet away.

“Don’t move!” he barked.

You didn’t.

Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

But the ice moved anyway.

It bowed beneath you.

Then split.

The water came up like a hand and yanked you under.

────────────────────────

Bucky saw the ice go before he heard it.

Not the split, but the way your knees flexed, just slightly, the way your arms went out as if your body knew before your mind did. That half-second of weightlessness right before everything collapsed. Bucky knew that look. He’d seen it in jump footage, in buildings on fire, in the eyes of people who understood they weren’t getting out unless someone came back for them.

He was already running.

Not thinking. Not planning. Just moving. Snow churned under his boots, breath barely fogging the air. He heard your name tear out of his throat, loud and raw and useless.

You were looking right at him. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t scream. Didn’t even move.

You just dropped.

The ice beneath you opened like a mouth.

He reached the edge just in time to see the water close back over you.

The sound was sickening. One second you were there, the next you weren’t. The lake swallowed you whole, and all that remained was mist and the soft sound of new cracks racing toward him.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He launched himself forward, boots slamming into the ice, the weight of his landing enough to make the surface whine under him. He dropped into a slide, knees bent, palm out to brace, momentum hurtling him across the ice toward the place you’d gone under.

The cold didn’t register. Not the air, not the wind, not the water as it seeped through the cracks already kissing the soles of his boots. The serum kept his blood from reacting the way a normal man’s would. No immediate shock. No burning in the lungs. But it didn’t make him immune to the knowledge of what cold did to you.

You had maybe ninety seconds before the water started convincing your body to stop trying.

His hand was already going to his comm.

“Belova, she fell through,” he said, voice sharp, clipped. “The lake. Northwest section. I’m going in.”

Yelena’s reply came fast, static, then her voice, tight with urgency. “That lake is thirty meters deep in the center, Barnes. If you lose her—”

“I won’t.”

“You better not. I’ll find a snowmobile. If you’re still breathing, I’ll come get you.”

He reached the hole, just barely visible now. It was a jagged, black wound in the surface, already sheeting over at the edges with a thin glaze of refreeze. He dropped to his knees, leaned over, peered in—

And saw nothing.

Just black.

No movement. No sound. No trace.

“Northwest,” he repeated, already stripping his rifle off one shoulder and driving it into the snow at the edge of the break. “Tell evac. We’ll need heat. And a med kit.”

“Copy,” she said. “Don’t die.”

He could feel the press of his heartbeat in his teeth.

“Shit.” His voice cracked out of him like a whip.

He stripped the rifle from his shoulder, shoved it into the snow behind him, and without another thought, threw himself in.

The lake gripped him like a vice.

It wasn’t like diving into water. It was like diving into a vacuum. It swallowed him. Crushed him. Everything disappeared at once. Sight, sound, weight. He didn’t kick. Didn’t thrash. He let himself drop, arms out, the metal of his left dragging him faster. One breath in his lungs. That’s all he allowed.

He opened his eyes.

There was nothing.

Only black, smeared with silver light from the hole above him, already shifting, narrowing. Snow-dust had drifted across the opening. It would vanish in seconds. He needed to find you now.

He rotated once. No sign of you. Kicked again, deeper. The pressure increased, the cold turning the skin of his right arm to fire. He ignored it. Turned again. Saw—

Movement.

To his left.

A flicker. A shape. Limbs caught in the water’s drag. No fight in them.

He pushed toward it.

You weren’t moving. Your arms floated loosely, your legs bent at strange angles, one boot still half-trailing a blood-red ribbon through the current. Your head was tilted, hair haloing out in the dark.

For a split-second, something in him broke.

He reached you in three kicks. One arm wrapped around your chest, hand braced under your jaw, holding your head above your shoulders. Your face was waxy, mouth parted, lashes spiked with ice. He pulled you in, curled his metal arm across your ribs, and angled upward.

The surface was gone.

The hole was gone, nowhere near.

He turned in a tight circle, one-handed, dragging you with him. No openings. No shadows above, no light. The ice was seamless.

His vision tunneled.

He launched upward, fist first, and when his knuckles hit solid, he didn’t stop. He punched.

The sound was muffled underwater, more sensation than noise. The vibration hit his bones, the resistance of ancient ice refusing to yield. He drove his arm up again—once, twice—until the metal met fracture.

The ice split.

The hole widened just enough. He kicked upward and shoved you ahead of him, breaking the surface with a gasp you didn’t make.

The air burned. The cold above was nothing compared to below.

He hauled himself out of the water, grabbing you under the arms and dragging you with him, the both of you half-dead and slick with lakewater, steam rolling off your clothes as the air hit them.

You weren’t breathing.

“No—” he rasped. He dropped to his knees, pressed two fingers under your jaw. Nothing. His hand flattened against your chest. Still nothing. He tipped your head, cleared your mouth, and without pausing, sealed his lips to yours and breathed.

Twice.

Again.

Your body jerked, but only from the force.

He pressed down hard. His hands trembled, just slightly. Not from the cold.

“C’mon,” he muttered, voice cracked and low, barely human. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

Another breath.

You coughed.

Violent. Wet. Your whole frame arched up before collapsing into him, lungs sputtering lakewater and whatever else you’d swallowed, mouth opening to drag in air like it hurt to exist.

Bucky’s arms locked around you the second your head tilted forward.

You were shaking now. Not convulsing. Not yet. But the kind of full-body tremor that said your blood wasn’t moving fast enough. That your skin was freezing from the inside out.

“I got you,” he whispered, over and over, voice half-strangled as he pulled you close, as close as he could get without hurting you more. “I got you, I got you.”

He didn’t realize he was rocking you until your fingers clenched in his jacket. A tiny, involuntary twitch—no force behind it, no awareness—but it was enough. Enough to tell him you were still here. Still fighting. Still fucking breathing.

“Easy,” he whispered against your hair. “Just stay with me. I’ve got you.”

You made a sound. Barely anything. A cracked whimper caught in the wreckage of your throat. He pressed a hand to the back of your neck, fingers splayed wide, trying to shield as much of your skin as he could from the wind.

Your body was ice. Every inch soaked through. Your gear, your boots, the back of your neck, all of it was clinging to you like a second skin, each layer working against you now, not for.

The low snarl of a snowmobile engine cut through the trees, carving hard across the frozen ground. He didn’t look up. Didn’t shift. Just curled tighter around you and angled his body between yours and the open lake.

The engine cut off twenty feet away, skidding to a halt. Snow crunched under boots. Then—

“Shit.” Yelena’s voice dropped the usual smirk. “She’s hypothermic?”

“Full submersion,” Bucky said, barely audible. “At least a minute. Maybe longer.”

Yelena was already moving, yanking her pack off and crouching beside him. “Then we need her out of those clothes, now. You too. You’re soaked.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wet,” she snapped. “You’re not immortal.”

“She’s freezing.”

“Exactly why we strip her down and use what’s dry. I brought a tarp rig for the back—get her on it. We’ll wrap her, I’ll drive.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He peeled his jacket off one arm, then the other, movements sharp and economical. It hit the snow with a wet slap. His gear vest followed. Then he reached for the zipper at your collar, fingers already numbing where they met the icy fabric.

“Hey,” he said softly, tipping your chin. Your eyes fluttered open for a breath, then closed again. “I know it’s cold. But we gotta get you out of this stuff. Alright?”

You didn’t answer. Just let him move you, limp and loose like your bones had gone slack. He tried to be fast. Careful. Stripped your coat first, then the soaked thermal underlayer, exposing your shoulders to the air. You flinched. He wanted to curse out loud. Wanted to punch the goddamn lake.

Yelena shrugged off her own jacket. “Here.”

He took it without looking and shoved your arms through the sleeves. It was warm. And dry. It didn’t matter if it was hers or his or stolen off a corpse. He’d have wrapped you in skin if it meant getting your body temp up fast enough.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your pants were soaked through. So were the boots. And your left leg—fuck.

He saw the blood pooled inside the boot as he started to peel it off. Frozen red around the seams. Your thigh was still bleeding, sluggish now from shock, but still enough to be dangerous.

“Yelena,” he barked without turning. “Gauze. Whatever you’ve got.”

“Med kit’s in the sled,” she called, already unrolling the tow platform and yanking the thermal tarp open. “Field wrap’s on the side.”

He ripped the second boot off, tossed both aside. The pants clung like wet parchment. He muttered something sharp under his breath and took the knife from his belt, slicing the fabric clean up the seam to the waistband. He didn’t pause. Didn’t look at your face. Just cut them free and tossed them into the snow.

Your leg was a mess. Torn muscle, ragged edge, blood sluggish but still weeping. He didn’t have time to be gentle. He grabbed the wrap from Yelena’s outstretched hand and packed the gauze into the wound, fingers fast and precise. Then he cinched the bandage tight just above your knee.

You groaned, weak and hoarse, but it meant you were still responsive.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know it hurts. Just hang on.”

Yelena was already back at the sled, lifting the flap on the side and unfurling the padding. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes before she drops out completely. Help me get her in.”

He moved without answering. One arm behind your back, one under your legs. You were a deadweight bundle of wet limbs and heatless skin.

Together, they settled you into the tow rig—padded, shielded at the sides, thermal canopy overhead. Standard evac mod. But it still looked like a coffin.

He hated that it looked like a coffin.

Yelena threw him a blanket roll, and he tucked it tight over your chest and shoulders, then your hips and thighs, arms crossed low over your ribs. Your skin was damp, your hair frozen at the ends, lashes rimmed in ice. He didn’t let himself stop moving. He kept one hand pressed just over your heart, the other ready to shield your face from wind.

His hand stayed there.

Just a second too long.

She didn’t call him on it.

“You’re going with her,” Yelena said instead, already climbing back onto the snowmobile. “I can drive. You monitor her breathing. Try and get her talking if you can. If she fully passes out—”

“She won’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“She won’t.”

His voice was steel. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t pleading. He just knew.

Yelena didn’t argue again. She gunned the engine, and the machine roared to life.

He climbed into the tow sled, kneeling beside you, one hand on your chest, the other braced against the frame. Wind blasted past them as they launched forward, but he didn’t feel it.

All he felt was the shallow rise and fall beneath his hand.

────────────────────────

You surfaced slowly.

Not all at once. Not in a cinematic way—no gasping, no full-body jolt, no sudden realization that you were still alive. Just pressure. First behind your eyes, then in your chest. A tightness, dull and deep, like your lungs had been filled with stones and someone had stacked their weight across your ribcage to make sure they stayed there.

Your mouth was open. You hadn’t meant it to be. Something cool and artificial was feeding air through your nose, down your throat. Plastic tubing, you realized after a beat, half-formed thoughts dragging behind sensation. An oxygen cannula. 

Your head ached.

Not a sharp pain. Not even pain, really. Just distance. Like your skull had been filled with static and your thoughts had to crawl through it on hands and knees to reach you. When you tried to move, just a twitch of your shoulder, your body didn’t respond. Not fully. Your nerves were slow, reluctant. Your arms felt like they belonged to someone else.

Then, light. Soft, not blinding. White above you. Clinical. Cold. You tried to blink and felt the dry pull of your lashes against skin that had been left too long without moisture.

There were sounds now. Somewhere in the periphery.

Muffled voices. Beeping.

A hiss of something mechanical resetting. Maybe a vitals monitor, maybe a heat unit.

The next thing you noticed was your skin.

Your entire body felt like it had been peeled back and glued together wrong. Your legs ached. Not in the sharp, obvious way of a gunshot or blade, but deeper. Bone deep. Joint deep. There was a dull, pulsing throb in your left thigh that you couldn’t place, and you realized after a moment that you didn’t want to.

You were alive.

You weren’t supposed to be.

A slow breath pulled through your chest. It hurt. Not like you’d broken anything, but like your lungs had fought too hard to keep you, and they were punishing you for it now. You could feel the heaviness in them, the stiffness—residual fluid, probably. You weren’t coughing, but your chest was tight, and something wet shifted faintly every time you inhaled.

Hypothermia. Near-drowning. Soft tissue trauma. Blood loss.

The words filtered in one by one like files retrieved from a burned cabinet.

You didn’t remember the evac. Just ice. The smell of pine. A scream half-swallowed by the wind. The weight of water crushing your body into stillness. And then, heat. Arms. Metal against your ribs. Something solid that refused to let go.

Something you’d stopped fighting for before it found you.

There was a voice outside the room, beyond a curtain surrounding you. Sharp. Familiar.

Yelena.

“—two hours max. That’s what the doc said. She needs rest, not another round of brooding Bucky Barnes breathing exercises.”

A grunt. Quieter. Male.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

A beat.

“Oh my god. You’re already doing it.”

You tried to turn your head toward the sound, but your body was too heavy. The world tilted and dragged behind you. Then, footsteps. Two sets. One softer, reluctant. One clipped.

They didn’t come in.

Their voices faded just enough to let the quiet crawl back in. Only the monitors kept humming, a soft rhythmic count of your survival, like the room was measuring every second you stayed alive and wasn’t convinced yet that you would.

You lay there, still and heavy, unsure if your body would obey you at all. Everything felt wrapped in gauze. Muted. Far away. But your chest remembered. The weight, the pressure, the water. The ache that lingered behind your ribs told you the lake hadn’t really let go. Not completely.

You tried again.

It wasn’t even a word at first. Just a shift. A breath caught too sharply in your throat. Your fingers twitched against the blanket. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you imagined it. You turned your head, just barely, toward the voices outside the curtain, and let your lips part.

“Buck—”

Your voice wasn’t a voice. It was air dragged across a raw throat, shredded in the middle, collapsing before it made it to sound. But it was enough. Enough to make the effort real. Enough to make your pulse spike on the monitor. Enough to send a tremor through your lungs.

The curtain shifted instantly.

Then opened.

Bucky’s silhouette filled the space between the light and the noise. For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, jaw clenched, shoulders set. His face didn’t change, but you saw it anyway. Relief. The kind that didn’t need expression to be known.

“You’re awake.” His voice was low. Too steady.

You swallowed—or tried to. It scraped. Burned. Your throat felt flayed.

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping into the chair beside your bed like he’d been ready to launch himself forward the whole time and was only now allowed. His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching.

“Do you need the doc?” he asked. “I’ll go get them. Just hold on—”

You moved before you could think.

Not much. Not even fast. But your hand lifted, weak and trembling, and curled around his wrist as he started to move. The motion cost everything. Your arm dropped a second later like it had been cut loose, but it did its job.

Bucky froze.

You tried to speak again. The word caught halfway up your throat and crumpled. You coughed instead, once, hard enough to burn, and his hand was on you instantly, palm flat against your sternum like he could keep you from falling apart just by holding you still.

“You’re okay.” His voice was different now. Thinner. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You tried.

Your chest shook with it. Your lungs were still too tight. Too full of memory. But the oxygen tubing helped, and eventually the coughing stopped. Your body settled back against the sheets, exhausted from the effort of existing.

His hand didn’t move.

“I’m fine,” you rasped. Or tried to.

The word sounded nothing like a word.

It scraped the back of your throat and shattered. You winced. He shook his head once, almost imperceptible.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “You don’t have to talk. Not yet.”

You blinked up at him.

He was too close. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable, never that, but in the way that made you aware of how much space he took up without saying a word. The way his presence made the machines quieter. The way the lines around his mouth looked carved from stone. The way his hand hadn’t left your chest.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, softer now. “I thought—”

He didn’t finish.

You didn’t need him to.

You felt it in the way his shoulders curled forward. In the way he kept watching your pulse monitor like it owed him something. In the way his eyes kept returning to your mouth, to your neck, to the shallow rise and fall that proved you were still here.

You opened your mouth again.

The words didn’t come. You weren’t sure they could. Your throat felt like someone had taken a wire brush to the inside of it. But you moved your lips anyway, slow, deliberate, shaping around the simplest thing you could mouth.

How long?

Bucky blinked.

For a second, you thought maybe he hadn’t caught it. Then his hand left your chest—not completely, just enough to curl around your wrist again, warm and solid, anchoring.

“Seven days,” he said quietly. “You’ve been under for seven.”

You let that sit. Let it press.

Seven days.

Not just unconscious. Unresponsive. Monitored. Kept warm. Intubated, probably, if your throat was any indication. You were certain there’d been a moment, maybe more than one, where they weren’t sure you were going to come back at all. Where your body might have decided to give up on the rest of you even after the lake let you go.

You let your head tip, eyes dragging slowly across the room. The motion made your neck ache. Even that, especially that, felt like a small defeat.

There was a table beside the bed. Narrow. Stainless steel. You hadn’t noticed it before.

It was cluttered.

Not with the usual medical shit. Not gauze or tubing or pill cups. Something else. Something… softer.

There were a few folded paper cranes, wings dipped in bright marker ink. A knitted square of fabric, uneven at the edges, with a giant uneven “W” stitched into the center in dark blue yarn. A cheap plastic snow globe—Branson, Missouri—with fake snow and a peeling label. A tiny flickering LED tea light. A single packet of hot chocolate. A folded sketch torn from someone’s notebook paper.

You stared at it. Confused.

Your brow furrowed, unsteady, and you felt Bucky’s eyes move with yours.

He shifted in his chair, the leather creaking faintly under him.

“Those are from Bob.” He nodded toward the cranes. “He said paper folding helps with anxiety. Sat outside your room for two hours trying to get that red one right. Said you’d like it because it was ugly. Had character.”

Your lips twitched. Or tried to. He saw it.

Bob had tried to teach you once, back when missions were lighter and your hands steadier. He’d brought a pack of neon origami paper into the rec room like it was contraband, all sheepish grin and muttered instructions, and you’d spent an hour cursing under your breath while he quietly folded a perfect flock beside you. 

You never managed a proper crane, just a deeply cursed paper lump with uneven wings, but he’d kept it anyway. Called it your “battle bird.” Said it looked like it had been through something. Just like you.

“The tea light is Ava’s,” Bucky continued. “She said you always lit a candle on briefing nights. Figured you’d want one burning when you woke up.”

You did. Always the same squat little votive, tucked on the corner of your desk, flickering through every debrief while the rest of the team pretended not to notice. Ava had, though—said the sound and smell helped her keep her pacing in check, the rhythm of it steadier than her own breath some nights.

Bucky pointed at the snow globe, grimacing. “Walker. No note. Don’t ask.”

You made a rough sound, not quite a laugh, and regretted it immediately. Your chest ached. You swallowed it down.

Of course he brought Branson, Missouri.

The man had one week of leave and spent it sending you unsolicited selfies from a dinner theater called “Yakov’s Last Laugh,” wearing a cowboy hat two sizes too small and arguing over text about whether Silver Dollar City technically counted as “historic.”

You’d told him Branson wasn’t a real place. Just a Midwest fever dream built entirely out of unlicensed Elvis impersonators and knockoff Dollywood energy. He’d called it “America’s soul.”

You’d called it “a cry for help in gift shop form.”

And now it sat beside your medical chart, a tiny, glittering monument to the world’s pettiest inside joke.

God help you if it made you smile again.

“The sketch is from Alexei,” he went on. “It’s supposed to be you in the snow, fighting a bear. Or dancing with one. He wasn’t clear.”

You blinked slowly. That tracked. He’d once told you, entirely unprompted, that your “ferocity under pressure” reminded him of a Siberian she-bear. You’d assumed it was a compliment. Probably.

“And that,” he added, gesturing to the hot chocolate, “Yelena. Said hospital cocoa was an abomination and if she caught you drinking any she’d pull your IV herself.”

You smiled faintly. Yelena was the one who started it. Midnight cocoa in the mess when neither of you could sleep, hands still shaking from whatever dreams you'd clawed your way out of. No talking. No questions. Just heat, sugar, and silence until your pulses evened out again. A truce in a mug.

Your throat was still raw. You didn’t dare try a full word, but the question was there—in the slow blink, the glance toward the yarn.

“That’s from Walker too,” Bucky said, deadpan. “He learned to knit. Apparently.”

Your eyes drifted back to him. He hadn’t looked away from you once. Not really.

There was one more thing on the table. You hadn’t noticed it before. Smaller than the rest. Set slightly apart. A small matchbox-sized tin. Dark blue. Metal. Worn at the corners.

Bucky followed your gaze. His jaw tightened.

You looked at him.

He didn’t speak.

Just reached over slowly, picked it up, turned it once in his palm like he wasn’t sure if he regretted leaving it there.

Then he held it out to you. Didn’t press it into your hand, just let it rest there, cradled against his fingers, waiting.

You tilted your head toward it, but your muscles were still too slow, coordination still too shot. He noticed. Said nothing. Just flipped the lid open himself.

Inside, nestled into the tin’s base on a folded strip of linen, was a tiny object. Barely bigger than your thumb. Faintly metallic. Dull silver at the edges, matte black at the center.

It was a music box cylinder. A fragment. Something old, worn smooth. The kind used in hand-crank players—the ones tucked inside the little wind-up boxes you used to fidget with as a child, flipping them open and closed like they were meant to be solved.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Bucky was watching you. Carefully. Like the weight of your reaction might crack him open.

“You said,” he said quietly, “a few months ago… that you had one when you were a kid. Broke in a move. Said you remembered the sound but not the song.”

You remembered. You hadn’t thought he had.

You hadn’t thought anyone had been listening.

“I found that in a market in Riga,” he went on, voice low, roughened at the edges. “The guy didn’t know what it played. Didn’t have the housing. Just this. It was rusted shut. Took me a few days to clean it.”

He paused.

“I was gonna wait to give it to you. But I didn’t know when the right time was.”

You tried to speak again. Your throat clenched. No sound came.

Still—you pushed the air up, forced it out like it owed you something. Like you had to say it, even if it burned.

“Why?”

It rasped out of you like broken glass dragged across stone. More breath than voice. But the word made it past your lips this time, and that was enough.

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t look at you, either. Not at first. His eyes had dropped back to the tin, as if the shape of it might tell him how to start.

The silence stretched.

You didn’t push him.

“I didn’t know if you’d want it,” he said finally. The words came low. Barely above a whisper. “Didn’t know if it meant anything coming from me.”

He shifted in the chair like he didn’t trust it to hold his weight. Like he was trying not to lean too close.

“You said that thing about the music box and it just—stuck. I don’t even think you realized you said it. We were talking about… something else. Some mission. I can’t even remember which. You were just fiddling with your comm and you mentioned it. How the song used to help you sleep, but now you can’t remember the tune. Just that it made you feel… safe. Back then.”

He rubbed his thumb over his knee, like he needed something to ground himself.

“I remembered,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I kept looking. For months. In every market, every junk bin, every fucked-up antique shop we passed through. Most of them were trash. Broken. Stolen. Or the wrong kind. But then I found that one. Just the cylinder. No box. No sound. Just…possibility.”

His jaw twitched.

“I figured I’d give it to you when… I don’t know. When things slowed down. When we weren’t bleeding every week or crawling through wreckage or losing people left and right. But things don’t slow down. Not for us. So I waited.”

He finally looked at you.

And the look in his eyes—God. It made your breath stutter beneath the oxygen tube. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t soft, either. It was sharp. Too sharp. Like the only way he knew how to look at you was like he was still checking for exit wounds.

“I thought I missed my chance.”

He said it so plainly you almost didn’t feel it at first. But it settled in your chest like a weight. Like truth.

“I thought you were gone,” he went on. “On that lake… when I couldn’t find the surface, when I finally got you out, when your body—” He stopped himself. Shook his head. “You weren’t moving. You weren’t breathing. You were just drifting. And I remember thinking—that’s it. That’s the end. That’s where I lose you.”

Your chest tightened. Not from pain. Not from cold. Just the sound of him.

“I don’t lose people like that anymore,” he said. “Not like I used to. Not if I can help it. And sure, I’ve said that before. But this time—” His voice cracked, just once. “This time it was you.”

You blinked. Hard.

He leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees, voice lower than before.

“You don’t get it,” he said, rambling on like the words were exiting his mouth before he even thought about them. “You think you’re just… part of the team. That you’re one of us. And you are. But it’s not the same. Not for me.”

He exhaled, sharp and tired and fraying.

“You get under my skin in ways that nothing else does. You keep me tethered when shit goes sideways. You ask questions no one else asks. You call me on my bullshit without making it feel like I’m back in some shrink’s office getting dissected. You make space. And I didn’t know how much I needed that—no—wanted it. Until I thought I’d lost it.”

You didn’t know you’d started crying until you tasted salt at the edge of your mouth. Just a few tears. Silent. Clean. Your throat hurt too much for sobbing. Your eyes hurt too much to keep them open.

But he noticed.

He sat forward quickly, hand reaching for the call button. “Shit—do you want the doc? I can get them, they said to page if you—”

You lifted your hand again. Just barely. Just enough to curl your fingers around his wrist.

“No,” you whispered. Barely there. Barely sound.

His hand hovered an inch above the call button, frozen. You felt the way his wrist flexed beneath your fingers, the way the tendons in his forearm pulled tight like he wasn’t sure whether to move or stay. His eyes searched your face again, sharp and clinical for one second—checking your color, your breathing, your pupils—and then he exhaled, quieter this time. Sat back.

Didn’t pull away.

You swallowed. The effort scraped down your throat like sandpaper, but you did it anyway. Forced air past the ruined edges of your voice until it shaped something. Small. Crooked. Yours.

“I didn’t… know you remembered,” you rasped, each word a dry scrape across something bruised and tender. “The music box.”

Bucky exhaled. Short. Quiet. Almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny in it.

“I remember everything you don’t think I do,” he said. “You always think no one’s paying attention. But I see it. All of it. The way you cover for people when they’re tired. How you pass your dessert off to Bob when he pretends he’s not hungry. That little stretch you do before every mission.”

Your lips parted, breath caught halfway to forming something else. But your throat cracked mid-inhale, so you let it go. Let him keep speaking.

He leaned forward again, this time more gently, his forearms braced on either side of your legs, like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Make himself quieter. Like he didn’t want the rest of the world to hear what came next.

“I see you,” he repeated, quieter now. “Even when you think you’re blending in. When you’re holding it together for everyone else.”

You blinked slowly. The tears had stopped, or maybe your body had just run out. Your eyes burned from the effort of keeping them open. But they stayed on him.

“I think…” You paused, tried to clear your throat, but it made it worse. You grimaced through it, blinked hard. He moved like he might reach for you, or call again, but you shook your head, barely. 

“Let me,” you croaked, voice shot to hell, every syllable catching like thread pulled through torn cloth. “I think I… do the stretch… because I’m scared.”

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t flinch. Just watched. Still. So fucking still.

You blinked again, slow and raw. “Not of dying. Not really.”

That earned a twitch of his mouth. Not amusement. Something darker. Sadder. Knowing.

“Of what, then?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed hard. The air in your lungs felt too thick now, heavy with what you hadn’t said before the lake took you. “Of… getting close. Of being… close. And then it ending.”

Something in his expression fractured. Not broken, not open, just bare. Like you’d peeled something back without meaning to. Like you’d stepped too close to the place he kept boarded up with silence and mission reports and one-liners that didn’t quite pass for humor.

He nodded once. Not like he was agreeing. Like he understood.

“You’re not the only one,” he said quietly. “You think I didn’t notice how long it took you to unpack after the Bataysk job? You kept your bag zipped by the door for three weeks.”

You almost laughed. Almost. But it came out too soft, caught on the edge of a breath.

“You knew?”

“I always knew.”

You looked at him again. Really looked. His hands weren’t covered by gloves like they normally were. They were bare, calloused, fingertips nicked and bruised. His left hand rested beside your blanket, the metal dull and wet-lit under the fluorescents, motionless.

Your hand moved before your brain caught up.

Weak. Slow. You lifted your fingers and reached for the edge of his sleeve, but your arm shook with the effort and dropped short. He caught it before it fell completely—his flesh hand, warm and scarred and careful—and guided your palm over the metal one like it wasn’t strange at all. Like you’d done it a thousand times. His jaw ticked.

“It’s cold,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t mind.”

He let his thumb brush across the edge of your wrist, slow and grounding. Not a stroke. Not comforting. Just there. “I didn’t think I’d get to tell you any of this,” he said. “When I pulled you out, when you weren’t breathing, I—” He cut himself off again, jaw tightening. “I thought you were already gone.”

You wanted to say something, anything, but the only sound you made was breath.

It was enough.

“I wasn’t ready to lose you,” he said. “Not like that. Not ever. But especially not without… you knowing.”

Your throat pulled tight.

“Knowing what?” you whispered, wrecked.

He didn’t hesitate.

“That I give a damn. That I think about you more than I should. That you’re not just some mission partner I cover in the field. That you matter.”

You opened your mouth again. Closed it. Your lips trembled.

Bucky moved closer, just slightly, head still bowed low like the words had weight. Like if he spoke too loud they might splinter.

“You matter to me,” he said. “More than I ever planned for.”

Your eyes burned. Your hand twitched in his, a pathetic excuse for a squeeze, but he felt it. He held on tighter.

You swallowed again, painful and raw. “Me too,” you said, barely audible. “You… matter.”

Something broke in his face. Not his composure. Not his strength. Just the smallest trace of distance, pulled away. A breath he hadn’t been able to take until now.

You saw it in his eyes.

And maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe in another world—one with less noise, less blood—you would’ve stayed like that for another minute. Maybe you would’ve reached for him again, said something more, pulled the words from the ruin of your voice just to hear him say your name in that same, low, wrecked way.

But this wasn’t that world.

And the curtain tore open before you could even draw your next breath.

“MY BEAR CUB LIVES!”

Alexei’s voice exploded through the medbay like cannon fire, and before you could brace for it, before Bucky could so much as turn in his seat, there were arms. So many arms. Warm, clumsy, massive arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of noise and Soviet linen.

You wheezed. A sharp, involuntary gasp you couldn’t help as Alexei crushed half your torso in a rib-cracking hug.

Bucky was on his feet instantly. “Hey—hey! Easy! Watch it, she’s still—”

“Bah!” Alexei cut him off with a wave of one enormous hand. “She is strong! Like small elk! Look at this—already upright, already beautiful, skin like ice sculpture!” He reached out and cradled your jaw for a second, then kissed your forehead in a way that nearly knocked the oxygen cannula askew. “You do not die on me. You are not allowed to die on me. I would never forgive you.”

“I tried to stop him,” Yelena muttered dryly, appearing behind him with arms crossed and absolutely no remorse. “I tackled him in the hallway. Didn’t matter. He just kept bounding.”

She was flanked by three more figures—Bob, shifting awkwardly and clutching a bouquet that looked like it had been stolen from a funeral arrangement, Ava hovering beside him with a look of cautious relief, and John leaning just far enough into the room to smirk.

“Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living,” Walker called, voice light but eyes sharp. “Don’t do that again. It’s bad for team morale.”

Bucky hadn’t moved far from your bedside, just enough to make room, to stop Alexei from inadvertently crushing a vein or breaking an already-bruised rib. He was still watching you, eyes flicking between your face and your vitals monitor like he couldn’t help himself.

Alexei finally released you with a thud and an affectionate slap to the shoulder that nearly dislocated something. You blinked hard through the swirl of motion, coughing once as your lungs protested the sudden influx of people and oxygen.

“Careful,” Bucky muttered again, more to himself than anyone else.

But you caught his wrist before he could move back.

Just a small touch. Nothing demanding. Just enough.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

The others kept talking—Yelena launching into a commentary about how ugly the paper cranes were before realizing Bob made them and immediately changing the subject, Ava threatening to install a lock on the medbay door, Bob quietly asking if you wanted him to adjust the light overhead, Walker declaring he’d brought “real food” and pulling a suspicious-looking bag from behind his back that Yelena immediately swatted out of his hands.

It was chaos. Loud and jagged and human.

But you didn’t look at them.

You looked at Bucky.

And he looked at you.

And in that small, quiet moment—under the hum of machines, under the curtain pulled halfway back, under the noise and the mess and the aching throb in your chest—you felt it settle. All of it. The tension. The fear. The distance you’d both kept because you didn’t know what would happen if you crossed it.

He stayed exactly where you needed him. Elbow resting on the frame of your bed, hand lax in your grip, eyes never leaving yours even when someone bumped the curtain again or when Yelena started swearing in Russian under her breath because she had opened the bag Walker had and apparently it smelled.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

But your fingers stayed curled around his wrist, weak and unsteady, still trembling from the cold that still lived somewhere in your bones, and he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t give you some line about rest or recovery or needing to take a break from all this noise.

He just stayed.

Not because you asked.

But because that’s what he did.

What he’d always done, quietly, behind the chaos.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @winchestert101, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver, @thesteppinrazor, @mrsnikstan, @eywas-heir, @shortandb1tchy

[dollyrouge]

Omg pleaseeee can we have a super soft buckyxreader are in bed together (after activities) and he is having doubts about the New Avengers and his role leading them, reader comforts and reassures him. Anyway she wakes up the next morning to find him getting dressed into his new suit and they have a super soft/fluffy moment? Thank you sm!

someone worth following | bucky barnes

Summary: ^^ Request

Warning: Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Bucky's Anxiety and Self-Doubt | Implied Intimacy / Non-Explicit

Word Count: 678

A/N: I fear I will never stop thinking about Bucky in Thunderbolts*. Also, I hope I did your request and Bucky justice! <3

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

It was long past midnight, and the whispered praises and tangled limbs had settled into a peaceful quiet. The room was warm, the kind of sticky heat that lingered after Bucky opened himself up to you—something he never allowed until you. 

He lay beside you, one arm wrapped around you. His vibranium fingers traced a lazy pattern along your spine, leaving goosebumps to raise in their wake. The other arm was tucked under his head. Your body shifted closer to him, and you let out a content sigh. But you felt it—the tension under your weight. He wasn’t in the room with you, not really.

“Bucky?” you murmured, resting your chin against his chest to look up at him. “Is everything alright?” 

For a second, he paused his fingers. And you thought that maybe he might pretend to be asleep. Until a slow exhale released what seemed like years’ worth of weight. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. 

Your brows furrowed, suddenly feeling wide awake. “With what?”

“This—” The arm which was previously under his head, now gestured around the room. “This team. Being their ‘leader’. Being an Avenger.” The title sounded bitter falling from his tongue. “Steve made it seem so easy. Why me? They’re all looking at me for answers I don’t have. Shit, I’m still trying to figure out who the hell I am.” 

“Bucky…” you whispered, lifted from him slightly to look at him properly. His blue eyes were fixated onto the tall ceiling like it held the secret cure to all his problems. After brushing a stray strand of his hair back from his forehead, your hand rested on his cheek. “You don’t have to be Steve.” 

“I know,” he said, yet there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “I just—I don’t want to let them down. I can’t get anyone else hurt. Or killed.” 

Leaning in closer to him, your fingers traced over the letters of dog tags and kissed his shoulder. Then his jaw. “You care, James Bucky Barnes. And that already makes you a better leader than most.” 

He turned toward you then, his eyes searching yours and his vibranium grip on your hip tightened.

“You’re steady even when you’re unsure and it’s hard. You think before you act… mostly. You listen. And you’ve never taken this role lightly. They trust you to lead them because they see your worth. And so do I.” 

He blinked, not responding straight away, at least not verbally. Something unreadable passed through his eyes before his arm tensed around you. Bucky pulled you in until you were chest to chest, nose to nose. 

“I’m scared,” he admitted in a breathy whisper. 

“I know,” you nodded. “But you’re not alone.” 

The other side of the bed was cold when you woke a few hours later. With a frown, you blinked against the morning light spilling in through the curtains. “B-Bucky?”

You alerted your attention over toward the vanity mirror upon hearing a rustle from the direction. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze landed on him.

Bucky stood, adjusting the collar of a dark, sleek suit near the mirror. It was black and matte, a subtle, modern armored texture adorning his broad frame. Tailored to him, in every way possible. A red star lined his right arm, catching the light, while his left—gold-and-black vibranium arm—shimmered, bold and unmistakable. The new Avengers insignia sat high, proudly on his chest. 

He looked strong.

Commanding. 

Like a leader. 

His expression softened when he caught your eye in the mirror. 

“You look incredible,” you said, unable to hide your smile tugging at your lips. He turned, and you watched his cheeks pink just a little. “Like someone worth following.” 

He chuckled quietly, crossing the room and leaning down to kiss you. He was soft, lingering. Your fingers reached up to his hair, scraping your nails over his scalp gently.

Pulling back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Dinner tonight?” 

You smiled, nodding. “Don’t leave me waiting.”

___

[dollyrouge]

"𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐬?"- Bucky barnes x former Avenger freader

An unexpected surprise awaits you when Bucky shows up at your house with a group of strangers

a.n - This is just a scenario of what it would be like for the members of the thunderbolts to crash at your place. Also this fic contains spoilers! (Let me know if you want a pt.2!)

Warnings - John Walker, dark humour, mention of injuries, minor cursing, making out and major fluff!!

"You gotta be kidding me, were not seriously bringing Bob with us are we?"

"Look Captain America, if it weren't for Bob we wouldn't have made it out of that death trap of a lab alive!" Yelena replies sternly. "Besides, he seems to have more discipline than you'd ever have."

This seemed to tick John off as the two of them started shouting back and forth, while Bob sat between the two of them awkwardly.

"Ok uhm...can we maybe...not fight?" He mutters under his breath but was completely ignored. Ava rolls her eyes at the childish scene before her and flickers her gaze down towards the nervous man. Silently telling him that it wasn't worth wasting his breath.

Surprisingly enough, he understood rather quickly and kept his mouth shut. Bucky groans in annoyance at the bickering in the backseats, and it didn't help either when a large man was snoring away next to him.

But swiftly brushes it off after pulling into a familiar driveway. He hadn't been back at this house for about a week now, so he was dreading what awaited him when he opened the doors. Especially since he has four other guests with him, who he quite recently found acquaintanceship with just a few days ago.

"Listen up, we're staying at this place for a while until things die down. So please, don't make this harder for me than it already is." Bucky states as the the group follows him down the pathway towards a red brick secluded house that was tucked in a small corner of New York City.

They all exchanged confused looks before reluctantly nodding at the grumpy man, with a few grunts and hushed responses. Honestly they were just really tired and their bodies were sore so there was no use in complaining.

"God - I hope she's in a good mood..." Bucky mumbles before reaching into his pocket to fish out his keys and was about to put it into the keyhole. Only to be interrupted midway as he hears the sound of another car pulling up behind him.

"Bucky honey? Is that you?!"

Everyone turned around at the sudden mention of 'Bucky' and 'honey' in the same sentence. All but Bucky himself as he walks back down the pathway towards you.

"Did I hear that right? There's no way Mr. Congressman would have a girlfriend." Ava whispers to the others as they all watched him walk past the minivan, disappearing from their sight.

There were mixed reactions as they all talked amongst themselves, trying to figure out who you might be.

You were pretty confused as well since there was a dirty minivan parked in your driveway. As soon as you step out of your car to examine the vehicle, you catch a glimpse of a figure in the corner of your eye.

Adrenaline kicked in almost immediately, thinking maybe this was going to be a robbery. I mean you do live in a pretty sketchy neighbourhood so it was possible. The sun was setting so it was pretty difficult to see who it could be, you had your fighting stance ready as the person steps out of the shadows.

"God Bucky! You could've said something instead of sneaking up on me like that!" You yelled and tried calming yourself since your heart was practically hammering against your chest.

"Yeah sorry 'bout that doll, didn't mean to scare you," Bucky drawls as he pulls you into his arm for a warm embrace. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the strong scent of gasoline mixed with his cologne.

There was sand mixed with dirt on his tough leather jacket, but you didn't question it since he had finished a mission. Honestly speaking, you were just glad he was home again.

You then peer over Bucky's shoulder and finally noticed the rugged group of individuals standing in your porch.

They wanted to see what all the fuss was about so they snuck up on the couple and spied on them from behind the van. You were about to open your mouth to say something before spotting a familiar face amongst them.

She had short and slightly messy bob cut and an oddly cute frown on her face. Yelena steps forward hesitantly while examining your face at the same time, seemingly trying to figure out where she had seen you before.

Then it clicks, you were her older sisters best friend. She remembers how kind and comforting you acted towards her whenever she'd come to visit her sister.

You spread open your arms for her and without hesitation, Yelena falls into your embrace.

"Its good to see you 'lena," you murmured into her hair while she smiles at the mention of her nickname.

" 's good to see you too..."

Bucky joins the rest of the group, a small smile tugged at his lips as they all watched the heartwarming scene unfold before them.

He's not sure what waited them past this, but for now, he just wants this disfunctional group of anti-heroes to find some sort of peace while they stayed here.

"Sorry I brought them here on such short notice," Bucky mutters as he leans down to your height when you let the others into your house.

"Ahh it's no biggy. Besides, I'm happy to have more house guests." You quipped while closing the door after Bob awkwardly walks in as the last in line.

Everyone had already made their way down the hall towards the living room to look around. Yelena let's out a long whistle as she checks out the place, to be fair, your house was quite spacious since you got the best place in the neighbourhood thanks to Pepper.

Although she insisted on getting you a penthouse, you turned down the offer.

"What's this?" Alexei asks with curiosity after picking up a delicately crafted box. You ran over to where he was and effortlessly took it from his hands so that he doesn't break it.

"Oh well - it's a gift from a friend. She's gone now...so I like to keep it up on the mantle to remember her by." You say in a hushed tone while you look down at the detailed craftsmanship in your hands.

Alexei knew exactly how you felt, so he placed a large hand on your shoulder and gave you a light squeeze of acknowledgement. "I understand, Alexei has been through much loss just like you."

Thanks to Yelena, you had the privilege of meeting Alexei a few years back when Natasha was still alive. So you were happy to have both of them back in your life.

"Dad, you can stop bothering her now. You've said enough shit already." Yelena groans while dragging Alexei away from you since he was still rambling on about Natasha and how much you reminded him of her.

"Do we have enough space for them?" You felt Bucky's fingers brush against the back of your hand to get your attention since you were still deep in thought.

"Hey...you ok doll?" Bucky asks with a worried tone since you hadn't responded to his previous question. You snap out of your thoughts and look to your left to see Bucky by your side. His brows were furrowed as he brought up his other unoccupied hand to cup your cheek.

"Uh yeah..! I'm fine," you respond with a tight-lipped smile. Bucky had just come back from a mission, so you didn't want him to now worry about you too. He wanted to press on but then thought it would be better if he just let it slide this time.

"Are we sleeping down here?!" Yelena yells from another room down the hall. The rest of you make your way to where Yelena was, she had found one of the guest rooms and was already laying down on the neatly done sheets.

"You could've at least taken a shower before hopping onto the bed," Bucky sighed in disappointment. Yelena's clothes were pretty dirty since they had come back from the desert.

"Oh right! Sorry that was my bad," Yelena responds in a muffled voice as her face was now planted into the plush pillows.

"Its fine, there's extra duvet covers in the storage closet," you say while walking towards the walk-in closet in the room. "Don't worry guys! There's more rooms upstairs."

"Do we have to share? I'm not sure how I'd feel if I have Santa Clause sharing a bed with me." John grunted while crossing his arms. You assumed he was referring to Alexei , which almost made you snort in response.

"I'm serious! Does he not look like the Russian Santa Claus to you?" John carries one while Yelena lets out a coarse laugh from the bed.

"Pfft - sorry John, there's only 3 guest rooms, so you have to pick your roommate wisely." Bob lifts his hand up shyly and clears his throat.

"I wouldn't mind sharing...if that's OK with you?" John thought about it for a moment before giving in. "You know what? Why not?"

"Great! That leaves one more vacant room -" You were cut off by another female voice.

"I'll take it," Ava replies rather quickly. John was about to protest and say that he changed his mind, but Ava gives him a sharp look which made him backdown. You were going to ask for her name, only to be cut off yet again.

"Oh right sorry, the name's Ava," she says plainly while giving you a small smile.

"Uhh OK cool, it's nice to meet you Ava. Let me guess, you also have an incredibly sad back story like the rest of us?"

"Oh God, don't even get me started..."

"Also...what's all this talk about 'thunderbolts'?" You prodded while giving Ava a confused look. Ava curses underneath her breath while the others shout in since that they're not called 'the thunderbolts.'

"Thunderbolts yes!! That's my lovely 'lena's football team name from when she was a child -"

"Dad please stop--!" Yelena groans while trying to get Alexei to stay quiet. It brought a smile to your face to see how liveley your house had become after being alone for a week.

"Alright, is there anyone here who needs medical care?" You asked while handing the new duvet sheets to Yelena.

"I think all of us do," Yelena sighed while clutching her side. She was so excited to finally sleep on a comfortable bed that the adrenaline rush took over, making her forget about the pain.

You nodded before turning back to the group. "Right, who wants to go first?"

Everyone had lined up in the washroom to get themselves checked since it would be easier for you to clean up afterwards.

You were currently bandaging Yelena's arm as she winces slightly. If anything, she had been through the worst due to the others being practically impenetrable.

"Just leave this on for a few weeks and take some painkillers. Trust me, the pain will be gone before you know it."

"Ok, thank you," Yelena exhaled while she got up to let the next person in. John walks into your view as you clean up the area for him to take his seat on the stool. The space was pretty cramped since you chose the guest washroom instead of the large one upstairs.

"Hey John, got any major inuries?" You asked while preparing a wetcloth and some bandages. John stops you midway and he shook his head.

"No not really, just have a few cuts on my face and the side of my head." True enough, he looked like he was perfectly fine except for some cuts and grazes that was scattered across his face.

You almost forgot that he took the super soldier serum back when he was Captain America. It was hard to forgot since you were with Sam and Bucky at the time. You nodded before putting away the bandages and took your seat infront of him. Now that you were face to face with him, you noticed how mature, yet different he looked from before.

"Must've been rough for you, running from the law." You start off by cleaning some of the smaller cuts with some wipes. "Trust me...I would know."

You were referring to the time you were on the run with Steve and the others for two years after freeing Bucky. That was how you two met and became close in Wakanda.

"You have no idea..." John responds with a slight waver in his voice. You choose not to press further and lightly dab the bigger cut on the side of his eyebrow.

Unbeknownst to you, John was silently admiring the way you were taking care of him. He doesn't mean this in a creepy way, rather he's surprised that anyone would show an ounce of care for him due to his character and lack of social awareness.

Bucky, on the other hand, misunderstood the scene completely. He had a glass of water in his hand when he went to check up on you. The water that was already in his mouth almost made him choke as he saw the way John made doe eyes at you.

As much as he wanted to strangle the man on the spot, he waited and observed at the doorframe. A smile threatened to tug at the corner of your lips as you felt the presence of the jealous man boring his eyes at the side of your head.

"Relax hon', John's just being John." Speaking of John, he blinked at you in confusion before looking up to see Bucky shooting bullets at him with his eyes.

"Don't worry, he's not going to do anything." You whispered before placing a clear bandaid on the scar. John didn't know if he felt reassured or threatened, so as soon as you finished, he scrambles to his feet.

Bucky steps aside to let John leave, but not before leaning towards him to say something. John flickers his gaze between you and Bucky before leaving with a terrified look on his face.

"Bucky dear, what did you say to him?" You sighed while placing the remainder of the medical equipment back in the medicine cabinet.

"Oh nothing really, just...gave him a peptalk." Bucky responds with a smug smirk as he walks into the washroom. You raise an eyebrow at him, which prompted Bucky to pull you in close by your waist with his arms.

"I didn't threaten him doll," Bucky drawls while bumping his forehead against yours, letting his hair frame his face. It was slightly damp with clumps of sand still stuck in some places. You'd have to remind him to take a shower later after dinner.

"Uh huh, that's why he left like a pale ghost? Because you gave him a 'peptalk'," you mused while playing with the lose strands of Bucky's hair that fell over his eyes. Bucky chuckles softly before responding.

"Right...just a peptalk." Your breath hitches when he bends down to your height while his hair tickled your nose from a loose strand.

"You know you're a really bad liar, right?" You huffed while the rough pad of Bucky's thumb ran gently across your cheek. Your skin felt soft and warm underneath his touch since the blood had rushed to the surface, painting a soft hue of red across your cheeks.

"So? Is that a bad thing?" Bucky's voice goes an octave lower while he inches closer towards your lips, his breath now heavy against yours. His scent flooded your senses, it was a mixture of his cologne and his natural musk from his skin. He hesitates before flickering his gaze up to you again. Silently begging for your permission.

You pondered for a moment while tapping a finger on your chin. "Hmm, do you really deserve a kiss?"

Bucky tilts his head to the side before giving you a deadpan look. But you knew that he was fighting back a smile, so you were the first to lean in. He did deserve a reward for being the amazing partner that he was. Except, he was too quick for you.

He dips his head low, and presses his slightly chapped lips against yours, practically melting into yours. The kiss was gentle yet full of desire. Head tilting the side, his hot breath mingling with yours as his tongue dragged gently across your bottom lip.

Coaxing you to open your mouth. Your tongue meets his as the hand slips down towards your waist. Pressing his fingers into your supple skin, which will definitely leave marks considering how tight his grip was. Not that he didn't mean to, of course.

"Love you s'much," your voice was barely a whisper as it was all becoming too much for you. Bucky let's out a small chuckle as you began to pepper his face with quick pecks before moving back to his lips.

He could picture his lips were probably now a sugary pink colour due to the lipbalm that you wore. The brand was probably called... Summer Fridays? Or something across that line.

"Love you too angel..." he mumbled against your plush lips.

The couple completely unaware that Yelena, Ava and Bob was spying on them from afar with popcorn in hand.

"Guys...I feel a sneeze coming," Bob whispers towards the two women sitting next to him.

"Cucumber! Cucumber! Cucumber!!" Both Ava and Yelena whisper shouted back and forth hurriedly. But it was no use, the sneeze along with their hushed shouting caught the attention of the couple in the washroom.

Needless to say, they learned their lesson from Bucky after an hour long lecture of why they shouldn't spy on people. That also included the punishment of getting limited screen time on the TV as well as playing video games.

p.s - I really love John's character and I believe he has some depth to him that could be explored more

Taglist: @doodlebob-mp3 @marianastudiesart @ordelixx @starktonyx @hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly @perdidosbucky-yyo

[dollyrouge]

friendly introductions – bucky barnes

summary: bucky unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, and he's brought a few people with him pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (ft. the thunderbolts*) word count: 3.4k tags: thunderbolts* shenanigans, spoilers here and there obvs, slight miscommunication, big happy dysfunctional family in the making, google translator was used for the russian words (sorry), kissing, little bit of angst and little bit of fluff notes: i just saw the movie yesterday and as soon as i got back home i decided to write this, which is loosely connected to this fic i posted recently. i just loved the thunderbolts* so much they mean the entire world to me right now. perhaps more fics are coming in the future because i have lots of ideas!!! as always, i hope you enjoy

please reblog and/or comment if you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | part 1 (not strictly necessary to read this one tho)

“Sorry for such short notice,” Bucky mutters as soon as you open the door for him and the rest of the entire group. You could tell he’s been having a pretty rough time just by looking at him. Hair messy, frowning more than usual, dirty clothing and a cut on his left cheek. The rest of the people he’s with don’t look any better. It wouldn’t take an expert to figure out they’ve been in some kind of combat and, most likely, they didn’t come on top. 

“It’s okay,” you quickly reassure him, leaving the door open until every single one of them were inside your apartment, closing it behind them. “Can I ask what happened?”

“We…uh, got our ass kicked, basically,” he replies, sounding quite exhausted. 

You take a second to look at the group. Unfamiliar faces of people you could only assume are in the superhero/villain/whatever business. There’s a blonde woman who immediately leans against one of the walls of your living room, trying to get some sort of rest after the fight. The other woman stays by the entrance and you can’t help but admire how cool her suit is. There’s algo a guy in a red suit and he looks absolutely huge and terrifying, but the smile he sends your way with the silly little wave he makes as you make eye contact gives you the impression that he might not be as intimidating as you initially thought.

And then, your eyes focus on the other person in the room.

“You,” is all you say, your voice sounding anything but welcoming.

Everyone turns to look at Walker, who offers you an awkward smile. “Yeah, hi.”

“You two know each other?” the blonde one asks.

“Unfortunately,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the guy at all times. You know enough about John Walker to be stupid enough to let him out of your sight. “Listen, I don’t know what just happened to you guys, but in case Bucky hasn’t warned you already, you can’t trust this piece of shit.”

Noticing you’re starting to get a little heated by his presence, Bucky wraps an arm around your waist from behind, just in case you decide to go over him and confront him for everything that has happened in the past. “It’s okay. He’s here to help.”

You turn to look at him like he just said the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard in your life, but he simply stares back at you with a serious expression, nodding as if to emphasize on his previous statement, trying to let you know you can actually trust the guy. When you turn back to look at Walker, he raises both hands in the air as a sign to further prove that he’s harmless.

“I’ll be keeping an eye out,” you warn him, pointing your finger at him. 

“That’s fair,” he nods.

“Whoa, she’s feisty!” you hear the excited voice of the guy in the red suit as he lets out a short chuckle. “I like her already!”

You feel Bucky’s grip around your waist tightening. “We’re just here to get some cover and figure out our next move.”

Suddenly remembering the fact that all these strangers are standing in various spots in your living room, you get away from Bucky to walk over to your couch. “Oh, so sorry! What a terrible host,” you attempt to joke a little in hopes of lightening the mood, quickly removing your laptop and various papers scattered across your couch. “Please, take a seat!”

None of them move at first, but they eventually accept the invitation and walk towards your couch to sit down. All except Walker, who decides to stay in the same spot he’s been since he entered your apartment. Not like you care, so you just let him stand there on his own.

A few awkward introductions later and you already know everyone. Alexei, Ava and Yelena. One a total stranger and the others slightly familiar to you due to them being related to Natasha. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name out loud, though. If you struggle to think about her without bursting out crying, you can’t even imagine what it would be like for her dad and sister. Last thing you want is to cause them any discomfort.

“And how exactly do you know each other?” Yelena asks you and Bucky after you introduce yourself to them too.

“Former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Bucky replies before you can say anything, and you can’t help but turn to look at him with a slightly confused expression. “We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

Friends. Sure. Whatever. If that’s what he wants to call it…

After what happened last time you were in D.C., Bucky was constantly making trips to New York to visit you. You’re not officially dating, but it’s established that you’re exclusive. Long distance isn’t ideal, but you’ve made it work so far. Probably the happiest months of your life. But now…you hear him introducing you as his friend. It’s not really a big deal. Technically you are friends? It shouldn’t affect you as much as it does, but…you’re internally fuming right now.

Still, you decide not to say anything regarding that. He’s always been quite a reserved person, so perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable enough to share that information with them just yet. “Can I get you anything to drink?” you decide to ask, looking at everyone else.

“We’re not-”

“I’m sure a glass of water won’t kill anybody,” you say, immediately cutting Bucky off.

There’s a brief silence before Ava speaks. “I’ll have a glass of water. Thank you.”

You look at Yelena as she shortly nods before you focus on Alexei. “Do you perhaps have something else other than water?”

“Dad,” Yelena warns him.

You ignore that short interaction. “Something like what?”

“Like vodka,” he replies simply, like it’s a normal request. Perhaps the russian accent and the fact that he does look like a walking Soviet propaganda adds context to it.

“Dad!” Yelena repeats herself, this time in a louder voice, before hiding her face in her hands. The scene of her getting embarrassed by her dad’s behavior is actually hilarious.

“Two glasses of water and one glass of vodka, got it.” Then it was time to acknowledge Walker again. Even when you deeply hate the guy, you still want to be polite. “Do you want anything?”

“Uh…just water,” he mutters, still unsure on how to really talk to you. It’s ironic how quiet he is right now, considering he had a hard time shutting his mouth when you first met him. “Thank you.”

You offer the group a smile before excusing yourself to go to your kitchen, leaving them momentarily alone. Bucky was about to speak, wanting to initiate a debate on what their plan is going to be to fight against someone as powerful and seemingly invincible as Sentry, but Yelena speaks before he does.

“Now, would you mind telling us how you really know each other?”

Bucky looks immediately confused. “What do you mean?”

“You know I was trained to be a spy since I was very little.”

“Surely you don’t say it enough,” Walker mutters, earning an unamused look from her.

“That must really bother you, Mr. I-was-in-the-military,” Ava chimes in, rolling her eyes.

Ignoring both of them, Yelena decides to continue. “I’m very good at reading people, Bucky. She almost wanted to punch you in the face when you said you two were friends, which let’s me know the comment upset her,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Ah! That’s your lover!” Alexei comments with pleasant surprise.

“And you didn’t introduce her as your girlfriend?” Ava says shortly after, giving him a disapproving look. “No wonder she would want to punch you in the face.”

“Yeah, that’s not cool, man,” Walker agrees from his spot in the living room.

Alexei’s cheerfulness dries down, nodding. “I agree. It’s not very nice.”

Bucky scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive manner. He couldn’t believe these people were judging him over something he thought was meaningless. It was just a way to keep his private life private. Why should they know he’s dating anybody? They’re not his friends to be sharing information like that with them. And it’s not like they’re ever going to see you again anyway. Why is this such a big deal?

“Whoever I date or don’t date it’s not your business,” he simply replies.

Ava scoffs this time. “Don’t bring us to your girlfriend’s flat then.”

“When did you guys became a thing?” Walker asks this time, looking like he's thinking back on it in hopes of remembering any indication that might've gave it away.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, getting more and more exasperated. “We barely got out of that fight against Valentina’s experiment and it’s a matter of time before we have to face him again. Why are we even talking about this?”

“Oh, Bucky,” Yelena shakes her head in a condescending manner. “You’re right, we do not care about your lovelife. Thinking about it makes me sick, actually. But she looked really hurt by what you said, so perhaps you should go talk to her and make things right.”

The other three agreed with Yelena almost immediately, and Bucky just stood there looking at them in disbelief because why are they giving him their input on his relationship? Why is Yelena giving him advice? Why are they getting involved in Bucky’s personal life?

But instead of arguing, he decides to listen to them and heads towards the kitchen. He walks in just in time to see you pouring Alexei an entire glass of vodka as he requested, the other three glasses of water already filled.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” you say nonchalantly, like what Yelena said about you wanting to punch him in the face was just something she misread in your body language. You surely don’t look like you're thinking about violence right now. “Could you help me with the drinks, please?”

Perhaps Yelena was wrong, but just in case she wasn’t, he decided to ask about it. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quick and confused chuckle as you store away the almost finished bottle of vodka. “Why would I not be okay? If you’re asking because you brought them here, I think they’re actually very nice…aside from Walker, of course.”

“No, I mean…the way I introduced you to them,” he says in a soft voice, walking closer to you. “I probably shouldn’t have said you were my friend.”

There’s a brief pause between you, until you’re eventually shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” he insists, standing right before you as he grabs your hands in his. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate a little before eventually giving in. “I mean, you can’t expect me to be thrilled to hear you introduce me to a bunch of people as just your friend.”

Bucky sighs. Yelena was right. “I’m so sorry,” he says almost immediately, giving your hands a light squeeze. “I just met these people and I highly doubt we’ll keep in touch after this. I didn’t want to share that information with them. We’re not exactly…close like that,” he explains himself, looking genuinely sorry for what he said. “I should’ve considered how that would make you feel, or at least tried to explain why I did it as soon as I could. I didn’t mean to hurt you or downplay what we have.”

You can tell he’s genuinely sorry, understanding his reasoning behind it. Perhaps you forgot to put into perspective the fact that they’re just super people Bucky has been forced to work with. Not necessarily friends. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Bucky nods, but he still looks absolutely defeated. “I feel terrible,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You let go of his hands, wrapping your arms around his neck instead. “It’s okay, babe,” you repeat, offering him a soft smile to let him know you forgive him. “I understand you didn’t feel comfortable sharing that with them.”

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

“You’re not obligated to disclose anything with anyone if you don’t feel like it,” you say, just to remind him to do whatever it feels right to him. “But I’m glad we had this conversation to hear each other’s perspective.”

He nods again, still uncertain. You lean in to give him a reassuring kiss before deciding to move away from him to get back to the living room with the rest. He hands the glasses of water to Walker and Yelena, while you hand the other glasses to Ava and Alexei.

The last one takes a big gulp of his glass, letting out a growl of approval. “Smirnoff! Not that Absolut der’mo!”

“I adore him,” you say to Bucky, letting out a quick chuckle as you watch the guy drink the entire glass of vodka in less than two seconds.

“It’ll pass, trust me,” he mutters back to you.

You gently hit his arm as a way of telling him to not be rude, immediately focusing on the cut on his cheek, dried blood around the wound. “I should clean that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry, Bucky,” you insist, patting his shoulder before pointing to one of the two chairs at your small dinner table. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

You excuse yourself to go find the first-aid kit to clean the wound on his face. By the time you get back, the group has already started discussing some sort of strategy regarding some ‘Sentry’ person you don’t know absolutely anything about. Perhaps you’ll ask Bucky to give you a proper update on what the hell this whole thing is all about next time you’re alone.

As obedient as ever, Bucky was already sitting on one of the chairs you previously pointed at before leaving, so you walked over to him to attend to his injury. Even if it was a small, almost insignificant little cut, you wanted to take care of him in any capacity you could.

You were gladly surprised when you feel one of his arms wrapping around you, keeping you close as you stand next to him cleaning the dry blood with a small cotton ball before disinfecting the area, finishing it off with a small bandage above the cut. 

The whole entire time you took care of Bucky’s wound, the group was talking about their strategy. Just listening to them was enough to figure out why Bucky didn’t think they’d stay in touch once it’s time to part ways. More than half of their interactions are more bickering than actual communication. They clash almost constantly and they don’t seem to agree on much. They’re quite honestly a complete mess. But still...even when it’s difficult to see how a group like this could work, they oddly do. There’s just something about them. Perhaps they’re the prime example of how opposites tend to work together perfectly. 

“Done,” you whisper to him, not warning to interrupt their conversation.

“Thanks, doll,” he whispers back, giving you a smile.

After a few more minutes of planning, it was finally time for them to get back out there in hopes to put an end to the threat that seems to loom over New York (and perhaps the entire world). You accompany them to the door, all of them saying their goodbyes to you.

“Thanks for letting us hide here,” Yelena says with a polite smile, offering her hand for a handshake as a way to further prove her gratitude. 

“Oh, it’s really nothing. I’m glad I was able to help out,” you reply, accepting her handshake. “And…you know, good luck. You probably don’t need it, obviously, but just in case…”

“You’re adorable,” Ava comments with a smirk, patting your shoulder as her way of saying goodbye.

Alexei doesn’t even say anything. He just straight up walks towards you and wraps his arms around you, lifting you off the ground as he gives you a tight hug. It certainly takes you by surprise, but you pat his back as a way of returning the hug, hearing how Yelena and Bucky are frantically telling him to put you down immediately.

The three of them are already outside your apartment and it’s time to face Walker. He just says a quick “thank you” before walking towards the others that wait for Bucky in the hallway, knowing you probably don’t even want to address him. For now, you decide not to say anything to him. If you do see each other again, perhaps then you’ll try to figure out if you can look past the awful things he has done.

Now Bucky is the one who stands before you and all you can do is hug him as tight as you possibly can, almost not wanting to let him go. You know he’ll be fine. You know he’ll come back to you. But still, you can’t ignore the knot forming at the pit of your stomach, anxiety and fear consuming you at the thought of something happening to him.

He senses how you feel, hugging you back just as tight. “Please be safe,” he whispers.

You break the hug, looking up at him. “I should be telling you that.”

The comment makes him smile softly because it sounds like you're reprimanding him for what he just said. Immediately after, he's placing a hand at the side of your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, still as anxious as you were before. The fact that you still don’t fully know what they’re up against makes your situation worse. If it’s anything remotely similar to an Avenger-like threat, you have plenty of reasons to be afraid. “Just…just take care, please.”

“I will,” he replies, giving you a kiss so sweet and gentle that it practically takes your breath away. He knows you’re worried like never before and he wants to make sure he’s able to give you as much reassurance as he possibly can.

After a few more seconds of him just looking back at you with a soft smile on his face, he moves back from you, knowing he has to leave already.

“Promise you’ll be back soon,” you blurt out as he’s leaving your apartment, still fighting the urge to just yank him back into the apartment to keep him from going back out there.

“I promise you I’ll be back, darling,” he says without any hesitation, knowing he’ll do anything he possibly can to keep his word.

Finally, he closes the door of your apartment, leaving you all alone in there as you try to calm yourself down until everything is back to normal again and he’s here with you. Until he’s back in the safety of the arms of the person he cares most about in this entire world.

You focus on the four empty glasses, the lingering presence of everyone, the trail of dirt their boots left on the floor, the chair Bucky was sitting on just seconds ago...you can only hope they stay safe. Meanwhile, you decide to clean up the living room as a way of distracting yourself.

On the other side of the door, Bucky is turning to look at the group, rolling his eyes when he sees all of them grinning and nodding their hands in approval after witnessing him being so lovey-dovey with you, discovering a sight of him they probably didn’t even know existed.

“Not a single word,” Bucky warns them, immediately walking in between them to get to the elevator.

“What? We can’t say you two looked disgustingly cute back there?” Yelena jokes as she follows after him.

"Who knew that was hiding beneath all that...grumpiness," Ava comments right after.

“I said not a single word,” he repeats, trying to act like he wasn’t feeling terribly embarrassed right now. Or like he didn't find the teasing slightly entertaining. Just slightly.

“I mean, you did look cute,” Walker agrees.

“So cute!” Yelena emphasizes.

Alexei wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, much to his discomfort. “That was adorable. You, my friend, had the eyes of love looking at your zhenshchina!”

“And you had to make it weird,” Ava mutters after Alexei’s comment, just as the elevator doors are closing. translations: der'mo (shit), zhenshchina (woman). again, i apologize if the translation is wrong, i don't speak russian

[dollyrouge]

pretty hot

dante/reader

word count: 336

note: no thoughts just dante on this day. written so any era of dante can be put in here

“Y’know,” he starts, pulling a hum out of you as you keep your eyes trained on the road ahead of you. “You’re pretty hot when you’re throwing knives at demons.”

The laugh you let out comes out as more of a huff, followed closely by a cough that makes him wince as he kneels beside you. 

“That’s not all you’ve got, princess.” A gloved hand comes to hold your head up, the other pushing your hair back to get a look at the wound in your hairline. “C’mon, can you stand?”

It pains you to shake your head, and not just where your pride is concerned. The demon hunter in front of you would never let you forget that you needed his help — let alone the fact that he saved your life due to good timing (it was only good timing and absolutely no matter of skill). In addition to your wounded pride; his help would incur a “debt” you’d have to pay back in full, since Dante didn’t do anything for free and loved when you owed him. 

And it also fucking hurt to move your head at all — that’s probably why they were called “head injuries”. You can wiggle your fingers and toes but any other movement is near impossible in your current state, meaning you would need his help again. 

“Silence is a ‘no’.” He even has the nerve to ‘tsk’ at your situation, shaking his head in disappointment before those blue eyes look back up at you. “Good thing I’m here, huh? Let’s get you home.”

This was normally where negotiations began, but instead you have him hoisting you onto his back to carry you away from the impromptu battlefield that had become of Sycamore Street. 

“What’s the price?”

“Good health first,” is all he says, gently bumping his head against yours when you rest your head against his shoulder. “Sexual favors later.”

“Y’know,” you breathe, smiling when he gives your thighs a squeeze. “You’re pretty hot when you make yourself useful.”

[dollyrouge]

In Shades of Purple

summary: While on a mission, you uncover footage of the Winter Soldier Project, exposing just how much torture Bucky had endured. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 5.3k warnings: canon level violence, descriptions of torture, Bucky's trauma, PTSD healing and recovery, protective!reader a/n: This is based on request from a thousand years ago about the noticeable bruising on Bucky’s face after he escapes Hydra in the 40s

“Thought you said this mission was supposed to be dangerous, Rogers?” you quipped into the coms. The edge of your baton plunged into the neck of a Hydra agent and the electric wiring jolted through the man’s body, wiping the smug smirk from his face as his body trembled and collapsed to the concrete. You wiped your brow, standing up straight as you made your way down the empty hallway to the control room.

“From where I’m standing,” you stepped over the unconscious body of the fourth Hydra agent you’d incapacitated, “the only threat in this base is me.”

“Keep your head on, Y/L/n,” Steve’s voice carried through the coms. “You’re not out yet.”

“You’re just jealous you’re stuck on the jet and not down in the action,” you teased. If you paused for a second longer, you might have imagined the pristinely perfect blue of his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Just download the files we came for so we can get out of here,” Steve shot back, though there was a lingering laugh in his voice. “Bucky’s been driving me up a wall asking about when you’ll be home.”

You grinned; a rather cheery, bashful smile amongst the dark ruins of a once abandoned Hydra base. An agent at your feet began to stir and you wasted no time as you effortlessly twirled the baton between your fingertips and plunged the electric edge into his ribs. He jolted up for only a second before he slumped into a heap, unmoving.

“We both know Bucky’s tolerance for patience is rather low these days,” you smirked.

Steve chuckled. “He worries himself mad, is all.”

You nodded, a devious smile tugging at your cheeks. “His bed’s probably feeling cold, too.”

Steve groaned and you could practically imagine the tight-lipped frown on his lips, the lines on his forehead – the lingering evidence of an awkward, lanky boy from Brooklyn. “Not information I need to hear, Y/n.”

Your laugh echoed into the hallway as you jimmied open the lock to the control room, shoving a shoulder hard into the vulnerable crack in the door you’d pummeled a few bullets into. It slid open with an ear splinting creak, a wind of dust clouding up into the air at the sudden movement. You coughed, hiking up the edge of your suit to cover your mouth.

“This room hasn’t been touched in decades, Steve,” you observed, stepping further inside. You flipped on the light by the door and a soft buzzing purred in your ears as a flickering florescence illuminated the room. Layers of dust laid upon the surface of technology ancient enough to have been used by Tony’s father back when SHIELD was still operating under SSR.

“I don’t like you in there any longer than you need to be,” Steve said, his voice notably sterner. “Just download the files and get back to the jet. We don’t know if those guards called for backup before you knocked them out.”

You nodded, eyeing the room suspiciously. It left an unsettling feeling in your stomach as you caught sight of the Hydra logo engraved on the wall, its slithering tentacles curling around the room. To imagine the sort of men that had once occupied this room and the vile plans they shared for the future... you shivered.

“You got it, Cap.”

You tugged the flash drive from your pocket and quickly made your way to the center computer. Kicking out the fragile chair away from the desk, you stood at the keyboard and began to type the codes you’d been instructed to use by the intel team when prompted. With the flash drive inserted into the USB, you were beginning the sequence to transfer the data when a file caught your attention.

Blocked by a series of encrypted codes amongst an already near impenetrable firewall, the folder stood out from the rest, holding three times the data than the rest of the files you’d been instructed to download. It wasn’t named – not by Hydra and not by the SHIELD team who had ordered the transfer of all files in the hard drive – but a sinking feeling burned into your stomach. Hot, heavy – like molten lava searing through your flesh.

“Steve,” you gaped, heart racing as you stared at the file.

“What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t tera your eyes away from the file. “What are we here to download?”

“It’s above our clearance level.”

You could hear the hesitancy in Steve’s voice. He didn’t like being kept in the dark any more than you did, especially with matters related to Hydra.

“You’re Captain America,” you challenged, your hand gripping so tight to the mouse it started to ache. “Can’t you make it our clearance level?”

“Y/n,” Steve eased, the concern evident, “what is it?”

Hidden amongst an endless data dump of research and trials, of weapons manufacturing, of contact lists and shipment logos was a single file with the potential to destroy everything you held close. It threatened you. It threatened the man you loved. It mocked you through the vicious layer of glass upon the screen and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from its sinister grin.

“Steve, its—” You shuddered, trying to compose yourself. “They have information on the Winter Soldier program.”

There was no response on the other end of the coms.

Your body was paralyzed. Your breaths were coming in shallow and broken. An image of Bucky as you knew him struggled to push itself to the surface – soft flowing waves at his shoulders, a pinch of pink in his cheeks, a smile etched to his lips, and a sweetness in the gentle blue of his eyes – but all you could see was the man on the bridge. His eyes covered in black paint. Cold, empty. His body a weapon.

You stumbled back until you hit the row of computers behind you. Hands gripped down to the edge of the table as you heard Steve curse through the coms. The file stared back at you as you kept your eyes glued to the screen. It called you, beckoned you. You couldn’t let SHIELD get ahold of this file without knowing what was on it.

“I’m going to open it.”

A rustling echoed through the coms. “Y/n, don’t.”

You ignored him, determined now as you stepped up to the computer. Steve must have heard the clicking of the keyboard through the coms.

“Y/n, I’m serious,” he tried again, a little more desperate. “Forget breaking protocols, this is not something you want to see. You have no idea what could be in that file. Bucky wouldn’t want you to—”

“Bucky would understand if it meant keeping it out of the hands of someone who might use it against him,” you snapped back, already seven lines into decoding the Winter Soldier file. It had more firewalls up than the rest of the documents, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t crack.

“SHEILD wouldn’t—” Steve started, though he cut himself off before he could finish. Not even he was convinced of SHEILD’s moral superiority. He exhaled a tense sigh and you could picture as he pinched the bridge of his nose, a hand on his hip. “Just be quick about it.”

You weren’t planning on waiting for Steve’s permission, but an ounce of relief lifted some of the weight on your chest before you finished the last line of code. It was comforting to know he was with you on this, that he put Bucky above SHEILD and the Avengers, too.

There was no time to prepare when the decryption uncoded. Dozens of files and videos sprang across the dozens of monitors, encompassing the entire room and surrounding you. You clutched at your chest, heart pounding so loudly you wondered if Steve could hear it.

The first screen that caught your eye was two monitors to your left. Slowly, you gathered the strength to walk toward it. With every step you felt a tug pushing you backward, desperate in its attempt to shield you from what you’d uncovered. You pushed on despite its warning.

In the top right corner of the screen was an image of Bucky in his youth, dressed in his army uniform and with a face decades younger, softer. The rest of the file contained information markers, achievements on the battlefield from his time with the Howling Commandos, notable skills. In red marker, ‘sniper’ was circled three times.

You glanced up to find a screen one row ahead displaying a photograph of Bucky after the fall. Blood coated down the left side of his body, mangled flesh left behind over blue skin. There was a blur on his face, like he’d been moving, shouting, when the image was taken. He’d been resisting the vile touch of the Hydra scientists as they strapped him to the ruthless chill of a metal operating table. You clamped a hand over your mouth to shelter a scream.

To your right, the monitor listed in cold, clinical terms how they’d attached the metal arm to his left side, how they ripped open nerve endings and shredded what remained of his flesh. Documented like it was nothing more than a procedure, something to be learned from and used. There was pride laced into the words of the doctors who had torn apart the man you loved.

A row behind you detailed the Winter Soldier’s trigger words with small, handwritten notes on their effectiveness with each trial. Accounts of every attempt that left Bucky a sobbing mess on the floor, his hands pressed to his ears in a hopeless effort to block out the words. Accounts of the moments that left him motionless and empty inside – of when they went too far and stripped him of everything he was until he was almost nothing at all. Account of celebration when they finally achieved their goal and put their good work to test. They'd forced him to murder a nameless civilian in cold blood. The Hydra scientists drank champagne while Bucky cleans the blood from his hands.

At the edge of the first row, you found a list of punishments they’d used against him when he’d fallen out of line. Starvation, isolation, beatings, torture. A laundry list of places to cut and prod, tools to use that made him comply the fastest, the parts of his body that made him scream the loudest – a perfectly constructed manual of how to beat the Winter Soldier into submission. Your hands were shaking so terribly, you curled them to fists, and even then – it would not stop.

Tears sprang in your eyes as you walked around the room, drawn in a masochist trance to each screen as they displayed the various tortures Bucky had endured before he eventually broken to the will of Hydra.

But it wasn’t until the click of a projection illuminated against the Hydra emblem on the eastern wall that a strain of bile etched up your throat. The low crackle of decades old speakers burned through the room and you turned in horror as you heard the agonizing familiarity of Bucky’s voice echoing amongst the static.

“Don’t!” Bucky shouted—begged. His voice broke in the effort. It was higher than you’d known it to be, younger. Decades away from the man you knew. He shook with violent tremors as the men approached him. “Stop! Not—Not again. Please!”

Bucky was already strapped to the chair; bound by his wrists, his ankles, and a metal bar over his chest. His hair was cut short, eyes wide with fear as he thrashed away from the hands taping monitors to his heart. Shirt ripped from his body, his left shoulder was burned red with fresh scars and infection— bloodied, angry, violent sweeps of veins and tissues where metal consumed flesh. The appendage fresh on his body. His ribs were painted in blue and purple, cuts on his collarbone and cheeks.

He was screaming before they put the clamps against his temples.

You couldn’t hear Steve as he called your name – not as the electricity coursed through Bucky’s body, as scientists coldly shouted the trigger words over the break in his screams. His whole body was rigid, blood dripping down from his ears. Bile rose to your tongue and you expelled what remained inside your stomach to the concrete.

“Y/n! Talk to me!”

Steve.

You shook your head, tears openly streaming down your cheeks. You wiped your lips, staring in honor at the projection against the wall – at your sweet, achingly kind Bucky as they ripped him of his free will, as they tortured him until he was little more than the empty weapon they’d designed. He was so young; you didn’t realize how young he was when—

A hand gripped at your forearm and you turned to find Steve standing beside you. His gaze flickered to the monitors for only a second, his stare lingering on the projection as the machine finally powered down and Bucky slumped into the chair, unconscious. Steve’s jaw clenched, his face hardening over.

“Steve,” you exhaled, barely above a whisper, “we have to destroy this. If Bucky ever saw—”

“I know.” Steve was firm in his stance, a ruthless kind of anger burning on his features as he glared at the screens covering the room. He curled his hand to a fist. “We’ll wipe it. All of it.”

“What about the mission? The rest of the file...”

“Let me handle it,” Steve said, his teeth grinding as he watched the video of his friend lit up against the wall.

You nodded, a warm wash of relief pressing through your chest. On the projection above, you watched the scientists hull Bucky’s unconscious frame from the chair. His body was limp, thrown around like a rag doll.

You sank down against the edge of the table behind you, unable to hold yourself up as they dragged Bucky towards the camera. There, the dark bruising was evident along his temples and down by his cheekbones where the clamps had been. Burned flesh and deep shades of purple. Blood dripped from his ear.

Then, the video stopped. The projection turned off and the carving of the Hydra emblem against the wall stared blankly back at you.

You turned to find Steve typing rapidly at one of the computers. He was shaking his head, the frustration evident on his face. Then, he pulled the gun from his belt and fired four shots into the hard drive. You didn’t so much as blink. The monitor blackened, the room falling silent as sparks ignited and it went up in smoke.

“Will that be enough?” he asked, voice tense as he turned to you.

You swallowed, pointing to the towers on the west wall. “There’s backups over—”

Steve had already fired another three shots before you could finish your sentence. The towers were on fire, their lights flickering until they finally dimmed in a cloud of smoke. He turned to you again and this time, you gave him a single nod.

Steve placed a gentle hand on your back, guiding you to the exit. You wondered if he could feel how badly you were shaking.

“Bucky’s okay, Y/n,” he told you, his voice softer than you’d prepared for. “Hydra can’t hurt him anymore. He’s safe. You know he is.”

You nodded, trying to let the words sink in, though you suspected you would not be able to rid yourself of the gnawing pit in your stomach until you could see Bucky again with your own eyes. You stepped over the unconscious bodies along the hallway as you followed Steve to the jet. You didn’t say another word until you boarded the jet and sank into the copilot seat beside Steve.

The flight home was agonizing as you attempted to stifle the sobs that etched through your body. Steve gripped tight to the control panel, pretending not to hear.

***

Bucky was waiting for you when you landed.

He stood in his usual spot at the center of the hanger – arms folded over his chest as he and Natasha quietly entertained Sam’s usual chatter. His hair blew against the wind from the engines and his body seemed to relax as you caught sight of him through the slit of the loading dock as it lowered to the floor.

A smile lifted at his cheeks as he blatantly ignored whatever Sam was saying a took a few steps closer to you. He carried himself with a lightness you’d hadn’t seen in that nightmarish footage. His skin was sun-kissed instead of sunken and pale. His lips were full and pink instead of broken and bloodied. His laugh echoed and almost buckled your knees.

You didn’t bother grabbing your equipment or waiting for the panel to settle against the firm surface of the concrete before you bolted towards him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled, grinning at the sight of you, “did you miss—oomf.”

You slammed to his chest; arms wrapped tight around his neck. He froze, the shift almost instant as his hand slid along your spine, sensing the trembling in your body as you clung to him. It was like you couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t manage to secure him safely enough against you, couldn’t convince yourself that he was right here and protected and loved and not still bound to that awful machine.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you, honey,” he cooed cautiously, quiet enough for only your ear to hear. Then, Bucky turned to Steve as you listened for the heavy weight of his footsteps as he dragged himself from the jet. “What happened out there?”

Sam and Natasha were quiet as Steve ran a hand down his face. If it were possible, you held onto Bucky tighter. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“It’ll be best if you let us deal with it, Buck,” Steve eased, nodding toward Sam and Natasha.

You could feel the shift in Bucky’s stance, the argument building, and you tapped Bucky’s shoulder blade three times in quick succession with the pad of your thumb. He stilled and forced his muscles to relax. It was a code you’d come up with years ago – a silent plea to ‘trust me.’ Three taps.

Bucky nodded. “Alright, just... swear you’ll rope me in if you need help.”

Steve smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, pal.”

He set a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and you could feel Steve’s fingertips graze your arm. You made a mental note to thank him when this was over; for all he’d done for Bucky and strength he lent to you.

You didn’t flinch in your grip on Bucky even as three sets of footsteps faded in their echo. Bucky didn’t dare attempt to peal you from your hold and instead, he simply ran a hand along your spine, humming soft enough for you to feel the vibration against your chest. Real. Tangible. Safe.

“We’ve got an audience,” he murmured to your ear; not out of embarrassment, but of concern. “Let’s find some privacy, okay?”

You nodded weakly against his neck and slowly began to pull away from his embrace. You kept a hand along his shoulder, another sliding down his right arm to hold his hand – something to grip onto to remind yourself he was here with you, that he was safe, that Hydra could not touch him as long as you did.

Bucky took in a shallow, tense breath as he met your eye. The cool touch of metal gently grazed over your cheekbones, smearing the tears before they fell. He softened, looking over you with bated breath as his eyes trailed over your suit in search of injury.

“I’m not hurt,” you told him and he relaxed a bit at that.

He pushed out a smile and gripped your hand firm enough for it to ache – grounding you. Then, he led you away from the curious stares of the agents lingering around the hanger. Their gaze followed you, their hushed whispers rippling in your wake.

“Ignore them,” Bucky said softly.

You nodded, understanding that he spoke from experience. Even in his years working with SHEILD and the Avenger, after all he’d been through, there were still some who questioned his allegiance, who kept their gossip and slander to the shadows. It didn’t bother him now as much as it did in the beginning, but it still managed to break your heart.

A silence carried between you as he guided you to the elevator, and then up to the residence floors. It was a small comfort and his grip on your hand did not falter for even a moment, not even as he crossed into the threshold of his bedroom.

“Now,” he started, closing the door behind you, “can you tell me what’s got you so shaken?”

You clenched your jaw, sinking down to the edge of his mattress. Your arms folded protectively over your chest as Bucky settled in beside you, watching as you bit down so hard on your lip it began to bleed. Tears sprang to your eyes as he cautiously set his hand to your jawline and thumbed at your lower lip until you unlatched your bite. He smiled sadly at you.

“Talk to me,” he whispered soothingly. “Let me help—”

“You feel safe here, don’t you?”

Bucky blinked a few times, thrown by your question. He must have noticed the flash of uncertainty in your voice, the worry lines etched into your features, and he softened.

He contemplated it for a moment before he nodded. “Where’s this coming from?”

“With SHEILD?” you asked again, hands wringing into your suit. “With the team? With... with me?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. He slid his hand against your thigh in long, sweeping motions to draw the anxiety from its clutch in your muscles. When you looked at him again, you found him smiling sweetly at you.

“Of course, I do, sweetheart,” he said, though he paused for a moment as if second guessing his answer. “You know there will always be moments when I have doubts. I don’t know if I’ll ever be rid of that completely, but it doesn’t last long, not when you’re with me. This team, you... you’re family to me.”

You nodded, though you were unconvinced. You’d seen him wake from nightmares that left him broken and afraid, desperately clawing his way to the corner of the room in fear you’d hurt him. You’d seen the layers of guilt and shame that smothered him, sinking him below the surface. You’d seen how he’d flinched for nearly three months when Sam raised a hand in greeting.

Bucky sighed. “What happened on that mission, Y/n?”

You took a deep breath, turning on the edge of the bed to face him completely. You leaned forward and held both sides of his face delicately between your hands. He watched you as your eyes lingered over his temples, untouched and clear of burns and bruises, where the clamps had singed his skin. He watched as you traced your thumbs over his cheekbones where they were painted dark purple, broken blood vessels in the exertion of the chair. You touched at the edge of his earlobe, where blood had dripped from his ear.

“Y/n...”

“I won’t ever hurt you,” you whispered and the words seemed to shock him; not in their truth, of which Bucky believed with undying certainty, but in the break of your voice – the brokenness, the guilt, the shame, the longing. You bit back tears as Bucky turned his head only enough to press a kiss to your palm.

“I won’t let them touch you again. I’ll kill every last one of them before they can,” you swore through your tears. Bucky only nodded, very slowly, impossibly subtle, as he seemed to understand what you’d seen in the Hydra base.

You’d known what they’d done to him. Bucky only shared glimpses of his history with Hydra but you’d heard enough through the idle chatter of SHEILD agents and the small semblance of truth in the tabloids. You’d known enough and never dared to ask him for more.

Seeing it was something else entirely.

Watching as the painfully young, idealistic boy from his youth was ripped apart and made again into something empty and broken. Watching as they destroyed this beautiful man as you held him in your hands, listening to his scream as it tore through the film and ripped straight through your heart.

It shattered you.

Slowly, you leaned into him and touched your lips to his right temple. The tissue was long healed, the bruising decades faded, but you kissed him with the delicacy of fresh wounds. He sighed, a breath catching in his throat before you moved to his left side.

There, you pressed another kiss over what was once raw and burned flesh.

You moved to his cheek bones that had been littered in shades of blue and purple. Your lips feathered to his skin, so soft he might not have felt it if you hadn’t heard the slight tremble in his breaths with every touch. You kissed each of the wounds you’d seen inflicted in that footage, of the awful chair that stole his memories and his will. You kissed him until you tasted the salt of his tears.

“Being here, with you,” Bucky started, reflective eyes staring adoringly back at you, “was worth every second of it.”

You shook your head, heart splintering at the seams. “Don’t say that...”

“I mean it.” He circled his hands around yours, gently pulling them from their hold on his cheeks to press his lips to your knuckles. Then, he held them in his lap, caged in warmth and a tenderness he had not known for decades. When he smiled for you, a warmth burned through your chest – something safe and inviting, loving.

You looked up at the man you loved, at the tenderness with which he watched you, at the kindness etched deep into his bones, the loyalty burned into his very soul; a man who had been joyful and soft before the world broke him into something sharp and hollow. He was rebuilding himself now, slowly. With you, in the quiet sanctuary of his room, he was gentle and loving and good. He was a glimpse of the man you’d seen thrown to the destruction of the chair.

“You didn’t deserve any of it,” you exhaled, trying to cast out the image of him bound to the awful machine as it plagued your mind, the scream in his voice as the electricity jolted through his body. Tears blurred through your vision. “What they did to you...”

“I know. But I’m okay, sweetheart,” Bucky stressed with loving patience, sensing the shadow of guilt as it drove its incessant blade against you. “Whatever you saw, whatever’s making you afraid for me... it’s over. Hydra can’t hurt me anymore. I’m okay.”

He shook his head, determined as a smile light up bright into his eyes. “I’m more than okay. I’m happy. There was a long time when I thought I might not ever know that feeling again.”

Bucky tugged your stiff body into his arms, running his hands along your back until you relaxed against him. He pressed his lips to your crown, over your hairline and along your forehead – the gentle reminders that he was there with you as the darkness threatened to pull you under. You curled against him as tight as you could manage until Bucky eased you back onto the bed alongside him, drawing sheets over your bodies still dressed in uniform, laying your head to his chest to listen for his heart.

“I wish I could go back and save you from it,” you murmured quietly as his fingertips drew patterns to your shoulder. Your hand clutched into the fabric of his shirt as the contents of the Winter Soldier project burned into your mind – the experiments, the punishments, that film.

“I wouldn’t be here with you now if you did,” Bucky reminded you gently.

You closed your eyes, tears spilling over the bridge of your nose. “I’d do it, Bucky. I’d give you up if it meant saving you from those monsters... what they’d done to you... all that pain... your screams...”

The film flashed before your eyes again and you were thrown under currents as you watched those scientists strap the man you loved so desperately to a machine that tortured him until his mind gave out, as you listened to him beg and cry until his voice broke, as you saw the sweet, loving man drained from his body and a hollowness replaced.

Bucky wrapped you as tight to his chest as he could manage as the sobs finally broke through. You couldn’t contain it anymore, couldn’t suppress the lump in your throat as it threatened to choke you raw, and Bucky held you through every wave as it drowned you in his arms.

You despised yourself for allowing him to comfort you over his own torture, how he soothed through the pain of what he had endured. For you, it was fresh and bleeding and open. For Bucky, it had scarred over in rough tissue and discolored with age. The soft hum of his voice was the only thing grounding you from the brink.

“You bring me a little further away from that cell every day, Y/n,” Bucky eased before he pressed a kiss to your temple, one the lingered warm against your skin under the heat of his breath. “You remind me what it feels like to be safe and protected and... loved. It’s enough to outweigh the memories of my past, of what Hydra did. It’s enough to let me rebuild again.”

His heart was even, steady, as you listened for it against his chest. There was no flicker of doubt, no hesitancy in his words. His thumb swept delicately against your cheek, brushing the tears before they could fall.

“I’m so proud of you... of how far you’ve come,” you told him, tracing against the stubble on his jawline. “You’re a good man, Bucky.”

He smiled at you before he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your lips. It was short and brief, but it held a weight within the touch; it conveyed more than he could with words and you felt it in the way he held you.

When you opened your eyes again, you didn’t see the traces of the man strapped to the chair – no brushstrokes of blue or purple, no hollowed and sunken eyes, no raw and burned flesh upon his temples. You listened for the even pace of his breathing, of his heart beating soundly inside his chest. The feel of his warm skin and the touch of pink in his cheeks as the sunlight cast in from the window and graced over him.

When you looked at him again, you saw the man he was now.

You saw the laugh lines by his eyes and the resilience etched deep into his bones, the smile bright upon his face, felt the touch of his hands as they drew gentle patterns along your back.

Bucky Barnes had survived more than anyone should and still, here he was, as loving and kind as the man they dared to force into that chair. It was carved so deep into his very being, not even Hydra could steal it from him. You’d give your last breath to defend that part of him. He knew it, too.

Perhaps that was what granted him such peace.

--

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[dollyrouge]

Canyons and Valleys

summary: Bucky’s violent history is written upon his body like a map; scars he cannot bear to look at in fear of the monster in his reflection. When Bucky is forced to put his scars on display, he’s certain you’ll take one look at him and run. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 5k warnings: descriptions of past torture, violence, touch starved!bucky, lots of self loathing, mega angst (with a happy ending) to start off 2022 lol a/n: this was a request by @buckygeek! See my FAQ for more info on requests

A tattered sheet once hung over the mirror in Bucky’s bathroom. He’d taken it off his bed, forgone the thin layer on cold winter nights. Anything to spare himself of the monster that had taken root within his reflection. The steam of a scalding hot shower hadn’t been enough to erase the image; he could still see his outline amongst the fog, could still see the faint discoloration of red on his shoulder before it morphed into the jarring, bright silver down his arm.

It had been a small comfort then – the thin, ragged sheet. His therapist would have called it avoidance, but it had kept him from shattering the glass under his fist most days so he didn’t much care what it was called. He found that even when jagged, broken lines ran through his reflection and warped his mirrored image, it did not lessen the coil of shame burned deep into his stomach. The sheet had been his only reprieve.

But that was in Bucharest. Now, living at the tower and surrounded by superheroes and gods and science projects a hell of a lot more well-adjusted than he’d ever be, avoiding the mirrors was not exactly a convenient option.

Stark was notoriously self-obsessed. He built his monument to the sky with floor to ceiling windows and metal appliances shiny enough to see the flecks of silver in Bucky’s irises. It was nearly impossible to avoid his own reflection in a tower designed by a genius with an ego bigger than the name plastered outside, but he did his best. He kept his eyes down whenever he left his room and wore layers of clothing thick enough to hide the ugliness underneath.

But it didn’t protect him from the mirror in his bathroom. The damn thing took up nearly half the wall and had him missing the tiny, cracked reflection in his run-down apartment in Bucharest. He hadn’t realized how faded the glass had been then, how stained and scratched it was. It would have been a relief to study his reflection in that mirror.

Now, he could see every crevice, every valley and canyon burrowed into his skin. Red mountains rising from his shoulder, rivers and streams made of splintered veins spilling out into his collar, down his shoulder blades, over his chest. It was like he was standing under a microscope. Exposed. Vulnerable. He’d never seen his body on such display as he did within that mirror.

He’d thought about covering it up, but Steve would have taken one look at the Egyptian cotton sheets draped over every reflective surface in the room and staged an intervention. Never mind the fact that these damn sheets probably cost Stark a fortune, Bucky wasn’t looking to give Steve any additional reason to look at him like he was about shatter at any second. It was like he was waiting for Bucky to crumble under the weight of Hydra, of public opinion, of his own guilt – waiting for the next splinter to rush up Bucky’s spine until he fell apart completely.

Steve meant well. Bucky knew that. His worry was born of the moment Bucky fell from the train – Steve's hand outstretched as if he could catch him if only he’d reached a little further. It was made of the decades believing he was dead, the moment he found Bucky on the bridge again with no memory of who he was. Worry made of the assassin Hydra had forced him to become, the free will stripped from Bucky’s bones.

Steve had reason to worry. Bucky just wasn’t sure how to get better if everyone was waiting for him to snap.

***

The skin on Bucky’s chest was numbed under the scalding water; bright red and flushed with warmth. He’d finished cleaning himself twenty minutes earlier, but still he stood planted under the stream. Mind drifting into the steam, focus blurred to the tiles on the wall. Centering nothingness. It was only when a faint chime rang from his phone on the sink, that he finally jarred himself back into his body.

It was too quiet without the sound of the shower. He knew better than to keep the fan on – letting the steam accumulate in the room and build up against the mirror was all that he could do to avoid a glimpse of his reflection. He’d learned to look down and to the left when he entered, keeping his back to the mirror as he changed. There was a routine – a purpose behind every movement. Careful precision in his avoidance, though it made his therapist frown.

But as he towel-dried his body and shook out the damp ends of his hair, Bucky realized his mistake. He hadn’t closed the door all the way, leaving a sizable crack into his bedroom. It had allowed most of the steam to escape; his protective layer of fog missing. He couldn’t stop himself before his gaze caught the crystalline reflection in the mirror.

He’d hoped once he would just be able to turn away from it, to steal a painful glance and simply move on – close his eyes or turn his head and keep moving. But he’d never learned to hold such kindness for himself, because once his eyes fell to the scars littering his body, he could not look away. Drawn to them as if they’d dug their talons into his eyes and held onto him until he bled.

The serum in his blood was what allowed the majority of his injuries to heal as though they’d never laid ruin to his body. He figured he wouldn’t have remembered much of those scars anyway. It was only the worst that remained on his skin, the ones that had caused the most pain, the ones that had been cut open again and again before they were ever given a chance to heal.

The mess of tissue on his shoulder where metal fused to flesh – his body’s desperate effort to reject the intrusion of such violence to his body. Nerves that had fused together by force, sharp edges of metal that had dug into his skin and ripped and shredded until there was little softness remaining.

The burn marks of a taser strong enough to bring down a wild beast crawling like spider veins from his right shoulder blade. A parting gift from the nameless men who had done their best to keep the Winter Soldier sedated and in line.

A long, jagged cut along his ribs where a knife had slid between the bones on a mission were he hardly remembered the objective. But he could still see the black of the assailant's eyes as they dove the blade into his stomach, as the serrated edges sawed at his skin until he doubled over. He still remembered his first concern had been for his failed mission, for the handler he’d disappointed, not for the pool of blood spilling between his fingers.

Bucky’s phone chimed again, shattering his trance. A reprieve, almost. It was enough to tear his eyes from the monster in the mirror. He released an exhale deep in his chest, his lungs tight as if he’d been holding it for minutes. On the screen was a text message from you.

The muscles in his shoulders eased, the coil loosening in his stomach. He ran his thumb over the text of your name as if it were an extension of you, as if touching you might calm the racing swell in his chest. He wasn’t surprised as he fell his heart begin to even, his breathing slowing to its normal pace. Bucky picked up the phone and left the bathroom without another glance at the mirror.

Cap wants us out on the next jet. Heard a rumor it could be the about the art heist in Vienna! Get a move on or we’ll leave without you!

Bucky couldn’t help the smile as it tugged at his cheeks. You’d been talking about the heist non-stop since you were caught eavesdropping outside Fury’s office the evening he met with the Austrian president. A group of highly skilled thieves and hackers had turned their attention away from mining intelligence and breaking into bank vaults in order to steal priceless paintings. It wasn’t their typical MO, but that’s what made it interesting, you’d told him.

Sam had teased there must have been a map on the back of one of the paintings and that someone should alert Nic Cage – whoever that was – and you’d all but burst with excitement. Bucky had never seen your eyes light up as bright.

Give me five minutes, Bucky texted back. He tossed his phone on the bed and grabbed the tac suit from mountain of clothes piled on the chair in the corner of his bedroom – fresh laundry he had yet to put away days later. It still smelled like your detergent.

You’ve got two, came your reply as he fastened the final clips on his jacket. Bucky chuckled to himself, biting at the edge of his lip as he studied the small winking emoji at the tail end of your message.  He rushed to the landing bay with only moments to spare to find you waiting eagerly for him on the quinjet ramp, bouncing on your toes, grinning ear to ear. He could hardly remember what had held him up in the first place.

“Art thieves, Bucky!” you reminded him, giddy with excitement.

He chuckled, a lightness returning to his chest the longer you smiled at him. “Yeah, doll. You said.”

Steve was waiting in the cockpit for debrief. It was a pretty straightforward mission. SHIELD had enough intel to discern the next target, so it would only be a matter of intervening before they got their hands on an old painting Bucky had already forgotten the name of.

“We’ll need to take them alive for interrogation,” Steve pressed with an added glance in Bucky’s direction. It was subtle, no longer than a momentary hesitation, but it was enough. Shame curdled in Bucky’s stomach, but he knew would take more than a few successful missions to undo the damage of the Winter Soldier, even to his oldest friend. He’d be proving himself for another century before anyone felt safe around him again.

Through the tension in his muscle, Bucky hardly noticed your hand had slid along his spine. Starting at the base in the small of his back and gingerly crawling up to his shoulder blades. Bucky held his breath, his head growing dizzy as you rubbed slow, gentle circles between his shoulders. He could hardly feel it through the layers of Kevlar, but the light pressure forced a shiver down his back.

Steve was still talking, of that Bucky was certain, but he couldn’t hear much beyond the low hum of his voice. Not as your hand moved to the crux of Bucky’s left shoulder, pressing on the taunt strain along his neck, ghosting over the myriad of scars where the metal fused to his flesh. Bucky closed his eyes, swallowing back the bitter taste of bile, hoping you could not feel the ugly raised edges through the thick material of his jacket.

“Are we clear on the assignment?” Steve said. His gaze lingering a little longer on Bucky, concern written into the pale blue of his eyes. He’d noticed how easily Bucky fell distracted when you were near, how quickly he could melt under your touch. You had an uncanny ability to both ground him and send him floating ten inches above his own body.

He nodded.

“Come on, Cap,” you grinned, letting your hand fall back to your side. Bucky ignored the cold chill that followed. “It’s an art heist. It’ll be fun!”

***

Bucky clutched his left hand to his ribs, gritting his teeth as blood slipped between his fingers and into the cracks of metal in his joints. Tiny droplets of red followed in his wake as he rushed down the quinjet ramp, shoving stray agents out of his way in hopes of locking himself to his room before the med team could grab a hold of him.

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!” you called after him, an awful mesh of anger and panic in your voice. Each of your footsteps echoed as you chased him down, all of his senses focused in on you – from the faint scent of your floral shampoo, to the beads of sweat on your forehead, to the dirt caked under your nails, and the singe of burnt Kevlar on your vest where a bullet had grazed your side.

Bucky kept pressing forward, determined to outpace you.

“You’re literally leaving a trail of blood behind you, Barnes! You’re not going to lose me!” you shouted, a slight edge of impatience breaking through. Still, you followed him through the crowd. Agents started to part as he approached, leaving a wide-open path for the Winter Soldier and the speckles of blood lining the tile floors in his wake.

Bucky’s escape plan was thwarted by the goddamn elevator of all things. The stairs were blocked by a bunch of rookies running drills. He was effectively trapped.

“Are you insane?” you grunted as you caught up to him. Blood was still splattered on your face from the art thief who had pulled a knife on you the moment you’d attempted to restraining his wrists. It didn’t end well for him.

Your gaze slipped down to Bucky’s side where his left hand was coated in the deep red thick of his blood. It pooled down at his boots and soaked into his jacket. Whatever anger remained in your eyes was quickly displaced by something much worse: fear. You might as well have barreled a fist to his stomach when your lower lip began to quiver, your hands gingerly reaching out to touch him before you held yourself back, unsure if it would cause him any additional pain.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky said slowly, trying to reassure you. “It’ll heal.”

But your jaw was clenched so tightly, Bucky was sure you were trying to hold back tears. It didn’t seem to matter to you that he carried a serum in his veins that would heal him quicker than he deserved, that an injury like this wouldn’t kill him even if it left him with another nasty scar he wished he could carve out of his skin. Every injury he sustained seemed to shatter you.

“Bucky, please.” Your voice broke on his name and that was what made him cave.

He let you walk him to the medical wing, avoiding the stares of fellow agents who could not wrap their heads around the close proximity you held to him. You were known for the lightness you carried; the sunshine born straight into your bones. Joy and laughter and kindness despite your accuracy and skill in the field. To associate yourself to the Winter Soldier, to wrap your hand around the crook of his elbow and touch him – hold him – as if the connection was all that was keeping you steady made for curious stares.

Because why would anyone want to be near him? Why tarnish the goodness you carried with the black soot in his soul, with the violence etched into every plate of metal on his arm? Bucky could hardly understand it himself. He didn’t fault the SHEILD agents for wondering the same.

Helen was waiting in an empty exam room by the time he arrived. She was seated on the edge of the cot, a clipboard in her hands. She glanced up at him from over the edge of her glasses.

“Captain Rogers sent word to expect you. Took you a while to find your way,” she said sternly, not missing for a moment how quickly Bucky had attempted to escape following his arrival back on base. Your position behind him blocking the door didn’t pass her notice either.

“It’s barely a scratch,” was all Bucky said in return, though blood still oozed between his fingers.

“Sit down,” Helen instructed pointing to the cot where she left the clipboard hanging from the edge of the frame. “Remove your jacket and unzip the top of your tac suit so I can get a better look.”

Bucky swallowed, unwilling to glance over his shoulder to you as he said, “can’t you cut around it?”

Helen paused, her brows narrowing. “It would be much easier to assess the damage if you take off your shirt, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Here, Buck, I’ll help you,” you offered graciously, likely assuming his hesitation had to do with the pain in his torso. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it wasn’t what he was worried about. There were too many scars you hadn’t seen, too much damage to his body he wasn’t ready for you to witness. The idea of adding yet another unhealing wound was already forcing bile up his throat.

Still, Bucky sat on the edge of the bed as instructed and allowed you to work your nimble fingers down the clasps on his jacket. Each brush of your knuckles through the thick layers of Kevlar rose goosebumps on his forearm – even the smallest of touches, little more than pressure alone, and he was reduced to tremors. You slid the vest over his shoulders and set it carefully on the bed.

Then, you grasped the fabric of his shirt as it bunched at his waist. It was soaked red in blood around the wound and he could tell you had been holding your breath the moment your fingertips touched the damp material. He tried not to shiver at the feeling of your nails gently skimming his exposed skin; how good it felt to be touched, how agonizing to was to be known. You began to tug the shirt upward.

Bucky swallowed, though his throat was coarse as sandpaper. He kept his gaze centered on the trim at the base of the wall as you helped him out of the last protective layer he had left. He didn’t dare look at see your reaction at the mess littering his body, but he could see how quickly you stilled, how your hands gripped tight to his shirt as if you could tear the material in the palm of your hand.

Perhaps the worst of it was the short gasp you couldn’t contain as you looked at him. Shame curdled deep into his stomach, his cheeks burning hot. He should have known the history etched to his skin would scare you off. He should have known and still, he’d been foolish enough to indulge in hope. It was too soon – too early into whatever he shared with you – to expose the demons clinging to his body.

These ugly, vicious scars.

Bucky kept his focus burrowed into the wall as if he could burn a hole through the plaster itself. He did not move an inch until Helen had finished stitching the entirety of the wound, didn’t even wince as the needle punctured his skin or as the alcohol disinfected the open tissue. He could hardly breathe knowing you could see every inch of violence upon his body – the violence he endured and the violence he initiated.

The very moment Helen had finished the final stitch, Bucky shot up from the bed. You rushed towards him, moving to grab a hold of his arm to help him steady himself, but he pulled himself from your reach before you could. You froze, hands outstretched. Slowly, you let them fall back to your sides.

“Thanks, Doc,” Bucky murmured, looking at Helen’s shoes. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in your eyes, the pity. He rushed out of the room without another word.

When you called after him, he did his best to ignore the hurt in your voice. He did not turn back.

***

Bucky winced as he pulled away the bandage on his ribs. Two days had passed since he’d caught the sharp edge of a machete in the gut and it still wasn’t healing as fast as the rest of his scars usually did. It wouldn’t fade into his skin enough to allow him to forget in a few months' time. No – this one would find a permanent home on his body. A twin scar to the one left on his ribs from his time as the Winter Soldier.

Another fucking scar. Another reason to avoid the monster in the mirror.

The door to his bedroom swung open and Bucky flinched as you walked in the room. A scowl was etched into your features as you closed the door behind you, your arms quickly folding over your chest. Bucky glanced down in horror to realize he was without a shirt, his scars on agonizing display. Again.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky managed to get out, though his voice was low.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” The intensity of your gaze remained on his eyes as Bucky slowly set the mangled gauze on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t until the cool breeze of the air conditioner brushed against the exposed wound that Bucky winced and your eye line dropped to the fresh scar. Your shoulders sank.

“It hasn’t healed yet?” you asked quietly, any trace of annoyance removed from your voice. “I thought with the serum...”

Bucky shook his head. “Takes a while when they’re bad like this. It... It will leave a scar.”

You sighed, sinking down on the bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly, only enough that his weight tugged you closer. He barely noticed the feeling of your thigh against his as you reached for his wound. Ginger fingertips brushed against the red in his skin – so soft he could have imagined it.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and turned his head away. He did not want you to notice how easily you affected him, how his jaw clenched tight enough to snap whenever you touched him – touch that was both craved as if the need for it was etched into his bones and feared from decades of knowing only violence at the hands of vile men.

It was his mistake when he caught a glimpse of himself in the dark window by his bed. Even faint and distant, he could still make out the reflection of silver of his arm and the ugly mess of scars on his shoulder. Constant reminders of the monster he was made to be. He couldn��t escape it. He’d never escape it. And he was still adding to the mosaic of tough, pink tissue on his body.

“Bucky?” you called gently. “What is it? What are you looking at?”

He shook his head, trying to tear his eyes away, but once he was locked on it was as if the universe was punishing him all over again. Bear witness to your crimes, Soldat, it seemed to taunt. Remember the monster they turned you into.

Your hands ghosted up his arms, shivers crawling in the wake. Unbothered by the raised edges as you brushed over scars older than you, as you touched the healed wounds he’d once hoped would have killed him instead. You touched him and you did not recoil. Instead, you traced his body with such tenderness, Bucky could not hope to stall the tears burning behind his eyes. One slipped past as you coaxed your hands over his left shoulder, gingering gracing both metal and tarnished flesh.

“Bucky?” you tried again; your voice kinder than he ever deserved. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Please, talk to me.”

Bucky held his breath, and still, the words spilled out. “How can you stand it?”

Your brows furrowed. “Stand what?”

“Touching me,” he choked out, his right-hand trembling enough that he’d gripped the edge of the mattress, and still, it did not stop the shaking. “The... the scars... how are you not disgusted by—”

“Don’t,” you whispered achingly. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his right shoulder over clean skin. Your hands did not leave the myriad of scars on his left. “Please, don’t say those things.”

“I know what you must have thought when you first saw them,” Bucky gritted his teeth, each word more painful than the last. “You didn’t know how bad they were, did you? I saw you freeze up. I know they’re awful to look at. You... you didn’t sign up for... for this.”

You were quiet for a moment. Only Bucky’s heavy, shallow breathing filling the room. Still, your hands did not leave the surface of his body, your thumbs did not stop gently brushing over the crux of valleys and mountains on his shoulder, over hardened tissue that had never once been touched with such tender care.

“Is that what you think happened in the med wing?” you asked slowly, a terrible break in your voice. Bucky nodded and your breath hitched. “Bucky, I was scared for you. You were in pain and brushing it aside like it was nothing. You’d been stabbed. Badly. You were bleeding everywhere and you had tried to rush off to your room like nothing happened. You said it was a scratch! Of course, I was scared. Of course, I froze. You were hurt. That is always going to be hard for me to watch.”

A tear slipped along Bucky’s jaw and dropped to his knee.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” Kindness laced into the request and slowly, Bucky turned away from the window. He’d do anything you asked of him, he realized. Your hands moved along his collar, to his neck, and slid up to the sides of his face, holding his gaze gently.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered and Bucky nearly scoffed. You held him tighter, the determination hardening on your face. “I’m serious, Bucky. These scars are proof you survived. After every horrid thing that was done to you, you survived. You made it home again, okay? You found Steve again. This road you endured, it... it gave me you. And perhaps that’s a horrid, selfish thing to be grateful for, but I won’t apologize for the certainty that my life is better with you in it. Every day, I am better for knowing you.”

Tears were swelling in your eyes as you held him, your thumbs tracing lines over his cheekbones. He couldn’t have looked away from you if he tried.

"Your scars don’t frighten me, Bucky,” you told him, the sincerity in your voice puncturing the lead in his stomach. “You’ve been fighting your whole life. These scars are only proof of that. They are a part of you. The way I feel for you is not in spite of them, Bucky. Every part of you is beautiful to me. Even this.”

Bucky couldn’t suppress the chill under his skin as your hand swept along the line torn flesh upon his shoulder. Cascading over each ugly red line, soothing the tension in the muscle, gingerly gracing over the metal plates he had spent decades despising. Delicacy he did not understand, a kindness he did not deserve. You touched him as if he were something to behold, something to love.

“Please give yourself this kindness,” you whispered, your lips drawing close to the scars on his shoulder; warmth of your breath ghosting over his skin. “Let go of this fear, Bucky. Your scars will not turn me away. I am not going anywhere. You already have me, sweetheart. You have me.”

Bucky did not blindly follow anything in this world. He had learned the consequences of faithless belief enough to know it would not comfort him when the knife burrowed into his back. He knew better.

And still – he trusted you implicitly.

Even if he could not believe the words you spoke, even if he could not yet understand how you could speak with such unbridled sincerity – he trusted you. It did not matter whether Bucky found himself deserving of your kindness, whether he could grant himself the same grace you offered so willingly. He trusted you.

Slowly, Bucky nodded and you drew him into your arms. You eased your back against the bed, carefully pulling him along with you until the full of his weight rested against you, sinking you into the mattress. Bucky’s head laid over your chest, listening intently to the steady rhythm of your heart – reliable, constant, even.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window under the cast of midnight stars. Your hands coaxing through his hair and down his spine. Through the blur, he could still see the traces of discoloration on his shoulder – the scars he’d wished he could dig out with the sharp edge of the blade – and for the first time in decades, his stomach did not tighten to knots, his heart did not clench until it could hardly beat.

As he watched the reflection, all he could feel was your fingertips tracing sweetly along the raised edges, over the dips of the mountains and the current of the rivers. Through the canyons carved to his body and the valleys made of torn and withered flesh. Something he believed to be so vile and you touched it with grace.

Memories of the operating room, of the icy chill of the first plunge to the ravine, of the metal fusing to his skin felt far away under your touch. Memories of the horrors inflicted upon his body, certainties that the trauma would follow him for the rest of his life, assumptions you would not be willing to lend a hand to the enormous weight of his baggage – all faded to the comforting darkness in the furthest reach of his mind.

Because you touched him. Touched his scars and the memories wrapped inside them and you did not run from them. No – you only held him tighter.

So Bucky did as you asked – he granted himself a moment of kindness – and for the first time since the scars were born to his body, he allowed himself to look away. He did not curse the reflection he had once called a monster.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[dollyrouge]

metal arm brrr

Summary: Every problem needs a solution. Bucky just isn't the biggest fan of yours.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1k

Tags: Fluff in the highest degree, old married couple, Swearing (It's Bucky, duh)

A/N: I just needed to give you guys something, it's been too long since i've written on here and you guys are the best :) I've barely checked this over so I apologize for any typos.

*****

“Can you stop moving, please?” 

Bucky Barnes half asleep is not someone you want to mess with. The first time you shuffled he had hardly made a sound, the second you were met with a low grumble (a warning you knew well) and the third strike, he was thirty seconds from kicking you out of the bed. 

When Bucky had finally learnt to sleep in a bed again, mostly thanks to you, he steadily became a big fan of his beauty sleep and god help anyone who ended up disturbing him. He had a lot to catch up on. Once, you had violently shaken him awake because his phone was ringing and when he heard Sam on the other line, you were deemed a ‘sleep thief’ for a week and a half after. Bucky Barnes was a bitch when it came to his sleep. 

You usually wouldn't have any complaints about being in his vice grip but it was January and the nights were still cold and having a boyfriend with a metal arm meant that you were held to him with an ice cold grip around your waist. When the Summer came, it was a life saver, your own personal refrigerator but you still had a good few months to go before you were hanging off his arm everyday. 

“Sorry.” You mumbled and tried to convince yourself you were comfortable without another word.

Nope, can’t do it. You shift again. 

“You’re kidding- what is it?” He pulls away from you and sits up on his elbow, glaring, he dares you. “Go on.”

With the most innocent doe eyes you could muster you slip your bottom lip between your teeth and debate the argument you could spark when your gaze slips to his vibranium arm in the semi darkness.

He doesn’t miss a thing, you’ve come to realize.

“I swear if you say-”

“-It’s cold! I’m cold! It’s just too much cold!” You burst, arms flailing in desperation. 

“It’s my arm! You said you wanted to sleep on my left, this is my left arm, nothing I can do. Okay?”

“There has to be something.” You search the room for solutions, briefly lingering on the sock drawer. 

“Oh yeah, sorry, let me just take it off.” Bucky grunts, dripping with sarcasm. 

“...If you could?”

“Seriously, fuck you.” 

Bucky falls back into his beloved pillow, eyes shut and wishing he has chosen a partner that let him sleep peacefully, then again, why would he want that when you exist?

“Look, either come to the other side or deal with it.” 

Silence finally reaches your bedroom and Bucky is deeply in dreamland while you lie awake, scheming away. 

In the early hours, you slip out of bed without a sound and make a beeline for the sock drawer, knowing you had some old pairs of slipper socks stuffed at the back. Scissors in hand, you snipped off the toes and smiled at the D.I.Y leg warmers. Oh, he was gonna be mad. 

With nearly medical precision, you held out the slumbering Bucky’s arm in front of you and one by one, slid the fluffy socks up the freezing metal until it was sufficiently covered. Thanking the universe, he was a pretty heavy sleeper, you shuffled back under the covers and happily wrapped the soft arm back around your waist. 

You slept like a lamb after that.

*****

When the morning came, you woke up before him like usual and briefly left him to his own devices as you made coffee, two mugs sitting on the counter beside each other. 

Through the wall, you faintly hear the rising of the soldier before heavy footsteps quickly storm in your direction.

“The fuck is this?”

You look up to see him in the doorway, and find yourself the subject of a stare that would send millions running. Not you. The multicolored socks lined up his arm kind of softened his hoped effect and you had to stifle your laughter. 

“A solution?” You shrug.

“No.” He points at you with his flesh arm accusingly “Nu-uh. This? This is not how we solve things.”

“Is it not? I’m really digging the rainbow on you.” The giggle you had tried to push down had spilled over.

“You’re a fucking menace.” 

The giggle now a full bodied laugh that had you clutching at your chest as you were overcome with the image of your big, scary, ‘world’s most deadly assassin’ boyfriend glaring daggers at you while donning the most fluffy and most colorful socks up his arm.

Bucky was fighting a grin with all his might, your laughter was like an ugly disease, incredibly contagious, hard to avoid, and annoying.

Something soft hits you in the face and you halt your hysterics as you peer at the slipper sock now at your feet. Lifting your gaze, Bucky is smiling smugly, and working a second sock off his arm. 

“Bucky!” You yelp and duck under the counter as the rainbow sock flies in slow motion over your head. 

You probably shouldn’t poke the bear but-

“Y’know, for the best shot the United States army had ever seen you sure do miss a lot.” You taunt from your hiding spot.

When there's no response, you make a break for the couch and get shot squarely in the forehead.

“Say that again.” He dares with narrowed eyes.

“Okay, truce. Truce!” You raise your hands in surrender. 

“Say sorry for last night.” The pink ball of fluff in his hands, a deadly fate, and you’re consigned to concede

“I apologize for last night.” You sigh, approaching him with caution “Now, it’s been ten whole minutes and you still haven’t subjected me to your obscene morning breath.”

He beckons you with his head and you happily plod over, throwing your arms around his neck. The kiss is sweet, and full of promised mornings to come.

It’s welcomed by you. Until you feel the coldest thing known to man, his left arm, writhing under your shirt and sending immediate shivers down your back. 

“Bucky!” You screech and his strong laughter descends on your morning with malice.

Desperately wiggling out of his hold, you escape to the bedroom and yell from your stronghold:

“That was an act of war James Buchanan Barnes!”

[dollyrouge]

caught in the rain—

synopsis: you and sebastian seek shelter inside an abandoned home where every feeling is laid to bare.

tags: sfw, pure fluff, fem!reader, hogwarts legacy, sebastian sallow(18+), about 3k words

“As if this day couldn’t get any worse,” You mutter. Mostly to yourself but you wouldn’t at all be surprised if Sebastian had heard too. You both had been sent out together to gather some information about some dark magic being practiced on the Poidsear Coast.

Everything had been going smoothly, from taking witness statements to tracking down the dark wizard’s hideout to the coast, even the two of you getting along.

That is until an unexpected heavy downpour comes. Cold rain falls heavy like a thick blanket on the two of you, forcing you to take shelter. Every piece of clothing you wore was soaked—down to your very bones. Thankfully, Sebastian and yourself had managed to find an abandoned home. Boarded up with a more than obvious appearance of not having been taken care of in a very long time.

While you say things could not be worse you really didn’t mean it. Being rained on and forced to wear your freezing clothes wasn’t truly the worst thing in the world. Neither was being stuck in that house with your academic rival. And crush.

“Well. Try not to make it sound so horrible now,” Sebastian sarcastically says. Teasing you as he shrugs off his heavy coat in some hope to warm himself. Rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt as he does anything but look at you. “We could be in some troll’s den. That would be worse.” He chuckles as he checks out the house, hoping to find anything to maybe start a fire with. Swatting away at cobwebs with an annoyed look.

You sigh. Too cold to even defend yourself at the moment. Moving to stand next to a window. Watching as lightning flashes across the sky and the harsh sound of thunder that follows.

“We’ll be here all night if this storm doesn’t stop soon.” You say, irritated. Not that sleeping in some random home, far from the safety of Hogwarts, with no other change of clothes, no warmth, and no bed, didn’t sound fantastic and all but it would also reset all of your progress from today. Tracking down the dark wizard hiding out on this coast had been an assignment given to the two of you and not completing it would leave you both looking rather poorly in your professor's eyes.

“You worry too much,” Sebastian says, cutting into your thoughts, making you look away from the window and towards where his voice had carried from.

You watch as he moves towards the other end of the dark home, Lumos, lighting the tip of his wand as he examines the place. Stairs lead to a second story or perhaps an attic in the farthest corner from the door. Off next to the stairs is a large stone fireplace just waiting to be lit.

“See, always so dramatic.”

You roll your eyes at Sebastian as you follow him into the home. Shoulders tense as you wait for anything to jump out at you. No damn spider was sneaking up on you, not today. In a smaller room straight across from the stairs sits untouched furniture from who knows how long ago. With chairs perfect for disassembling and using as firewood.

Well, at least you’d be semi-warm and somewhat dry for the rest of the time being.

After some rearranging and the use of Incendio, the two of you make quick work of starting a fire and laying out your cloaks before the hearth to dry. Now you are left in just your blouse and skirt, shoes and socks forgotten until they also get the chance to dry as the storm continues to rage outside.

Sebastian stood beside the fireplace, hands held out to try and warm his fingers up. The dull sound of the rain is really the only noise the two of you make. You were friends, classmates, but above all rivals. You could have a civil conversation but seeing as the two of you were there on an assignment, things were tense as both of you wanted to outdo the other.

You shiver, curling up on yourself by pulling your knees to your chest. The fire was working well but the wet clothes still sticking to your body kept you from truly getting to warm up.

“I’m going to go look for a blanket.” Sebastian says, suddenly breaking the silence between the two of you.

You nod in response as he leaves to rummage around the forgotten home. His search for a blanket takes him up the stairs and you watch him go. An eerie feeling creeps up your spine as soon as you‘re left alone. The strange feeling of being watched itches just behind your senses of being cold. It makes you look over your shoulder a few times. That is until Sebastian finally returns.

A thick quilt is draped across your shoulders that startles you ever so slightly. In all honesty, you had thought Sebastian went to retrieve the blanket for himself. Now with the heavy cloth wrapping around your own body you realize that he had been watching you beforehand. He had retrieved the blanket solely for you. The thought makes you flush.

He moves to sit beside you now. Hands returning to hover out in front of the flickering flames. “There’s also a bed upstairs. If you’re tired.” Sebastian once again cuts through the silence to speak.

You laugh at his words. Shaking your head as you tighten the blanket around you. “Tempting but no thank you.” You reply, turning your gaze to the fireplace.

“Why not?” Sebastian asks. From his tone he seems genuinely confused.

His confusion makes you chuckle again. As if he really didn’t know. “Oh alright, Sebastian. Let me just go take a small nap while you run off, find and finish our assignment, and then take all of the credit.” You tease. A smile stretches across your lips as if you’ve caught him in the act.

You imagine he’ll make some funny quip about how you were right and that he was just thinking of a way to get ahead in your studies but instead he says nothing.

The silence has you lifting your head to glance over at the other. His brow is furrowed and there’s a deep frown on his face. Clearly you’ve said something wrong.

“Do you truly think I’m so shallow?” Seb whispers. His voice drips with displeasure.

The disdain in his tone was not something you were used to. Sure, Sebastian had had his moments for being a little irritated with you. From cave crawling and accidentally setting off a trap to the two of you butting-heads for top grades but never had he sounded so…upset and hurt before.

Now it was your turn to truly be confused. You did not think of him as shallow or selfish but you also wouldn’t put it past your rival to take the upper hand on you.

“I don’t find you shallow.” You awkwardly reply. Suddenly you’re thankful for the sound of rain and thunder. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” You add quickly afterwards.

“We may be rivals academically but I’m not your enemy. I’m not evil. I still care for you.” Sebastian says with a sigh. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face. Searching for something you’re not sure of at the moment.

“I apologize,” You mutter. Now would be the perfect time to suddenly disappear. “I simply just thought because of school you would take the opportunity…” You ramble. Wondering why you were even telling Sebastian any of this.

This time, it’s his turn to laugh. It’s a very dry and curt laugh. No humor lingers behind it like it normally would. “I would never sabotage you.”

“No?” You reply short and simple. Wondering why now he would have a soft spot for you. Seeing as he had never before when it involved your academic standpoint.

“What do I have to gain besides you hating me?” Sebastian asks, again genuinely curious. His now warmed hands rub against his cold shoulders and biceps. Hoping to chase away the chill. “I would never want you to hate me.” He adds in a hushed voice.

Listening to Sebastian be so open was definitely something entirely new to you. He was the type to be open about pretty much everything except his feelings. His true, genuine, feelings. And now that he was wearing his heart on his sleeve, you couldn’t help but want him to keep talking. “Not that I would ever hate you but would that really be the end of the world?”

Sebastian turns to look at you then. His brown eyes meet your own as the light from the fireplace softly caresses his features. Turns his freckled face into something far more gentle than you’re used to. Yet you weren’t entirely sure if that was because of the dim lighting or the fact that he was looking upon you with such tenderness that it made him look more attractive suddenly.

“To me, yes, it would be.” He admits openly. As if this is something Sebastian said on a daily basis. As if he constantly told you how important you truly were to him.

Upon realizing his confession, Sebastian’s eyes widened. He coughs in an attempt to move the conversation along, or even just to simply cover up the fact that he just told you how horrible the world would be without you. His face flushes a dark red that even in the dim light you can see.

“Only because, well, you know! I wouldn’t have anyone else to compete with!” He stammers, trying to save face.

It’s a little too late for that now though. You knew he meant something a little more meaningful.

You smile as he avoids your line of sight. “Sebastian…” You whisper. His name rolling off your tongue has him freezing in place. Unsure if he should flee and never speak about this ever again or just stay still long enough he can pretend he’s dead. “Be honest.”

Sebastian continues to ignore your gaze for the most part. Fiddling with some interesting looking piece of dust on the rundown wooden floor.

“I don’t know what you mean. I am honest! All the time!” Embarrassingly he answers. “You’re just too dense to see it!” The insult is a hollow insult at best. Just another tactic to avoid the situation he’s started.

You hum in response. Scooting closer to the other to try and get a good look at his blushing face. “How so?”

“N-nothing! No, I don’t know!” Sebastian deflects. Attempting to turn and hide his face from your gaze.

You had never seen him so defensive before. Wanting to close off from you entirely but that was something you would not allow. He started this and he needed to finish it or else you might go mad.

“What do you mean?” You ask. Not that you couldn’t read his body language at the moment but you still wanted him to tell you. To be loud and clear with his feelings so that you too could be honest about your own.

“Ugh!“ He groans in frustration. His hands come up to hide his face from your gaze. Covering over mainly his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at you looking at him. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day we met! You’ve never noticed it before so why are you suddenly so keen!?”

The inside of your stomach does a flip. The first day you two met was almost three years ago. Had you really never noticed any of his advances? You think back on all the times when he’d let you copy his notes when you were busy with Mr. Fig for the day. Of all the times he called you annoying but would do anything you asked of him. The countless hours you two would spend in the undercroft, practicing your spells and studying together.

All this time…and he only ever stayed by your side.

You reach to grab gently ahold of his wrists. Somewhat prying his hands away from his face so you could get another good look at him. He’s a mess. Red as a tomato. Blushing like he had been sick with a fever. Hair tousled and curled far more than usual from previously having been rained on.

Sebastian Sallow, your friend and rival, sat before you entirely and wholeheartedly shy. Something you would never have imagined to happen before this day.

He’s still under your touch. Still attempts at avoiding your eyes even now. Doesn’t stop you from reading over his features. From every freckle highlighted by his blush to the pretty length of his eyelashes. He was so handsome. Far more than you had ever realized before.

“Sebastian,” You whisper in a soft tone. As his name is called, his head shifts ever so slightly as he finally meets your gaze once more. A rush of emotion swirls up inside of you. Your chest tightens with sudden adoration for the man sitting before you.

He doesn’t say anything in response though. Just slowly takes control over his own hands, placing one against your cheek. His fingers run gently across your skin. Pushing back damp hair as he finally wants to look at your face.

“You’re an idiot. A fool,” Sebastian mumbles after a few painstakingly long heartbeats. “How did you not know?” He asks as his thumb caresses the high of your cheekbone. A lighthearted tone to his voice. As if it were obvious.

His words make you laugh ever so slightly. Of course you hadn’t realized it. Too blinded by your competitive drive to know that all along he was only competing in hopes to make you like him. Which was silly in itself. Seeing as you had always liked him too.

“Forgive me for not seeing it before,” You reply with a smile. Reaching to touch the back of his hand lovingly. “I would like to know everything now.” You add as you turn your head to kiss the inside of his palm.

His breath hitches as he watches you kiss his hand. A slight tremble in his shoulders tells you he’s holding back on moving things further. Even as his thumb brushes against your lips, while his brown eyes stare at every curve his thumb traces. Wanting to commit all of you to every bit of his memory.

“You…you’re over dramatic, always worrying about me. Sometimes you’re too loud. You manage to best me at everything.” Sebastian rambles on with a soft laugh. “And I love every bit of it. Your drive, your excitement, the way you laugh. Everything about you…”

Sebastian softens as he continues to stare at you. His eyes flick up from your lips to your eyes before glancing back down at the lips he tenderly touches. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you for far too long…”

The words he speaks makes your heart beat far too fast. With how hard your heart beats and how tight your chest is, you could almost swear your heart might have burst out from beneath your ribcage right then and there.

Your own face softens. Pressing your lips gently into the pad of his thumb. “What are you waiting for?” You ask with a smile. And immediately Sebastian mirrors your smile. Now, nothing was going to hold him back.

For a moment, as he leans forward to capture your lips, you thank the sudden rainstorm. For without it, you would never have ended up here, held so lovingly in Sebastian’s arms.

[dollyrouge]

in the shadow of the mountain

starring: Sebastian Sallow, reader summary: this was the point in the game I actually found myself fed up with Sebastian. After admitting he "shouldn't have acted so bitterly about your goblin friend", you expect him to be in better spirits on your next quest. He keeps putting the both of you in danger, and you've had it. CW: spoiler alerts for the game, angst, referencing dead bodies [goblins], blood/injury, maybe a love confession or two, use of Y/N, hurt/comfort

You are very nearly dry heaving as you look at the carnage surrounding you; a small trail of blood tickling your collarbone as it trickles from a point near your temple. A very, very close call with one of the goblin’s blades. 

“Seb-” You could hardly get his name out; exhaustion, terror, pain, and fury churning in your gut and threatening to escape from your lips as you leaned heavily against a stand of armour. “Sebastian…”

The sound of him catching his breath alerts you to his presence behind you.

“What on earth were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about dead goblins.” He responds with a flippant shrug of one shoulder. 

“Are you daft?” You nearly screech - your dinner pausing its evacuation from your stomach in favour of giving him a verbal lashing. “You could have gotten us killed!”

“But I didn’t.”

You take a moment to scan his face - his pupils blown wide from the adrenaline of the moment, his lips pointed definitively downward in a scowl as he hardly gave the bodies of dead goblin soldiers surrounding you a second glance, speaking to you as though you were some sort of hindrance or obstacle - and wondered if you recognised the person glaring back at you. 

“Let’s go.” He grunts as he moves to shoulder past you, but you catch him by the elbow.

“Sebastian, wait.”

A frustrated groan escapes you as he near violently shakes you off of him. “Why are you so cautious all of a sudden?” 

“Cautious would have been saying to hell with all of this Sebastian! Listen to me, Lodgok said-”

“Oh,” He sneered, cutting you off as he looked down his nose at you, “your goblin friend.” 

“Stop it.” You hissed, feeling embarrassingly close to frustrated tears. “Not all goblins-“

“Not all goblins what?”

“I am not the enemy here!” You bellow - voice bouncing off the rocky mountain sides, leaving a ringing in your ears. “I’m not-”

You’re officially seething, and devastated… and furious, and hurt, and bleeding, and very nauseous but also maybe a little bit peckish. 

“I am four years behind my peers, playing catch up to give myself a fighting chance to complete my O.W.L’s at the end of the term with the rest of our year. Coupled with the fact that I’ve been…” you pause, gesturing at the dead goblins surrounding you “thrown into a war that most of the world doesn’t even know is happening, and suddenly, the longevity of the wizarding world is on my shoulders. Sebastian, I-”

“But you-”

“I’M NOT DONE!” You shout, shoving him by the shoulders that sends him skittering back a few steps. “You cannot- You. Can. Not threaten my life or your life in your quest for Anne. You can’t.”

“I’m not giving up on her!” He shouts back.

“WHAT GOOD TO HER ARE YOU GOING TO BE IF YOU’RE DEAD, SEBASTIAN?” You wail, tears now falling freely as you point helplessly in what you hope to be the general direction of Feldcroft where his twin sister currently was. “HOW AM I POSSIBLY MEANT TO HELP HER IF YOU GET ME KILLED?” 

“I-” He looks crestfallen, the previous fog of bitterness and hatred clearing from his eyes as they begin to take in your form, landing on the trail of blood seeping through your hair and down the side of your face. “You’re hurt.” 

“We could have died, Sebastian. You are so focused on fighting goblins that you’re missing the fact that we’re on this blasted mountain for a reason. For Anne. To learn of Isadora’s story. This isn’t about your hatred of all of goblin-kind, nor your hatred of me-”

“I don’t hate you!” He argues quickly, taking a desperate step towards you that sees you taking an equally desperate step away from him. 

“THEN STOP FIGHTING ME.” You beg around a sob. “I can’t- I…I can’t, Sebastian. I love you, but this is too much. I can’t do this; I can’t lose you to this.” 

A devastated breath leaves his lips as his shoulders fall, the final entrails of his ire melting away as the hold of his wand slackens. 

“Y/N…”

“I can’t.” You whisper; you’re new mantra as the tears finally take over and your vision becomes a wet, foggy amalgamation of rocks, dead bodies, and him. 

Arms embrace you, pulling you into his chest as he lets you sob; one hand cradling the back of your neck as the other settles on your waist. You can tell he’s craning his neck to investigate the wound to your head.

”I’m sorry, Y/N.” He murmurs, pressing the gentlest of kisses next to the source of the blood. “I’m sorry. I- you’re right. I can’t do this without you.”

You angrily wipe at your face as you pull away from him. “Then can you please stop putting us in unnecessary danger?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry.” He agrees quickly, whispering as though hoping to counterbalance the atmosphere you’d created and he’d caused. “I’m so sorry.”

You wince as he presses at the wound, apparently checking to see if it was still bleeding. “Head wounds bleed a lot, Sebastian; I’m fine.” You grumble.

He apologises again. 

You let out a self deprecating snort of laughter as you wipe at your nose. “Aren’t Gryffindors supposed to be the ones without a sense of self preservation?”

His eyebrows lift, an expression crossing his face as though he wanted to laugh at your joke but couldn’t bring himself to. 

“I don’t hate you, Y/N.”

“Okay, Sebastian.”

“No, I-” He stops you from walking away. The grip he has on your wrist is nearly painful, seemingly considering something as he searches your face. 

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs again, stepping closer to you as his eyes land on your lips. “Please forgive me.”

“Okay, Sebastian.”

“I don’t hate you.” He says again; his hands landing on either side of your face, eyes flitting up to yours once more before he’s leaning in to press a desperate kiss to your lips. 

He eventually pulls his lips away from yours but doesn’t move to put any space between the two of you. 

“Think we can finish our trek up the mountain without inviting death?”

He does finally smile at that, albeit sadly, brushing one last stroke of his thumb across your cheek bone before his hands fall from your face. 

“I’ll be silent as a grave.” 

You roll your eyes and turn, pausing to look at him over your shoulder when he calls your name again.

“I love you, too.”

[dollyrouge]

i crumble completely (when you cry)

pairing: sebastian sallow x fem ravenclaw reader

summary: there's only one way to get into salazar slytherin's scriptorium.

a/n: hogwarts legacy was 70% off, i bought it and it's good but not good enough in all the ways that matter so im fixing it for myself. no i dont know why this is where my inspo is when i have so much unfinished stuff but just go with it

wc: 2.1k

warning(s): angst but hurt/comfort angst! a more in depth scriptorium scene so crucio is used but this is from seb's pov so lighter descriptions of all that fun stuff

“Ominis, you have to.”

“I’m not doing it!” he exclaimed. “What do you not get?”

“Would you rather die here?” Sebastian spat. “Because if you don’t, that’s what will happen. And I’ve become rather fond of my life over these past few minutes.” 

“I refuse to use dark magic,” Ominis seethed. “You of all people should understand, Sebastian!” 

“I don’t understand why you’d let us die instead of casting one spell!”

He barked an incredulous laugh. “It is not just one spell! God, you—”

“Can you do it?” 

Sebastian’s anger faltered for a moment when you spoke up, and he frowned when he saw you were looking at him. “What?” 

“Can you do it?” you repeated. “Can you cast the curse?” 

“I—” His mouth fell open and shut as he looked between you and Ominis, before they finally settled on you. “—I think so. Not well, but—”

“Then you can do it,” you said. “Cast it on me, and we’ll be out of this mess.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened as he said your name in disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”

You stared at him. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Ominis cut in. “I know what it feels like—you’re not putting yourself through that. We’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way.” You gestured at the letters on the ground, his aunt’s last mark on the world. “You’ve got the answer right here, and a willing victim. What are you waiting for?”

Sebastian grimaced. “Calling yourself a victim isn’t helping.”

“The only reason you’re willing is because you don’t know what you’re signing up for.” Ominis’s blank gaze pointed at the ground, but his sharp words hit you all the same. “It’s unimaginable, excruciating pain. Every one of your nerves exploding, your bones being crushed to dust, your blood turning to fire. You will never forget what it feels like.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the chill settling over you. “Well, it’s either that or we sit around here until we die.”

“Even if he wanted to—”

“Which I don’t!” Sebastian cut in. 

“He would have to really mean it,” Ominis finished. 

“Again, which I don’t!” he exclaimed. 

“That just means it won’t hurt as much,” you said. “Should take away some of your reservations.”

Sebastian huffed. “There is something wrong with you.”

“And you were all for this when it would be Ominis casting it on me?” you asked, tilting your head.

“I— I figured he would cast it on me!” His eyes widened. “I— I could teach it to you, and you could cast it on me!”

“Will the two of you stop bickering?” Ominis asked. “It’s not making this any better.” 

“Of course,” you nodded. “Sebastian will cast the Cruciatus Curse on me, and we’ll be out of here. Okay?” 

Sebastian stared at you, your steely gaze having already met his. You’d always been stubborn, unyielding—he’d known it since you bested him in a duel in your first ever meeting. 

Ravenclaw hardheadedness, he figured. Always assuming you knew best (you usually did), that you were right (you usually were), that you could handle whatever ended up in your path (you usually could). 

And here you were, standing right in front of him, those determined eyes unwavering as you practically begged him to cast an Unforgivable Curse on you. 

Did you know that he wasn’t even sure he could cast it on you? Not just because it was near unthinkable, but because he had no idea if he could scrounge up enough ill will towards you to even partially want to hurt you. 

Did you know that you were the reason he’d started doing better in classes? That, no matter how much he complained about your study sessions together, that he could have been doing something much more productive, he treasured every moment with you? 

Did you even know that the mere thought of causing you pain made him want to retch? That, yes, he may very well choose death over imparting the torture curse on you? 

Did you even know how he felt about you? 

Sebastian pulled his wand out his robes, his grip tightening in an effort to stop his hand from shaking. “You’re sure about this.” 

You nodded. “It won’t leave any physical wounds. It’ll be over sooner than you know it.” 

He huffed as he glanced away. “You shouldn’t be the one reassuring me.” 

“I don’t mind,” you shrugged. “Just… buy me a pint of butterbeer when we get out of here. Then we’ll be square.” 

“You’re not exactly aiming high,” Sebastian said wryly. 

You smiled. “My mum always told me it was the simple things. Now, do it before I lose my nerve.” 

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, once, twice, three times as he adjusted his hold on his wand. He closed his eyes as he tried to remember the wand movement, but instead, he saw your face. 

The first time he met you, when you embarrassed him in front of the whole class by beating him ina duel. When you asked him to take you to Hogsmeade for the first time, and you ended up taking down a troll—how beautiful you looked with the glow of exertion beneath your skin, when you turned to him with the widest (and maybe first) smile he’d ever seen from you in the wake of your efforts. 

How could he do something like this to you?

He pushed the doubt down. There was no other way. You wanted him to do it—wanted him to save them all from a very boring, very preventable death. 

Something in the scriptorium could save Anne. That was worth anything. 

Sebastian took in a deep breath. He brought forth every negative thought—the goblin that cursed his sister, his housemates that believed in nothing but blood purity, his uncle that refused to believe in him, refused to even try to save Anne. 

None of it to do with you, who had done nothing but support him since you helped him up from the ground after pummeling him into it, but he tried to project it onto you anyways. 

He raised his wand. 

He opened his eyes—your gaze hadn’t moved. They showed no fear, no anger, no emotion at all but steely determination. 

“Crucio!” 

Red light arced from his wand to your body. You crumpled to your knees the instant the spell reached you, skull-splintering screams echoing throughout the small room as the curse wrapped its way around you. 

Your scarf fell from your neck, your robes pooled around you, your knees and palms scraped the stone as you tried to support yourself in any way. Your agonized wails were deafening, and Sebastian nearly lost it right then and there, nausea rising in his throat. Ominis’s blank, widened gaze fell on the wall, his hands clenched into fists as he fought to keep his expression even. 

You were one of the strongest people Sebastian knew. Always infallible, always so smart, so level headed in the face of his impulsivity. Naturally gifted at magic, and somehow willing to tolerate him. And he’d been forced to reduce you to this. 

But it worked. Your screams of pure torment unlocked something in Salazar Slytherin’s sick design, and the door of tortured faces pulsed with red energy before sliding into the stone. 

Sebastian rushed over the moment the door started to open, his wand falling from his grasp in his haste and his eyes wide with fear and concern. He went to touch you, but stopped just before he could—he didn’t want to hurt you more. Your entire body rose and fell with your beleaguered breaths as you rolled on your side, your every movement labored. 

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “I— I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

You couldn’t respond, the pain still arcing its way through your body despite the curse being done. You inhaled sharply as your eyes screwed shut, and you nodded. 

“You’re clearly not okay.” The slight waver in Ominis’s voice betrayed his unaffected stature. “That was remarkably stupid.”

“Ominis—” Sebastian started, but you shook your head. 

“It worked,” you interrupted as you lifted a shaky hand to point at the now revealed scriptorium. “Couldn’t… couldn’t be too stupid… could it?”

“There is something wrong with you,” he whispered. You could only manage a pained laugh at his words. 

Sebastian stayed there with you as you fought through the last few convulsions—he said nothing when you grabbed his hand, bit back his wince when you squeezed tighter than a vice. After what you just went through, he could bear something so small. 

Your breathing was still labored when he finally helped you up. Your legs nearly collapsed beneath you, but he kept you upright. 

“You’re okay,” he whispered, desperate to reassure you. “You— you’re okay.”

“I told you I would be,” you said. 

“You did,” he conceded. “I keep forgetting you’re always right.” 

He got the slightest smile from you at that. Sebastian glanced over when he heard footsteps, and he saw Ominis approaching. His whole body still held a tenseness, but he was sure it was for a different reason this time. 

“…You took that well,” he finally said, and he held out your scarf. 

Again, another laugh and another wince. “I really didn’t. But thank you.” 

You reached for the scarf, but Sebastian got to it first. He gently draped it around your neck, taking special care to keep the Ravenclaw emblem in the front. You had a lot of pride in your house. 

“How’s that?” he asked softly. 

“Perfect,” you nodded. “Thank you.” 

He nodded too, and Ominis cleared his throat. Sebastian turned back to him, his cheeks tinted slightly pink. Ominis held his wand, and he took it back before shoving it back into his robes. Casting any sort of spell felt dirtied right now. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I… I’m sorry about all this.” 

“…Thank you,” Ominis echoed. “Let’s just get out of here before any more of Slytherin’s tricks find us.” 

“No arguments here,” you mumbled. 

Ominis walked in, and though your eyes followed him, you lingered back with Sebastian. He still supported you, one of his arms interlocked with yours. A part of him was worried that you would collapse again the second he stepped away. He could feel your chilled skin even through your robes—no wonder you always wore your scarf. You ran colder than a mermaid. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sebastian said quietly. 

“You already said that.” 

“Because it’s true,” he said. “These curses are unforgivable for a reason. You never should have had to go through this.” 

“Well, I forgive you,” you said. “We had no choice, and I asked you to do it. And,” you gave him a wry look, “it didn’t hurt that much, so you clearly didn’t mean it.” 

He couldn’t even laugh at that—he kept hearing your piercing screams, agony beyond all reason. He would surely hear them for weeks to come in his sleep, see your prone form every time he closed his eyes. 

He felt you nudge him in the side. “Hey. Perk up. I’m okay. Besides,” you gave him a sideways smile, “Rowena would be proud. Anything in the name of knowledge, eh?” 

That got the slightest of smiles out of him, and he shook his head. “There’s—” 

“Something wrong with me, I know. That’s the third time today.” You tilted your head towards the scriptorium. “Now, shall we get what we suffered for?” 

Sebastian nodded, and the two of you walked in, him still supporting you. Ominis had already made his way up the stairs—he really did want to get out as soon as possible. You had your wand in your free hand and had already murmured a quick Revelio, eyes darting around in an effort to unearth any secrets. 

“That brain of yours never stops, does it?” 

Your lips quirked. “Never.” 

Another beat of silence as you searched the alcoves together. He couldn’t help but watch you—you were a Ravenclaw in her natural habitat. Your brow creased just so, your pretty features honed to a single point of focus, cycling through all your thoughts at breakneck speed despite what you just went through. It made his heart swell with something he couldn’t quite name, right beside a gnawing hole filled with guilt.  

“I really do owe you a pint,” Sebastian murmured.  

You laughed. Lighter, this time, and with only the slightest grimace. “Make that two.” 

A smile crossed his lips without him even thinking. Sebastian was so glad he had you in his life—he was only sorry he had to wait until fifth year. 

“Deal.”