bees-library3

[bees-library3]

foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog

we getting funky and feral up in this joint

feral winter soldier my love

[bees-library3]

Away

Summary: Bucky is away on a business trip, and he's been missing his girl. Not only was he yearning for you, but he was missing your body. He was feeling alone and pent up without you. After a long day of attending seminars, he finally caved and called you. You both get the relief that you've been craving.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut with little to no plot, phone sex, congressman!bucky, female reader (she/her) with female anatomy, he's low-key submissive in this, pre-established relationship, no use of Y/N

Word count: 1.1k

A/N: This is purely self-indulgent and I'm not sorry about it lmao. I'm on my period and allowed to be horny. Besides, my psych meds make it nearly impossible to get off, so this is the best that I get. Also, if you see this posted on a03 under an account with my username but for Mikey Berzatto, it's because I originally wrote it for him and then reworked it for Congressman Barnes💀 This is also an apology for my last post being fucking depressing lmao

Needing to talk to you, Bucky sat at the desk in the hotel room and used his computer to FaceTime you. It rang a few times before your face filled his screen. God, you were so fucking beautiful. He wanted you even more, and a grin pulled at his lips.

“There's my pretty girl. I've been missing you.”

You laughed softly and got comfortable on your shared bed. It was agonizing to be away from him for this long, and you knew that he was feeling it too. You couldn't help but tease him, though.

“Yeah? Your right hand getting tired?”

Bucky's eyes widened slightly, and his cheeks immediately turned pink. You had always spoken your mind and weren't shy when it came to talking about sex, but it got to him every time. He took a shaky breath and shook his head.

“You're something else, y'know that? It's not fair to say shit like that when you're all the way back home.”

“God, I cannot wait for you to be back. I'm pretty sure that my vibrator will be burnt out by the end of the week.” You were unable to stop yourself from teasing him further, so you kept pushing. Your smile kept growing. It was always fun to watch him squirm.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Bucky ran a hand through his hair. He checked his watch and tried to calm himself. Unfortunately, his body didn't get the memo and his dick quickly grew hard.

“Baby, you're killing me here. I've got a meeting with a new sponsor in a few minutes.”

“You're getting worked up, aren't you? We could always work one out quickly. Might help you focus on your meeting.”

You were also eager to find your release, and you pressed your thighs together. You hated it when he had to travel for business. The two of you both had high sex drives, and being apart felt like torture.

“It's unfair that you're not here in person. God, I need you.” His face was flushed, and he adjusted his slacks in a vain attempt to conceal the tent forming in his pants.

“I wish I were there, baby. You have no clue.”

You couldn't take it anymore, and you slipped a hand past the waistband of your sweatpants. There was no point in being subtle - you both knew what you were about to do. You made sure that Bucky had a clear view of your body.

His eyes went wide again, and he leaned closer to the computer screen so that he could see what exactly you were carrying out. He realized what was happening on the other side of the call, and a whimper escaped his lips. His breath hitched, and the strain against his boxers was almost painful.

“Goddamn, baby. You are not playing fair.”

“I've never pretended to be a nice person. Keep talking.”

You had taken off your pants and underwear. Two of your fingers were pressed against your core and they were rubbing slow circles on your clit. You were trying to take your time, but it was quite an effort. Your face felt warm, and your chest was moving quickly.

The way that you were talking to him and the look on your face only served to turn him on more. Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to get comfortable. You were not making this easy on him. He watched you intently, and his eyes were filled with adoration. His baby was so fucking perfect.

“You look so good, my love.”

“You like when I'm all worked up for you, huh?”

He whined softly and nodded eagerly. Bucky loved seeing you like this and it was killing him that it wasn't his fingers pumping into your pretty pussy. Tired of holding back, he unbuttoned his jeans and looked at you pleadingly. He wasn't usually this submissive, but he was so needy.

'Mhm. So pretty. Can I join you, please? I have time.”

As soon as Bucky spoke with that breathy tone, you let out a low groan and moved your fingers quicker. “Go ahead, baby. Thank you for asking.”

He let out a choked sound of relief and fervently worked his pants towards his knees. Bucky's hard cock sprung from his boxers and he mirrored his girl's actions by slowly stroking his length. He bit down on his bottom lip and took a deep breath through his nose, so that his noises were somewhat muffled. He was desperate, but the last thing that he needed was a noise complaint from the neighboring hotel room. Wanting you to be able to see what he was about to do, he scooted the chair back a bit and made sure that he was in frame.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Can you see me alright?”

Focusing your gaze back on the screen, you nodded and slowed your movements again. You were getting close, but you didn't want to come before he did. “I can see you. You look so pretty, sweet boy.”

Bucky whimpered again, and the flush across his cheeks grew darker. Leave it to you to make him blush like a fucking schoolboy. His hand started to pump faster, and his breath was coming out in small gasps.

“Baby, I miss you so much.”

Wanting to reach your peak a little faster, you switched your movements and started moving your fingers up and down against your swollen bud. You were trying to be quiet, but it was becoming more difficult.

“I wish you were here, James. You're always so good for me.”

That was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he gasped softly as he got closer. “Fuck. Baby, keep talking like that, please.”

“You like hearing that you're a good boy?” Your voice held a slight rasp, and it was obvious that you were right there with him. It would only be a matter of time before you came.

It was too much, and Bucky knew that he was seconds away from bursting. His stomach felt coiled tight, and his skin was hot. “Can I come? Please. I've been real good, baby.”

“You've been so good, pretty boy. Let go for me.”

That was all it took, and Bucky cried out as his body convulsed slightly. He had made a mess of his lap, but he was too far gone to care. His head lolled back lazily against the desk chair, and his chest heaved.

Seeing your man fall apart like that was enough to push you over the edge, and your orgasm quickly followed. Your legs trembled, and you kept touching yourself in languid movements. You were trying to prolong this high for as long as you could. The two of you sat like that for a few more minutes, recovering in tandem. Bucky's meeting was long forgotten.

[bees-library3]

Warning: slight NSFW, nothing else just butt grabbing and Frank being 😀😀😀😀🤩🤩🤩🤩‼️‼️‼️

Click to see more

I may get a time to render this, it needs a little background, loving the HANDS 😭😭😭😭 can someone cut his hands off and send them to me⁉️

I just know he is so honeylike when you get on his lap, doesn’t have be dirty it is the way he IS 😭😭😔😔😔

[bees-library3]

i’m diagnosed with POTS and i cannot express how much pieces like this mean to me <3

ꨄMorning routines are different here — S.R

main masterlist disabled!reader masterlist

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort if you squint… word count: 1k

pairing: Spencer Reid x chronic fatigue/POTS!reader

content: Mentions/symptoms of POTS and/or chronic fatigue, no explicit medical descriptions.

summary: Some days you just can’t. But with someone like Spencer, you’re reminded that there’s no need to rush, and that love doesn’t come with conditions—or a stopwatch.

author’s note: This is a piece inspired by requests and my own want to explore what love and care can look like while living with POTS or chronic fatigue. While I don’t have either condition myself, I’ve done my best to research and approach the topics with empathy, respect, and a whole lot of heart. If I’ve unintentionally gotten something wrong, I’m always open to respectful feedback!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

There was a time when mornings meant motion.

You used to wake up early, sometimes even before your alarm, feet full of energy hitting the floor. Hair half-brushed, music too loud, skipping breakfast more often than not because you were already running a few steps ahead of your own schedule. There was energy in your bones back then—momentum, maybe. You moved through life like you were always late to something worth arriving early for.

But now? Now… not so much.

Now, some mornings don’t start until noon. And even then, it takes work. Your limbs stay heavy, your thoughts slower. Some days your body feels like it’s made of wet sand—dense and stubborn, refusing to cooperate. It’s not always like that. But when it is, it’s like waking up to disappointment before you’ve even opened your eyes.

You used to hate it. The stillness. The slowness. The constant bargaining between body and will. But Spencer never did.

He never once looked at you like less. Not on the days you couldn’t stand up right away, not when you had to lie flat on the floor after a shower, not when you could barely sit through dinner without blinking too long. He just… learned. Adjusted. Matched your pace with quiet precision, like it came naturally.

This morning was one of the hard ones.

Your eyes blinked open, dry and bleary, and you didn’t even try to move. The sunlight had just begun its slow creep across the bedspread. You were still lying on your side, curled into yourself like a comma.

Spencer turned a page in his book beside you—he’d been reading for at least twenty minutes, probably longer. He didn’t say anything at first. Just waited, thumb resting against the spine.

“Hey…” you whispered, voice rough.

His gaze flicked instantly to yours, warm and already smiling. “Hey,” he whispered back.

You didn’t have to say it. He could tell—by the look in your eyes, by the way your fingers barely twitched toward the covers instead of pulling them back. It was going to be a slow morning.

“Tea?” he asked gently, setting the book aside. “I made the vanilla rooibos one. Your favorite. It’s still warm.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. “I… might not be able to sit up yet.”

“That’s okay,” he said, like it always was.

Spencer stayed close, legs tucked beneath him, brushing your hair softly back from your face. You breathed, slowly. He waited, patiently.

Eventually, when your eyes stayed open a little longer and your fingers curled toward his hand, he leaned down and kissed your forehead—just once, light and steady.

“Small steps,” he murmured. “No pressure.”

Fifteen minutes later, you made it to the kitchen table. Not on your own—Spencer steadied you gently under the arm, not too much, just enough. He never hovered. He knew when to let you lead.

The table was already set: mismatched placemats, your favorite mug, and a smoothie in the tall glass with the blue straw—the one that made it easier to sip when your arms felt weak. Bananas, coconut milk, peanut butter, and some sneaky chia seeds blended in. You recognized the mix. Potassium. Salt. Gentle protein. All things to help your body stay upright a little longer today.

He slid a small plate of salted rice cakes toward you, along with sliced strawberries and a hard-boiled egg, peeled already. Soft colors. Easy textures. Food that didn’t ask too much of you.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, sitting beside you, pulling his own mug toward him. “But I like taking care of you.”

You blinked at him slowly, the fog in your brain still stubborn around the edges, but thinner now. A little light peeked through it.

“I’m not… disappointing?” you asked, barely more than a whisper.

Spencer paused mid-sip, setting his mug down gently. “Never.”

Your eyes stung—just a little.

He reached over, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “You’re not slow. You’re steady. That’s better. The world’s too fast anyway.”

You smiled, even as your body sagged into the chair a bit more.

You took a sip from the smoothie. Cold, rich, not too sweet. Made just the way you liked it.

Your hands still trembled a little when you set the glass down. Not from nerves—just from being. From your body’s unspoken, relentless effort to keep up.

It was one of those days. Not the worst. Not the best. Somewhere in the middle of the wide, foggy spectrum you’d come to know.

You ended up on the couch a little while later, curled into Spencer’s side with a blanket draped over your lap and your laptop propped on a pillow. You weren’t chasing productivity exactly—you’d long since made peace with the fact that rest was not laziness—but a part of you craved some shape to the day. Some gentle boundary between the hours. Some rhythm.

Working from home helped. It gave you something to touch when the rest of your body felt untethered. A routine, even if it was paused and patched together.

Spencer didn’t ask why you reached for the laptop. He just adjusted the throw pillow behind your back and handed you your wireless mouse without a word.

You clicked open your inbox with fingers slower than they used to be, wrists already aching a little. But you were here. Upright. Functioning. Or close enough.

It wasn’t about proving anything to him—you knew that. Spencer had never once made you feel like you had to earn your place next to him. But still, somewhere inside you, a whisper lingered: Show him you’re trying. Show him you’re still you.

As if you had gone anywhere at all.

Spencer read beside you in silence, legs stretched long, thumb brushing your knee every so often. Not checking on you. Just being there.

You shifted slightly, wincing at the ache in your spine.

“Okay?” he murmured, setting his book down.

You nodded once, offering a small smile. “Just tired.”

He adjusted the blanket over your lap again and pressed a kiss into your hair. “You’re allowed to be.”

You leaned in without realizing it, your head finding the soft spot between his shoulder and neck. The warm weight of him. His steady breathing. His hand finding yours again, like always.

This was what normal looked like now. Slower. Quieter. Built around needs instead of expectations.

You weren’t broken. You weren’t a burden. You were here, living a life stitched together with care—and someone beside you who never needed you to prove your worth to begin with.

Thank you for reading! ♡︎

[bees-library3]

Stay

Summary: After a routine hostage extraction goes wrong, you are shot while covering for Bucky, and the consequences are devastating.

Warnings/Tags: violence, gunshot wound, blood loss, trauma, HEAVY angst, canon level of violence, there is no happy ending, death, established relationship, female reader (she/her), no use of y/n

Word count: 1.5k words

A/N: I deeply apologize for the heartache that I'm about to put y'all through. If you follow me on the account that I have for The Walking Dead (@twd-bee3) and this looks familiar, it's because it was originally posted as a Daryl Dixon piece, and I just rewrote it to fit Bucky. I've been doing that lately so that I have things to post while I write new Marvel-themed works. Anyway, sorry for the fact that there's no happy ending. Love y'all <3.

The sound of gunfire splintered the air, and everything blurred around the two of you. This was supposed to be a simple hostage rescue, but you had run into complications. It was only you and Bucky, so things were getting dark fast. You guys had almost reached a secure room when there was another loud crack, and with you being in front of Bucky, you were hit by the stray.

You felt a sharp pain in your right side and cried out. Looking down, you saw the crimson blooming across your tank top and froze. “Oh shit.”

Hearing your pained gasp, Bucky spun you around so that he could look you over. He glanced down and saw the blood soaking your shirt. A cold sense of dread washed over him, and his eyes went wide.

“Fuck. No, no, no.”

“I don't know what to do, James.”

You were taking labored breaths, and you were already starting to stumble. The shock was setting in fast, and Bucky was even more desperate to get you to safety. The last of the men was bound to find you two if you stayed where you were. Acting on pure instinct, he lifted you into his arms and started running again. He was careful not to drop you and clutched your body close to his chest.

“Stay with me, baby. You're okay. We're almost there.”

His words were rushed, and his voice was strained. It felt like it took hours, but you finally reached the target room, and he made sure that the perimeter was clear of threats. Bucky laid you on a couch and frantically tore your tank top to get a clearer view of the gunshot. It was deep. Really fucking deep. There was no exit wound, but he tried to maintain some semblance of hope.

The blood was pouring from your abdomen, and he felt sick to his stomach at the sight of it. This was his girl, and she was bleeding out in a foreign room. Bucky used his hands to apply firm pressure, but the bleeding was relentless. Tears streamed down his face as he tried desperately to keep you with him.

“I got you, sweetheart. Just- just stay awake for me. You can do that, right?”

“I'm really trying, but I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired, Bucky.”

“Don't say that. You're okay. I've got you.”

Bucky kept his palms pressed against your stomach and watched as the blood seeped past his fingers like water. He needed to stop the bleeding before he could even think about attempting to stitch you up. Knowing that he needed to do more, he took off his shirt and applied more force against the wound.

You were only growing paler, and your eyes kept fluttering shut. You were trying to be strong and keep them open, but it was increasingly becoming more difficult. The sight of his baby going out on him made his chest feel heavy. He couldn't give up, though.

“Hey, sweetheart. I need you to stay with me. Please. Talk or something.”

Forcing your eyes open again, you nodded and let out a shaky exhale. “Okay. Can you tell me something good?”

“Something good?” It took him a moment, but he was able to think of something, and he smiled weakly. “Remember that trip we're supposed to take?”

“Yeah. You're gonna take me to the beach and we're gonna put our feet-” your words were cut off with a sharp gasp, but you pushed through and kept speaking softly. “Our feet in the water. Sam's coming with us.”

Bucky's heart ached hearing how hard it was for you to speak, but he was proud of you for trying. You were making an effort to stay with him - that was all that he could ask for.

“Yeah, baby. We're all going to the beach. You aren't getting in the water, though. You never learned to swim.”

His words were teasing, but his tone was forced. He was grasping at straws to keep you awake. Bucky looked back down at the wound to see that the bleeding hadn't stopped. Your breath kept hitching, and the pit in his stomach grew. The shirt was soaked in your blood, and his forearms were caked in it - there was no fixing this. He didn't want to stop, but it was clear that his efforts were in vain.

Making eye contact with his girl again, exhaustion was written all over your face. The most that Bucky could do now was make you comfortable. Taking a shaky breath, he removed his hands from the fabric and gently stroked your cheek. The tears continued to flow.

Seeing your usually stoic boyfriend cry and the heartbreak in his gaze, you reached up to gently swipe some tears from his face. Your movements were weak, but it was obvious that you were doing your best to comfort him. You gave him a small smile and spoke again, your voice strained.

“Shhh, it's okay, my love.”

“No, don't try to comfort me. Not when you're dying in my fucking arms.”

His voice was rough and his tone was harsh, but it was obvious that he was devastated. Bucky couldn't stop crying, and his chest felt tight. Too tight. He knew that he needed to be strong for you, but he struggled to pull it together. He couldn't even speak through the sobs, so he resorted to gently stroking your cheek. Needing to be closer to you, he sat on the couch beside you and pulled you into his lap. He had never felt pain like this, and he could feel something breaking deep inside of him. This was a man who had lost so much, yet nothing compared to the way that his heart was breaking.

The sight of Bucky breaking down almost hurt more than the gunshot itself. His holding you was a small comfort, but you were still quickly fading. Your breathing continued to slow, and your eyes kept closing. You forced them back open and attempted to keep talking. Wiping his cheek again, you let your hand rest on the side of his face.

“I love you so fucking much, you know that right? Loving you is the only thing that I've gotten right.”

That only served to make him sob harder, and Bucky felt like a part of him was dying with you. He took ragged breaths and spoke through the tears. “I love you, sweetheart. More than anything. I'm so sorry that I'm not able to fix this.”

“You can't fix everything, James. This- this was bound to happen. I'm just glad that you're here with me.”

“Are you in any pain, baby?”

You felt a bit cold, but you couldn't feel the wound anymore. That only meant one thing - you were almost there. You shook your head and gently stroked his unshaven jaw. It was harder for you to speak, and your answers had been reduced to just a few words at a time. “No pain.”

Your answer confirmed what he already knew: he was losing his baby. By some miracle, Bucky was able to compose himself, and his tears slowed. He managed to keep the tremor in his voice to a minimum. He didn't want you worrying about him in your final moments.

“That's good. I don't want you to hurt. You want me to keep talking?”

Your eyelids flittered again, and you gave him a small nod. You were too drained to speak at this point, and your breathing was almost imperceptible. Your pupils were dilated, and it was hard for you to concentrate. You were listening to him, though.

“Remember when we came back from dinner the other night and Alpine had scratched up the side of our couch? She was purring and everything. Thought she'd done somethin' good. You nearly pissed your pants laughing so hard, and that only encouraged her more.”

Your lips curved in a small smile, but your gaze had started to lose focus. It was only a matter of minutes now, and the idea of that made Bucky feel hollow. He kept talking and absentmindedly stroked your cheek, though.

“Oh, remember the time when she brought that injured little bird into the house and you were hysterical? You thought that I was so mean for laughing. I felt like a total asshole, but you're cute when you get like that. You've got the biggest heart.”

Bucky kept rambling until he felt your chest still, and he glanced down to see that your lips were parted slightly. The eyes that he always got lost in were still open, but they lacked their usual light. You were gone.

“I love you, sweet girl.”

Openly sobbing now, Bucky whispered softly and used his fingertips to gently close your eyes. He was at a complete loss for where to go from here. As he contemplated how to get you back home, he leaned his face down and gently kissed your lips. They were already slightly cooler than usual, and their pretty pink color had faded.

The two of you could probably get away with staying in this room for a few hours. It was late at night, and the space was secure enough. Besides, Bucky wasn't overly concerned about what would happen to him if he were found by those men. You were no longer here to fuss over his safety. The reminder made him sob harder, and his whole body was wracked with the force of it. He slowly rocked your limp form like a child and whispered unkept promises to you throughout the night.

[bees-library3]

The Cut That Always Bleeds

Summary: At night, Frank has a nightmare about the day that he lost his family, and you do your best to soothe him.

Warnings/Tags: ptsd, nightmare, hurt/comfort, light angst, some fluff, usual triggers/warnings for The Punisher, husband!Frank, wife!reader(she/her), no use of y/n

Word count: 928 words

A/N: As someone who was a massive Bucky Barnes fan in 2014 (still am tbh), I am a SLUT for a good nightmare comfort fic. Also, this is my first time writing Frank, and I'm really hoping that I executed it well.

It was the same nightmare that it always was - the day his family was massacred in front of him. Frank can still hear his little girl's screams and the music playing from the running carousel. God, the fucking music is what drove him crazy. He could feel the warm blood coating his forearms and soaking into his clothes. He'd tried to stop the bleeding, but there was so much blood. It just kept flowing from his wife and children.

Frank woke up shaking, and his chest was heaving. The sheets were slightly damp with sweat, and he was trying in vain to calm down. There was always a period of time between the nightmare and his waking up, during which he felt stuck. His entire body was filled with panic, and he anxiously scanned the room. What exactly he was seeking, he wasn't sure. He had begun unconsciously muttering to himself.

“No, no, no. Please.”

Hearing his ragged breaths and the covers shifting, you stirred. You could tell by the frantic look on his face that he'd had a nightmare - again. Things had been getting better lately, but you'd been handling these for most of your relationship. You spoke softly and placed a gentle hand on his forearm, careful not to startle him.

“Frank, baby, I'm right here.”

He looked over at you and tried to focus, but it felt impossible. Frank's mind was still at that park, and the words began flowing before he could stop them.

“I tried so hard, sweetheart. So fuckin' hard, but I still lost 'em. I couldn't keep 'em safe. What kind of man can't even keep his family alive?”

Your heart broke for your husband as you saw the slightly vacant look in his eyes while he spoke. He was deep in this episode, and you took a moment before responding to him. “You did everything that you could, my love. That situation was completely out of your control, and none of that was on you.”

Frank did his best to process your words, but it always felt like you were lying to him. Deep down, he knew that you were telling the truth, but his mind was a ruthless bastard. His family had been murdered to send him a message and keep him quiet. How was that not his fault?

“You don't understand, sweetheart. They died because they were important to me. They fuckin' killed 'em to make sure that I didn't divulge the crimes that we'd been ordered to carry out. People die 'cause they love me. Everyone around me pays a price.”

“Oh, baby. That's not true. Those around you do not die because of something that you've done. I've been with you for almost ten years now, and I'm still here.”

Your words were starting to make a little more sense, and he lifted his gaze to meet yours again. Frank's right hand was still curled in a fist against the sheets, but he seemed less agitated now. If anything, the man looked exhausted.

“You really mean that? Nothing's gonna happen to you 'cause we're together?” He hated how needy he sounded, but he desperately needed his wife's reassurance.

“Of course, Frankie. I love you so fucking much. You make me feel so safe, and I'm not leaving you now. I'm not leaving you ever.”

You reached over and gently pulled him into your arms. Frank didn't even try to put up a fight and let his head collapse into your chest. Your hand rubbed gentle circles on his bare back and found a gentle rhythm in the groove between his shoulder blades. You kissed the top of his head and spoke softly, “Try and match my breathing, okay? You're tired, and I want you to rest.”

Frank nodded against your chest and mirrored your slow breaths. The combination of your smaller body beneath his and your hands gently rubbing his back was soothing. The tension oozed from his body, and his muscles started to let down. This was working.

Feeling him relax, you let out a small exhale of relief and kept touching him. “There we go. You're doing so good, baby. Keep taking those steady breaths. You wanna close your eyes?”

“What if I see it again? I don't want to go back there, sweetheart. It hurts so bad.”

You hadn't even realized that he had started crying until you felt Frank's hot tears hit the top of your breasts. You immediately wiped his cheeks and kissed his head again.

“You're safe, baby. I'm right here, and I'll wake you up if you start having that dream again. Would you feel better if I stayed up for a while?”

Looking up at you through damp lashes, the occasional tear was still falling, but they'd slowed a bit. “You'd stay up for me? I don't want you to be too tired in the morning.”

“I'm already awake, and I don't plan on falling back asleep. Probably just gonna finish that book that Curtis is letting me borrow. Don't worry about keeping me up.”

Even though Frank wanted to be stubborn and insist that you rest, the episode had completely drained his energy. He nodded tiredly and pressed a gentle kiss to your sternum. His eyelids felt heavy, and his words slurred with exhaustion.

“Okay, sweetheart, I'll go back to sleep. Thank you.”

Moving your free hand to run through his dark curls, you felt him relax further, and his breathing fully evened out. He mumbled something that sounded like 'love you' before falling asleep.

[bees-library3]

Get To Know Me

Intro

Bee (she/her), I’ve recently gotten back into writing, so I decided to turn this account into a fanfiction page. I’ll be primarily writing Marvel pieces, but there will be the occasional work for other characters. My other account @twd-bee3 is my blog centered around The Walking Dead, and I’m very active there. This is just my space to post other stories. If my intro looks similar to the one posted there, that’s because I got lazy and pasted some of it here lmao. At the moment, I only write one-shots. I do have an account on Ao3, but it’s new, and I’m still trying to figure out how to navigate it.

About Me

I am a student and I am majoring in human services. I am always down to chat and talk about various things. If you can’t tell by my major, I love talking to and helping people. Don’t hesitate to reach out. 

Please send me requests, and I will do my best to write something that y’all like. I only write female reader stories because that is what I am most familiar with. In the future, this may change. 

The fantasy writer in me loves angst and writing graphic/depressing shit, so expect that. I do sometimes like writing fluff, though!!

I’m chronically ill and struggle with my mental health, so there will be times when I will be slow to post. Please be patient with me <3

Since I’m still getting back in the swing of writing, my work is not going to be perfect, but I’m hoping it will improve over time.

Interests

Media - The Walking Dead, The Bear (I’m only on season 2), Shameless, The Punisher, other Marvel content, and Criminal Minds

Characters - Daryl Dixon, Negan Smith, Rick Grimes, Mikey Berzatto, Richie Jermovich, Frank Castle, and Bucky Barnes

Music - Pearl Jam, Temple of the Dog, Soundgarden, Sublime, Hole, Creed, Alice in Chains, and Nine Inch Nails

Celebrities - Norman Reedus, Jon Bernthal, Jeffery Dean Morgan, Matthew Gray Gubler, and Sebastian Stan

Characters/Fandoms I’m writing for

The Bear - Mikey Berzatto and maybe Richie Jermovich

The Punisher - Frank Castle

Marvel - Bucky Barnes 

Credits for most of my banners and dividers: @cursed-carmine

[bees-library3]

Pressure Points | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky never misses a tell and hiding an unexpected injury during a mission debrief forces both of you to confront what the two of you are really doing.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood, injury, untreated wounds, dissociation, implied PTSD, medical care, emotional vulnerability, canon-typical violence, tension with unspoken feelings

Word Count: 5k

Author’s Note: hi hiiii!! this one’s based on a request that got way too emotionally loaded way too fast, so naturally i blacked out and wrote this instead of doing literally anything else on my to-do list. still unsure how i feel about the ending here, idk i feel like i struggled a bit with this one 😢 but anyways... hope you enjoy the soft angst and emotional damage™

The door hissed closed behind you, sealing you into the dim of the debrief room.

You didn’t sit yet. Honestly, you weren't sure you could. Sitting would mean slowing down, and slowing down would let your body register exactly how much damage it had taken. There was no blood on the floor, but your boots felt like they were sticking to the tile with each step.

You stood facing the long table at the center, fingers pressed flat to its edge. Cold. Good. Cold helped.

It had been two hours since the ambush. Maybe more. You’d landed, walked straight through the hangar, flashed your ID to three different checkpoints. The adrenaline had carried you most of the way—through extraction, through the sting of antiseptic wipes and gauze stolen from your belt kit, through the awkward shrug of your jacket over stiffening muscle. It was wearing off now, and quickly.

Your side ached. But it was the kind of ache that came with a quiet weight behind it. A deep, thick hurt that didn’t burn anymore. It settled.

The kind you knew better than to poke.

You were supposed to be collecting surveillance. Mapping out structural weaknesses, taking silent photos. Minimal movement. No contact. The risk level had been marked green. 

Yelena’s name had been on the initial rotation, but you owed her one—stupid bet, high stakes, something about who could down Alexei in the least amount of moves during game night—and when she grinned across the table and tossed the data chip at you, it hadn’t felt like a trade that would matter.

It should’ve been easy. In, out, report filed. Nothing worth blinking twice over.

But they’d been waiting anyway.

You weren’t sure if it had been a leak or just bad luck. Maybe both. A perimeter shift, a wrong turn, a wire you didn’t see until the light went red and the floor gave way beneath your boots.

There were two of them. Close combat. One with a blade.

It was clean, at least. A trained hand. Nothing jagged.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table. The distraction helped. Only a few more minutes, maybe five. Long enough for the after-action report upload to ping, long enough to get through debrief, long enough to get your hands on a copy before it hit anyone else’s radar. You could file the injury in a supplemental note. Frame it as a scratch. Make it clean.

The mission had succeeded. The data was retrieved. The kill order had been avoided.

And Bucky didn’t tolerate excuses in debrief.

You moved very slowly to sit, spine straight, jaw locked. The pain was manageable. As long as you didn’t shift too much. As long as you kept breathing shallow. As long as your body didn’t betray you first.

The door opened behind you.

You didn’t flinch, but your shoulders pulled just slightly tighter.

You didn’t look up until he sat down.

Bucky dropped into the chair with a kind of quiet authority that never tried to announce itself. He didn’t need to. You’d seen people straighten instinctively when he walked into a room. Not out of fear. Not even respect. Just gravity.

He keyed into the tablet with a flick of his thumb and said nothing for a long moment.

“Solo recon,” he said, eyes on the report. “Low contact. Data collection only. You were in and out six hours ahead of schedule.”

Your mouth felt dry. “The infrastructure was lighter than predicted. I got what we needed.”

“You didn’t log an early extraction.”

“I didn’t need one.”

His jaw shifted slightly. Not clenched, just a tick of muscle, subtle and practiced, like he was filing your answers away for later. Like he already knew he’d be circling back to every word you just said.

“You breached the secondary corridor. That wasn’t on your pathing.”

“There were inconsistencies in the thermal layout.”

“You followed them alone.”

“That’s the job.”

He didn’t argue. Just turned the tablet, tapped the video feed timestamp. A grainy loop of your helmet cam played: a shadow moving through darkness, light flickering across concrete. The corner where you turned too sharply. The sudden jolt in the image. A sharp gasp—short, quiet, then nothing.

He paused it. Tapped again. Rewound. His brow furrowed. Let it play back slower.

This time, he didn’t look at the footage. He looked at you.

“You dropped your shoulder,” he said quietly. “Right before the feed cut.”

“It was nothing.”

“Was that a hit?”

Your tongue pressed hard to the roof of your mouth. “It didn’t affect the objective.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And you hated how that made it worse, how the stillness wrapped around the room like a noose. He was letting you lie to him. Letting you say whatever you needed to say, because he already knew. 

He’d been there before, in that same position, pretending a cracked rib was bruising, pretending a torn tendon was stiffness, pretending a mission wasn’t carved into the meat of him long after it was over. 

There was no lecture. No accusation. Just the weight of someone who could see through you and chose not to interrupt the performance.

“I’m fine,” you said flatly.

He didn’t answer.

The quiet stretched. You thought maybe that was it, maybe he was going to let it go.

Then his eyes flicked down to your right side. To the faint, spreading mark where the fabric of your shirt beneath your jacket was turning darker. Not fast. Not enough to pool. But enough to stain.

His chair scraped back.

You stiffened. “I'm fine, it's handled.”

He came around the table, slow and deliberate. Metal fingers flexing at his side.

“Lift your arm.”

“I said I'm fine,” you snapped.

“That’s not the same thing as handled.”

You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you could. The adrenaline was starting to thin out in your veins, leaving behind that sinking, swampy exhaustion. Your stomach turned, not from pain, but from how seen you suddenly felt. You’d trained for exposure. For being watched. Not for this.

Bucky crouched beside you. Not in front, but beside. Like a pressure valve being slowly eased open.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, tone unreadable. “How long.”

You swallowed, head dropping slightly. “Since the drop site.”

“Why didn’t you flag it?”

“It's under control.”

“No, it's not.”

His voice was low. Not cruel. But final.

You’d heard him angry before. Heard the bite in his tone when someone made a call that put the team at risk. This wasn’t that. This was colder, quieter. A kind of disappointment that didn’t need volume.

You didn’t know which was worse—being yelled at, or being spoken to like someone who should have known better.

He reached for your side, and your hand caught his wrist before you could stop yourself.

You hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t a choice, not really, just instinct, like every muscle in your body recoiling from the threat of being touched before it was ready. Not because it was him. Because you knew what came next. Knew what it looked like when someone saw too much and tried to carry it for you. And you couldn’t afford that. Not from him.

He stilled.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. If you saw the look in his eyes, you might flinch. And you were still trying to pretend you hadn’t already lost.

“It wasn’t supposed to go loud,” you said, voice thin. “There were two waiting. They knew where I’d enter. They knew the blind spots.”

You could hear the shift in him. That internal lock of gears grinding against something they’d already worn through before. You hadn’t meant to trigger that recognition in him, but you’d felt it land. Somewhere deep, in a place you both shared but never acknowledged.

You shifted your grip. Not letting go, just adjusting. Like you could buy yourself another few seconds by pretending it wasn’t about the wound at all.

“Just leave it,” you muttered. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It never is. Until it is.” His tone didn’t change, but his gaze lifted—finally meeting yours. Calm. Direct. A low, measured pressure behind it, like he was willing to wait you out.

You hated that about him. That patience. That quiet steadiness that didn’t waver, didn’t flinch. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It just was.

And it made it so much harder to pretend he didn’t see you. Really see you.

“I don’t need—” you started, jaw tight.

“You need someone to look at it,” he said. “Let it be me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an order either. And that somehow made it worse. You weren’t sure which was more dangerous, someone barking commands or someone asking for permission.

His voice had dipped lower, just enough to make your chest pull tight. There wasn’t concern there, not in the usual sense. He wasn’t doting. He wasn’t trying to soothe. He was present. And there was something in that presence that made it hard to breathe.

You dropped your hand.

He pushed your shirt up, carefully, and you exhaled through gritted teeth as the gauze pulled away. The cut was clean. But deep. His brow furrowed slightly—not from shock, not quite. Just calculation.

He was already thinking of entry angles. Blade length. Positioning. Probably already seeing the hallway in his head. Watching it unfold in slow motion, over and over again, looking for what he missed. As if he had been the one to miss it.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You let out a humorless breath. “That your professional opinion?”

He didn’t smile.

There was something cruel about how quiet he stayed. Not toward you, but toward himself. You could feel it, even now, in the way he shifted to reach for the med kit like he couldn’t let himself react to what he’d seen. Like the second he let emotion in, he’d lose grip on what was necessary.

“You patch this yourself?”

“Didn’t have time to find med support.”

He moved to pull the kit from the wall behind him with one hand, snapping it open. You heard the rustle of packaging, the gentle snap of gloves. His hands were steady. Too steady.

Too calm. Too clinical. Which meant he wasn’t.

When he pressed the antiseptic to your skin, your breath caught.

You didn’t mean to—didn’t want to—but the pain was sharp, cutting through whatever haze had been buffering you. Your body flinched before your mind could will it still. You hated how obvious it was. How involuntary. You hated even more how his hands didn’t pause.

“Just breathe.”

It wasn’t said like a warning. Wasn’t a comfort, either. It came quiet, low enough that it felt more like a thought spoken aloud than something meant for you to answer.

You hated how your lungs obeyed. How the next inhale came shallow but cleaner. How the sting faded just enough under the sound of his voice for you to remember where you were. Who was touching you.

Your gaze didn’t lift. Couldn’t. You stared at a smudge on the floor instead, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that had nothing to do with pain. You weren’t fragile. You weren’t. But there was something about him seeing the flinch, about him not reacting to it, that made your throat go tight.

His eyes flicked up, barely a beat behind it. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch or hesitate, didn’t scold you for not holding still. Just paused long enough for the air between you to thicken. The smell of alcohol and blood and something too human to name settled over the room like fog.

“Still with me?” he asked, but it was rhetorical. His eyes had already checked—your pupils, your hands, the tension in your legs. He read you like a goddamn topographic map.

“I’ve had worse,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said.

You wished he didn’t. Wished he hadn’t been there for half of them, hadn’t watched you limp out of drop zones or tape your shoulder back into place mid-mission with the kind of steadiness that wasn’t brave, just practiced. He knew what you looked like when you bled. You’d made peace with that years ago.

But this felt different.

He set the antiseptic soaked gauze aside and reached for the sutures. The gloves didn’t crinkle when he moved, he was too precise for that. Even the gentlest press of his fingers at your side felt deliberate. Controlled. No wasted motion. No softness, either. Just a kind of reverence that came from experience. You weren’t sure if it was for you, or for the wound itself.

“You said there were two,” he said suddenly, voice low. “Which one of them did this?”

There was no hesitation in the question, but it wasn’t casual. Nothing about it was. The way he asked, like he already knew the answer would sit wrong in his chest, told you more than it should’ve. 

Bucky didn’t bristle often. Didn’t posture. But there was something under his voice now, tight and metallic. Cold. Like if you named the man responsible, he’d dig him up just to break him again.

You held his gaze. Didn’t flinch.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t walk out of there.”

The edge in your voice was quieter than his, but just as sharp. You didn’t offer more. You didn’t need to.

His eyes searched yours for a second too long, jaw flexing once like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the shape of it. He looked back down, set the first suture, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“Good.”

You weren’t sure if he meant it the way it sounded. You weren’t sure if he was sure. But something settled in his shoulders after that, and he didn’t ask again.

It would’ve been easier if he had. If he’d pressed. If he’d let the protectiveness boil over into something sharp, something that gave you a reason to push him away and keep things clean between you. But he didn’t. He never did. He just stayed in that crouch beside you, jaw tight, hands steady, letting the silence stretch between you like a wire pulled too thin.

And maybe that was worse.

Because he didn’t look at you like a soldier waiting for confirmation, or a leader waiting for a report. He looked at you like he’d already imagined a hundred different versions of that fight—the ones where you didn’t walk out. The ones where someone else did. And you could feel it sitting behind his ribs like weight. Like something he wasn’t letting himself name.

It had always been like this with him. That quiet intensity. The kind that crept in slowly, uninvited. The kind that made it impossible to tell where professionalism ended and something more dangerous began. You never asked. You didn’t need to.

You’d felt it in the way he moved between you and crossfire before anyone could blink. In the way his voice dropped, barely audible, when you were hurt. In the way he never touched you unless he had to, but when he did, it was like he was memorizing the contact. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was worth the—”

“Don’t,” he said, too quiet. “Don’t downplay it.”

He reached for another suture strip, tore it open with one hand. “You think if you minimize it enough, it won’t matter? That if you wrap it tight and walk like your spine’s straight, it doesn’t count as damage?”

Your breath hitched, shallow.

“I’ve done that too,” he added, and there was something in his voice now, not pity, never that, but something hollow and brutal and familiar. “I used to think if I could stand through the pain, no one had to see it. That if no one saw it, it couldn’t touch anything else.”

He looked at you again.

“But I see it.”

You stared at him.

He went back to working your side, taping and sealing with brutal efficiency, like if he just moved fast enough, it wouldn’t settle in his chest the way it was clearly trying to. Like if he didn’t meet your eyes again, he wouldn’t say anything worse.

But you didn’t let it go.

“You’re not just pissed about the mission.”

He didn’t answer.

You shifted, just enough to wince, and he caught your elbow before you could flinch all the way.

“Careful,” he said, voice low.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

His jaw ticked. You watched his throat move as he swallowed something back.

“I’m not pissed,” he said eventually. “I’m—”

He stopped. Adjusted his grip on the bandage. Fingers tight.

“I don’t like watching people I care about bleed.”

It was the first time he’d said something like that, care about, out loud. Not just implied in the way he moved between you and danger, not just the steady presence outside your door after bad missions, not just in the way he always remembered what you wouldn’t ask for. But said.

Out loud.

You sat very still.

Bucky cleared his throat. “You didn’t think you could come in here like that and I wouldn’t notice?”

“I didn’t know what you’d do if you did.”

“I’d do this,” he said simply, finishing the last suture. “I’d sit you down and fix it.”

“And after?”

He looked at you again. Quiet. Careful. Like you were still bleeding, just somewhere else now.

“I don’t know,” he said. "The same as always."

That should’ve been the end of it. The final thread cut. No promises, no mistakes, no ground given. Just those few words, flat and true.

But you didn’t look away.

And he didn’t move.

The med kit sat open on the table beside him, wrappers scattered, tools laid out with military precision. His gloves were still on. Blood on the fingertips. Your blood. You watched him peel them off one at a time, like he needed something to do with his hands. Like the silence might drown him if he didn’t fill it with something.

You let your weight shift back into the chair. Your side pulled tight. Not enough to tear. Enough to remind you it was still there.

He reached forward again. Not to touch the bandage. Just to rest his hand near yours on the table. Close. Not touching. You could’ve bridged the gap with your pinky.

You didn’t.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, voice quieter now. Tired in a way that didn’t show on his face but sat in the back of his throat like ash. “That I’m mad? That I don’t get it? You think I don’t know why you don't tell anyone?”

You didn’t answer.

“Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Because then someone else gets to decide how bad it is. Gets to take it from you. And maybe you’d rather bleed through your fucking ribs than let anyone carry the weight.”

Still, you didn’t answer.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Rubbed a hand over his jaw. His knuckles were scraped. Probably from training. Or from the chair he’d shattered in the sparring room last week when Torres made a joke about his shoulder during drills.

You knew Bucky didn’t lash out without a reason.

You just didn’t like thinking about whether you counted as one.

His hand didn’t move. Yours didn’t either.

The table felt like the only thing keeping your body upright, your fingers curled just enough to hide the tremble that had nothing to do with blood loss. He wasn’t looking at you now—his eyes were down, jaw tense, thumb tracing a slow arc near the edge of a wrapper. Like he was waiting for you to say something that would let him off the hook. Or maybe give him permission to stay on it.

You shifted slightly. Just enough to test your range of movement. Just enough to remind yourself where the pain was still sharpest. He caught it. Of course he did. His eyes flicked back up for half a second. Not to ask if you were okay. Just to watch. Just to know.

“I didn’t come in here looking for a scene,” you said finally, voice low. “I wasn’t trying to make this into—”

“Into what?”

You didn’t answer.

He sat back on his heels, knees cracking slightly. His hand was still on the table. Still close. And when he spoke again, the edge in his voice wasn’t anger. It was something colder. Resigned.

“You think I give a shit if this turns into something.”

That pulled your eyes up. Slowly.

He looked tired. Not physically. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there last year. Not deep enough to age him, but enough to mark the hours he spent pretending things didn’t hit as hard as they did.

You stared at him. “You say that like you know where it’s going.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I just know I’m not the one walking in with blood in my teeth and acting like it’s business as usual.”

That got under your skin. You felt the flicker of it move through your chest like a match.

“I didn’t ask you to do this.”

“I know.”

The room went still again.

He exhaled through his nose, slower this time, like he was trying not to say the next thing before it forced itself out. Like he was weighing the silence in his mouth and deciding whether it was worth breaking.

“You don’t make things easy,” he said.

You tilted your head slightly. “You want easy, Barnes, you’re in the wrong line of work.”

“I’m not talking about the work.”

It landed harder than you expected. Or maybe exactly how you expected, and you’d just been hoping he wouldn’t say it out loud. You sat back a little. Let your hand fall away from the table. Your side throbbed in protest.

He watched it happen. Didn’t comment.

You looked down at your lap. Focused on the dried blood near your waistband. On the way your fingers had curled in again without your permission.

“I didn’t come here to talk about us,” you said, quieter now. Not defensive. Not backpedaling. Just honest.

“I know,” he said. “But you didn’t come here to bleed out alone in a chair, either.”

You didn’t have a response for that. Because part of you had. Not to bleed out, exactly, but to hide the worst of it. Just long enough for the report to clear. Just long enough for it to not become anyone else’s problem. But that had never worked with him. He didn’t wait for permission to see through the mask. Never had.

Bucky stood slowly. Not like he was leaving, like he needed to stretch his legs or he’d start pacing. His hand dragged down his face once, like he was trying to rub the expression off before it settled into something harder.

“You scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he said.

That pulled your head up. “What?”

“Not because you’re reckless,” he added, facing the wall now, hands planted on his hips. “Because you’re calculated. Because I know you made the call. Took the hit. Handled it. And still didn’t say a damn word.”

You watched his shoulders rise, slow and tight, like his breath caught halfway through.

“I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t going to help,” you said. “The mission was clean.”

“I’m not talking about the mission.”

That made something in your chest shift. He said it too fast. Like it had been waiting there the whole time, right under the surface.

He turned back toward you then. And this time, there was no detachment left. No cool professionalism. Just Bucky. Raw and present and exhausted by the weight of everything unspoken.

“I can’t read your mind,” he said. “You think I can, but I can’t. I can see when you’re hurt. I can see when you’re bleeding. But I don’t know when you stop letting anyone in.”

You stared at him. “I haven’t shut you out.”

“You think letting me stitch you up means I get to know where you are?”

That landed.

He crossed his arms. Not defensive—anchoring. Trying to hold something in that was already slipping. “You could’ve come to my room instead of here. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I’ve seen you worse.”

You stood. A little too fast. The pain surged. You gripped the edge of the table to steady yourself, jaw clamped tight until it passed.

He didn’t rush forward. He just stood there. Watching. Letting you decide what you needed to hold yourself together.

“You think I want to keep doing this?” you said finally, voice low. “You think I like walking in here looking like hell and pretending it’s fine? You think I don’t know how this looks?”

He didn’t say anything. Which was worse than if he had. You could feel him watching you, reading you, the way he always did. And somehow, that still made it harder to speak.

“I didn’t come to your room,” you said, “because if I did, I wouldn’t have left.”

There. Said. It landed between you like a weapon left on the table. Sharp. Unmoving.

And it silenced him completely.

You watched his face. The way his jaw ticked once. The way his eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but like he was trying to fit the truth of it into the space between everything else. That it hadn’t been about pride. Or protocol. Or even pain.

It had been about him.

He moved first.

One step, then another, until he was standing close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. Not touching. Not yet. Just close. Close enough that when he spoke, you didn’t miss a word.

“You wouldn’t have had to.”

That knocked the breath from your lungs more than the blade had.

He reached out slowly. Not toward your injury, not toward your face. His fingers brushed just barely over your wrist, featherlight. Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he’d been waiting to make this exact move for weeks, maybe longer.

But you didn’t pull back.

You couldn’t.

Because this was exactly the part that scared you more than any mission, any ambush, any stitched-up wound. The knowing. The letting him see how much it cost you to be steady. To stay upright when you were tired of it. To walk into every fight like you didn’t already have enough bruises from the last.

His hand moved to yours, just enough to curl his fingers around your knuckles. The contact was warm, grounding. No pressure. Just weight. Intentional and steady and there.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “How easy it is for you to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not fooling you.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t say you’re not, because he didn’t need to.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, quieter now. The kind of quiet that cracked at the edges. “Not with everything else. Not when it’s already hard enough to breathe some days.”

His grip didn’t tighten. He didn’t pull you in. He just stayed.

“I’m not asking you to do it all at once,” he said. “I just want you to stop pretending you’re alone.”

You felt that one in your bones.

He let his hand slide up from yours, slow, up your forearm, to the bend of your elbow. Not possessive. Not comforting. Just anchoring. Just present. Like he was proving he was real. Like he knew what it meant to stand still while someone flinched under the weight of being seen.

“Can I help you back to your room?” he asked after a beat.

You hesitated.

Because yes would mean surrendering something. Control. Image. The illusion of strength that had gotten you this far.

But then you nodded.

Because no meant going back to that silence. To pretending he wasn’t right. To pretending that the tremble in your legs wasn’t going to give out the second you passed the threshold alone.

He didn’t say anything else. Just stepped back a little and reached for your jacket, careful of your side. He helped you into it like it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Like he’d already memorized how to move around your injuries without needing the full inventory.

When you swayed, just slightly, his arm came around your waist. His touch was careful—more supportive than guiding. Like he wasn’t leading you anywhere you weren’t choosing to go.

Outside the room, the hallway was quiet. Late-shift lighting hummed overhead, casting the corridors in that dim, sterile blue you’d always hated. But it didn’t feel cold now. Not with his hand steady at your side.

You didn’t talk. Neither of you did.

It wasn’t avoidance. It was a truce.

When you reached your room, you paused in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you said, turning enough to look at him, “for not making it worse.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

He gave you the smallest nod. Like he understood there wasn’t a better way to say what you meant. Like he didn’t have one either.

You thought that might be it. That he’d step back. Let you walk inside and close the door and process this later, on your own, the way you always had.

But he didn’t move.

And you didn’t step inside.

Not yet.

There was one last thing sitting between you—one last thread you hadn’t pulled.

“Bucky.”

He looked up, and his eyes were softer than they should’ve been.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“If I had came to your room,” you said, “and I didn’t leave—what would you have done?”

He held your gaze. Steady. No hesitation.

“I would’ve stayed too.”

That broke something open in your chest. Not sharp. Not painful. Just... full. Like the air had shifted. Like maybe you didn’t have to hold all of it alone anymore.

“Okay,” you said.

Then you stepped aside.

When he followed you in, he didn’t say anything else.

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