#Bucky Whump

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 12)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Zombie apocalypse au)

Prompt: I have nowhere else to go

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers; zombies; mentions of murder; blood; death

Author’s note: This got a little too long for a fic that was initially meant to be a Drabble but I couldn’t bring myself to let it end earlier. And this was quite fun, since I’ve never written something like this before.

[Divider by @sweetmelodygraphics ]

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Your side is stinging terribly, pulsing with every unsteady step.

Your legs fail at mimicking a normal stride, falling back into a limp.

Your hands tremble, defying every command to just stay still.

Your lungs sear with every breath, dragging air like fire down a raw throat.

Your head swims in chaotic loops, spinning with images and echoes you can’t escape.

Your shoulder and back throb from an impact you took earlier, sharp pain shooting up your spine with every jolt of your uneven stride.

The enormity of what just happened refuses to fit neatly into thought.

The sun is not even all up in the sky and your day already took a turn so cruel, you are teetering on the edge of collapse.

You stopped keeping track of time since this whole apocalyptic shit began but it's safe to say that you just lost everything you had in the span of maybe three hours.

You are exhausted. You are tired. You are in fear. You are in shock.

Acknowledging all of that is dangerous right now.

The world feels off-kilter.

Nausea rises again. Though there is nothing left in your stomach. You already emptied it on the forest floor before you stumbled into the trees, desperate to escape.

The acrid taste still lingers at the back of your throat.

The trees around you sway in your periphery, tall shadows painted in moonlight. It’s not the wind that makes them sway. It’s your vision. Branches claw at the sky like the dread claws at your resolve.

Your body is screaming at you to stop and collapse into the dirt, but you know if you let it, you won’t ever stand back up again.

You have to keep going.

You have to press on.

Your world has crumbled into rot and hunger, and all you have left is the instinct to run.

Run and survive.

Whatever that means now.

You have no sense of the distance you’ve put between you and the nightmarish scene you had to leave behind, no measure of the miles your aching legs already crossed.

You don’t know if they are right behind you. If they’re even coming for you.

It was barely dawn when they came.

It wasn’t a warning shot or a distant sound that reached the camp first. No, it was the impact.

The sound of boots trampling through the undergrowth, bodies charging through the trees, wild shapes silhouetted against the rising sun. Barked commands that carried no meaning, only menace.

You had barely time to register what was happening when they were already in the heart of the camp.

They scattered supplies, spilled meager rations into the dirt, kicked apart the fire pit still faintly glowing from the night before when your small group all sat in a circle around it.

With the first scream, violence erupted.

Blades flashed and mocking laughter rang out from all sides as you heard your companions cry out in terror and pain.

They scrambled from their makeshift shelters, some clutching weapons, others still groggy, confused, unarmed. There was no time to gather thoughts, no time to plan. The raiders were already upon you, tearing through tents and slaughtering everyone in their way.

You watched as Caleb lunged for them, but they cut him down before he even reached anybody.

You tried to get little Benjamin to safety but he got ripped away from you in a matter of seconds and you only felt the slash of a knife against your side.

You heard the guttural sobs of Jonna and her wide eyes as she couldn’t tear them off the lifeless body of her husband. You tried to reach her, grabbing her and getting her away but before you could, she got hit and fell. Just like her husband had moments earlier.

The thud of bodies hitting the ground, the clash of metal, the desperate screams of the people you knew and trusted, cutting off as quickly as they began, the splattered blood everywhere across the ground, slick on leaves, staining clothes of people who’d been alive only seconds earlier. Blood that is all over you, painted in your hair, in your face, on your hands-

You heave the bile against a nearby tree.

Your throat burns. The images burn. The memories burn.

The world is already torn apart as it is but they ripped at everything you had fought for.

You were pinned on the ground at one point. Brutally shoved down and the impact took your breath away. However, you were able to move out of the way of the knife that was meant for your face and instead buried into the ground. The surprise of your attacker weakened his hold on you and you were able to flee, but not without taking a few more hits.

Your friends were dead. Everything was destroyed.

So you ran.

You ran, stumbled, fell, scrambled up, and ran again.

You wondered if the raiders stayed to strip your makeshift camp bare or if they followed you. The last one alive. The one that slipped through their grasp.

Or maybe they’ve decided you’re not worth the effort, and your life hangs by nothing but chance.

After all, you feel death knocking on your door. And it will kick it in, hinges breaking and wood splintering if you don’t open it yourself.

But you won’t.

You push on. You will push your body to its breaking point.

Even if your mind shatters way before your body does.

Because you know you will crumble if you allow your thoughts to win over your body.

You just lost everything you had.

Your group was only on the move.

The camp was supposed to be a fleeting thing. A place to catch your breath from traveling. This morning you were all supposed to pack what little you had and keep moving and get closer to the sanctuary you had spoken of. A place you were going to build. A place where no raid, no nightmare, no lifeless beast could touch you.

So, if you had risen earlier, broken down the camp faster, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps your friends - the few people who so graciously took you in almost two years ago - would still be alive.

You don’t even know who the marauders were. They came out of nowhere.

A realization makes your blood run cold.

Something you remembered only now.

The sounds.

You heard it between the screams of your friends at one point. Low, throaty, and too familiar. The kind of sound that makes your pulse rise and pricks the back of your neck.

It was the sound you learned to fear. The sound your world had been drowning in for years now.

The sound of the dead - those shambling remnants of humanity, curses to wander the earth as mindless husks.

You remember the way they started moving so differently than when they came into your camp - some of them sluggish, others unnervingly erratic.

And you begin to wonder. Perhaps they had been bitten before raiding your camp.

And perhaps that’s the reason they came. They knew their time was up. They probably felt the infection eating at them, death clawing closer. Maybe attacking your group was their last violent eruption of humanity, the last thing they did with a conscious mind before they fell to the disease that had already claimed their souls.

They didn’t have anything left to lose. No loved ones to mourn. No future to fight for. Just an empty void ahead. A transformation into something even crueler than the monsters they already were. Perhaps they wanted this last conscious act to mean something. To carve their names into the memory of the world before they became nothing more than rotting corpses, stumbling through the dirt without a single thought in mind.

It makes you sick.

If they wanted to be remembered, they succeeded. You will remember. You will remember the massacre, the destruction, the screams, the wicked laughter that curdled your blood.

You will remember them because the screams of the people you came to love and trust have planted themselves into your chest and they won’t ever leave.

Maybe that’s what they wanted. To leave a mark, no matter how meaningless, no matter how vile. Or maybe they simply wanted to take something beautiful and shred it before they joined the walking rot.

Either way, they are gone now and you are left.

Alone.

You are left alone.

On the way to the one place you never thought your feet would lead you to again.

The one you meant to leave behind. To forget. To never return to. To move on.

Though you have to admit to yourself it never worked as well as you had hoped.

It has been two years since you left.

Two years of telling you to lock those doors with memories you tried to forget for so long.

And now, the thought of going back lets dread curl around your chest. It’s the dread of walking into a place you don’t know if you’re welcome anymore. The dread of facing what you left behind - facing who you left behind.

But there is also a flicker of something else. Something that feels too fragile, too dangerous to name. You tell yourself it’s nothing - just a memory, nostalgia - but you can’t quite smother it.

Because those people were your family once. Before you left, before you found the group you traveled with these last two years, they were your everything. Your friends, your loved ones, your sanctuary.

They were the ones that held you together when the world fell apart, the ones who gave you a purpose in this now purposeless society.

You left them behind to find something that you lost again just earlier.

The new group you had come to call your own, the people you fought beside, laughed with, dreamed with. All gone. Taken from you in a single, brutal morning. By people you couldn’t even take revenge on anymore. By people who aren’t even people anymore.

And you know your new companions never replaced your first family but they were home nonetheless.

But now, you have nowhere else to go but the place you called home first.

Though, would you really be welcome after all this time?

Would they let you in? Would they open their gates and arms for you?

Would he let you in?

Because truly, that is the only question that matters. You know the hearts of the others, know that they would be happy to see you again.

Sam, with his wide toothy grin. He’d throw his arms around you and clap you on the back and tell you something that would make you laugh despite everything.

Steve, with that glint in his eyes. Because he never truly believed you wouldn’t return.

Wanda, with the tears in her gaze. She’d pull you into her embrace, whispering how she’d prayed for this and never given up hope.

Natasha, with her amused smirk. She’d stand a step behind with her arms crossed and tease you that it only took two years for you to miss them enough to lose all the dignity you could hold onto and came back.

And all the others who would greet you with happy smiles and tears and hugs. Because that’s who they are. Who they’ve always been. They are pure love for those they call their own.

And you have been one of them.

Of course, your sight would first be met with concern at your condition, but the joyful reunion would eventually happen. Banner would fuss over you but keep the worry out of his calm hands and voice like the professional he is. Tony would bark orders, his mind already working ten steps ahead. Peter would hover nearby, ready to help, ready to do whatever was needed to put you back together.

You imagine how they would patch you up, make sure you didn’t collapse right there at their feet. They’d press water into your hands, bandage the gashes, stitch the torn skin. They would give you time to breathe, to settle.

A smile almost manages to spread over your lips but the exhaustion in your bones tugs the corners of your mouth back down.

And there is this one person you’re not sure about. What will he do when he sees you? What will he say? Will he say anything at all?

There is a reason you left, after all.

The community you all lived in was a big one with men and women and children and elders all sharing a beautiful and vast space.

You had all agreed on not having a single leader to rule but rather having the few most trusted people who started this whole thing to do councils every so often.

Once, you were one of them.

You would meet up, usually when the night had already started, discussing and making decisions - everything involving supply runs, how to keep the walls protected, how to celebrate a birth or mourn a loss, and so on.

Bucky was a part of that as well.

And that’s where the trouble lay.

You two never really seemed to see each other eye to eye. You would fight and banter - him calling you stubborn and reckless, you calling him pragmatic and intolerant. The disagreements were constant, heated, and sometimes public enough to turn heads and the other council members to end up disappointed and helpless.

It went on like that for years. Though the day it all fell apart will forever live in the cracks of your mind. Guilt never dulls no matter how much distance you put between them and yourself.

It was a supply run. Something that’s been routine by now. A scavenging mission into hostile territory, dangerous but necessary. Food was running low, medicine almost gone.

You were walking through the woods - a sector closer to dead zone, but Bucky and you were both fueled by anger at the other’s stubbornness to pay attention to the little group of people you took with you. They were good at ignoring your bickering.

“We do it my way. Slow, methodical. We’re not losing anyone because of some reckless stunt.” His tone was flat. Final.

“I’ve never put anyone in danger, Bucky,” you defended with fire in your voice.

Bucky’s voice was hard. “You charge in without thinking, every single time-”

“Yes, and I always do that alone, Barnes. Don’t you think I know the risks? I wouldn’t ask anyone to-”

“Damn it, Y/n,” he cut off, voice sharp. “It’s bad enough that you do it-”

“If we only ever go slow, people will starve. We can’t afford to waste time, Barnes. You want to lose them sitting on your hands instead of taking a risk? That’s on you, not on me.”

Bucky talked lower then, harshly.“That’s not taking a risk, Y/n! That’s fucking suicide.”

The actual mistake was in the silence that followed. No compromise, no meeting of minds. Just the brittle quiet that stretched between you both and the tension that lingered even over the other group members walking with you.

Bucky’s jaw was tight, his steps heavy. Yours were no lighter.

It happened fast. As it always did. One moment, the woods were still, only the crunch of the leaves underfoot and a few insects in bushes and trees surrounding you.

The next, groans split the air, coming from every direction - shadows lurking between trees, their figures misshapen, their eyes empty.

There were too many of them. That was clear from the first breath, but you didn’t have time to process it, to count.

You shouted for the group to move, to break toward the clearing just ahead and they started rushing away until Bucky’s voice rose behind you. His commanding tone seethed in your veins.

“No! Fall back - circle to the ridge!”

But the clearing was closer. The clearing was safer.

So you said as much.

But that’s all the hesitation it took for the dead to gather closer. Close enough.

You lost precious time, precious ground. The damage had already been done.

Two people didn’t make it. Two lives, lost in the spaces between your choices.

The argument that followed was like nothing before. No banter. Not bickering. It was an unfiltered and ugly thing, charged by your guilt and his. Words were thrown, accusations hurled. It was awful.

And when the shouting stopped, there was nothing but silence. Thick. Unbearable.

Neither of you could let go of your anger, your grief, your pride long enough to see that you’d both failed them.

That day something shattered in your connection. Whatever that had been. The tension that always accompanied your relationship. It felt corrosive. Wrong.

And that’s when you made the decision. The decision to leave, that now led you to come back again.

Will he resent you? That thought is a blade that has turned itself dull from too much use, yet it still cuts at you in ways you can’t dodge.

You imagine him standing there, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as it would be stoic, staring at you with the fire that always burned behind his eyes.

Will he even let you step inside? Or will his anger boil over and turn you away, pushing you back into the wilderness you barely even escaped from?

Will he relish in your brokenness, in the way life has stripped you down to your very bones? Will he find satisfaction in seeing you this fragile, this vulnerable, clinging to scraps of pride as your body barely holds itself together? The image of his piercing gaze, not softened by time or mercy, sends a shiver down your spine.

But it also just might be your body starting to give out, you realize when more shivers whack your form.

You push on.

And you wonder. Could there maybe also be relief in those eyes, hidden behind the mask he always wears so well. Relief that you’re still alive, that whatever dark roads you’ve walked since haven’t claimed you completely.

Or would that relief be poisoned by something bitter - the satisfaction not of your survival, but of seeing you humbled, seeing you brought low enough to crawl back to him, back to the home you lied to yourself you were fine living without.

You picture his face shifting. A flicker of something softer crossing his features before he buries it deep. Will it pain him to see the bruises painted across your skin, the blood that’s long since dried on your hands and clothes, the tremble in your limbs while you stand before him like a ghost returned from the grave?

Will he turn you away, disgusted not by your injuries but by the weakness they represent?

You wonder if he’d speak at all. Silence, from him, could be worse than anger. After all, anger means caring. You don’t get angry if you don’t care.

So, perhaps you will be left to fill the empty space with your many regrets and guilty feelings.

Maybe he won’t even look at you. Don’t throw you a single glance, his gaze fixed somewhere distant.

But your conscience can’t help but imagine things.

Because what if he’d feel something he wouldn’t dare admit, not even to himself. That the faintest pull of relief isn’t for the pain you’re in, not for the way life has broken you, but that it is for the simple fact that you’re here, alive, breathing. Maybe that relief would be buried under layers of what he’d felt for you all those years. But it would be there.

Honestly, you don’t think you will ever get an answer to any of those questions. Because you feel your mind start to drift too much. As if the images in your head start to turn into dreams and your body is luring you into sleep to live them out.

You’re giving up.

And you are still not close enough to your old and now only sanctuary despite walking and dragging your frail form for hours and miles on end.

Your head is spinning, images and voices now blurred and upside down and all wrong.

Not even noticing you stopped dragging yourself forward, you start to lean the whole weight of your body against a nearby tree.

The bark is rough against your skin, scraping through fabric, digging into bruises, and tearing them raw. It should hurt. You know it should hurt, but it barely even registers anymore. It’s just another sensation - one more thing slipping away.

Your eyelids droop. They feel so heavy. The forest is shapeless around you, just a mess of color and shadow.

Your breaths come shallow and uneven, lungs forgetting to do their job. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know this is it. This is where you’ll stop, where you’ll finally collapse and leave it all behind.

And the thought somehow isn’t as terrifying anymore. There’s a strange, unfamiliar peace blooming in your chest. You think about how your body would lie here, half-curled in the dirt, skin pale and bloodied, eyes forever closed.

Bucky might find you.

One day he might stumble upon your corpse on the ground. Maybe he’ll kneel beside your lifeless form, the frown on his face deepening, lips pressing into a grim line. Maybe he’ll tell you that he was right. That you were reckless and should have listened. Maybe his voice will tremble just a little.

The bickering you shared will follow you even into death.

The thought makes you want to laugh, but your body is too far gone for that. It’s barely your body anymore. It’s a shell of nothing. The world tilts, spins, then tilts again. You feel yourself begin to let go.

You won’t wake up. Not this time. And somehow, that’s okay. The peace blossoms brighter in your chest, warm and soft, as if the weight of the world is finally lifting.

You lost everything you had. And not even just today. You lost it two years ago when you decided it was the best to leave your home.

Your eyes slip shut and you don’t try to press them back open again. Your body is slumping to the ground, bark scraping against you, the ground rushing closer. The cold earth is pressed against your face. Your breath falters and slows.

Your body feels dead by now but your mind still blinks with awareness. And funnily enough, it can’t seem to let go of Bucky. His sharp face. His strong voice, the cadence of it so deeply carved into your memory that it echoes so clearly as if he were sitting right beside you.

“Y/n!”

“Shit, Y/n!”

It calls your name. The sound so urgent and frantic, it pulls you back for a fleeting second, though you are sure none of your muscles even twitch.

You are actually impressed with yourself. His voice sounds so real, so vivid. How is your mind able to conjure something so precise on the verge of unraveling completely? It’s him, down to the inflection, the roughness, the bite.

But you know it isn’t really him. That wouldn’t make any sense. Your mind is exaggerating. You’ve blown the image of him out of proportion, dressed him in a panic he wouldn’t wear for you, not for this.

If he found you like this - broken, slumped, slipping away - perhaps his voice wouldn’t even crack.

The day you said your goodbyes, Bucky wasn’t even there with the others. He wasn’t there when you hugged Sam, his arms lingering around you. Not when Steve couldn’t evoke a smile that wasn’t tight or sad. Not when Wanda touched your cheek with shaking fingers, her tearful eyes searching you for a reason to make you stay and telling you you’d always be welcome to come back home. Not when Natasha ordered you, not to get yourself killed out there, what was a little too late now.

You didn’t really expect him to come. Actually, it was better this way, you had thought. Cleaner. No last harsh words, no heated standoff, no last-minute chance for him to dig deep again.

Some stubborn, foolish part of you had hoped of course.

But that was when you saw him as you made your way to the gates.

He stood at the edge of the grounds you were about to leave behind, hidden in the shadows of bushes and trees. His arms were crossed over his chest, his figure rigid, his face set in stone.

You willed not to let your heart clench, but it did. You told yourself he was just there for a final gloat, some grim satisfaction in watching you go. In seeing you lose.

But his eyes held yours. So unwavering and intense. It burned through you. His features were dark, but also, he did stand covered in shadows. However, there was no smirk, no triumph, no venomous parting shot.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t step forward, didn’t say a single thing. He didn’t do anything but hold your gaze as if daring you to be the one to break it.

And you did.

You had a new life to attend to.

And you didn’t look back when leaving.

Still, you felt the burn of his eyes on you, so much more intense than ever before.

You guessed he dropped that stoic, seemingly unhappy mask the moment you were out of sight. Maybe he even threw a silent celebration, relieved to finally be free of you, of the friction you brought into his life.

But the small annoying voice in the back of your mind whispered something else. Something that actually made you consider turning back around before you got ahold of yourself again.

It told you that maybe his expression had stayed dark long after you were gone. That maybe his gaze lingered on the empty path where you’d disappeared. That maybe his arms stayed crossed, not to shield himself from the cold but to stop himself from reaching out.

And your brain now doesn’t seem to have any doubts either because you might actually feel hands shaking you, gripping your face. There weren’t many times when you came in contact with Bucky’s hands, and only fleeting and unintentional, so you don’t know if your conscience got the feeling of his hands on you right but you relish it anyway.

You hope he’d worry. You hope so much. Why, you don’t even know. It’s not like it matters anymore. But you need him to worry.

You need him to feel something sharp, something visceral. You need the cracks in his stoic armor to show and your name on his lips to sound like a prayer instead of a reprimand.

“Stay with me, Y/n! Come on!” It’s a snarl and a plea at the same time.

His voice is pulling you back - or maybe it’s pulling you under. You can’t really tell the difference. It is the kind of sound that is too rough to be tender, too desperate to be cruel.

His voice gnaws at something in your awareness, steering something deep in your bones.

Hell, your dying brain is doing a hella good job.

The world shifts again. Or maybe it’s you who shifts. The sharp bark of the tree is gone suddenly, as though the earth has abandoned you. Or perhaps your body just lost any kind of sensation, because there is nothing solid beneath you anymore. The ground is gone.

Free fall grips your stomach for a second, and panic sparks weakly in the recesses of your mind. But before the fear can take root, you feel something else. Something warm.

Not the feverish heat that’s been chewing at your skin for hours. Not the sticky warmth of blood still drying against your ribs.

No, this is something different. Hard, but not unkind. Solid, but not unforgiving. It presses against your body, and for the first time in what feels like days, it doesn’t hurt.

You don’t know what is happening. You only know you want more of it. Tilting your head as best as it would go, you lean into it as much as your useless limbs allow, seeking that warmth like it’s the only thing keeping you from succumbing to nothingness.

And then the pieces click together.

You’re being carried.

There is an arm under your legs, another braced firmly around your back. The grip is strong but it is trembling faintly against you.

You are cradled against something warm, something alive. And there is a pounding against your ear that is way too rapid to seem healthy.

None of this makes sense, not really, but the sensation of movement - the sway and jolt of steps, hurried but careful - tells you that you’re not imagining this.

Someone has you. Someone’s carrying you.

Your battered mind, of course, latches onto Bucky again.

Your brain shapes the thought of him so effortlessly. Some part of you knew it could only ever be him. You picture his face, sharp and shadowed, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark and heavy with something you don’t dare name.

“Damn it, stay with me! Stay awake!”

Is this him saying that? Or is this your mind still indulging in the vivid fantasies from before? Perhaps this wasn’t your mind all along. Perhaps all of this wasn’t a fantasy of your brain. This was him.

You feel the tight hold with which he is gripping you, how it feels less like he is carrying you and more like he’s keeping you from slipping away entirely.

It doesn’t seem like the Bucky you knew. The one who looked at you with barely concealed irritation, who argued with you until you were both red-faced and seething.

But then again, maybe it does. Maybe this is the same man, stripped bare of all his armor, his stoic resolve fractured like you had imagined. Maybe this is what he looks like when he doesn’t have time to mask the cracks.

The thought makes your chest ache. Or maybe that’s just your ribs - stabbed, bruised, barely functional. You can’t tell anymore.

You want to open your eyes, to confirm what you already know, but your eyelids are heavy, unwilling.

You want to reach for him, to feel with your hands that his worry really is your reality and not all in your head, but your arms hang limply at your sides. Useless.

But your face is pressed against his shoulder. The speeding throbbing of what you assume to be his heart is still in your ear and it makes this so much more real.

“Don’t you dare die on me now, Y/n! Not after this.” His ragged words send swaying currents through the still waters of your fading consciousness. “Not like that! Not after I’ve been looking for you for two damn years!”

Wait.

What?

The words ring like a bell, too loud, too pronounced. You feel yourself struggling with comprehending the meaning of this but the shock still rushes up your spine.

Bucky was looking for you. He didn’t celebrate your departure. He came after you.

You left two years ago. Bucky started searching for you two years ago.

“I should’ve stopped you. Fuck, I should have stopped you. I never should’ve let you leave.” His voice is a single crack. So much remorse seeping into his tone, it even latches onto your chest.

“God I’m so sorry I let you leave. I’m so sorry for everything, Y/n! There’s so much I gotta tell you. So much I gotta make right. So you don’t get to do this, alright? You don’t get to die on me!”

His voice doesn’t sound like him at all. The Bucky you remember used measured words, calculated, controlled. Doubt again creeps in that this really is real and not just your mind all up in shambles. Because there is so much pain in his voice. Pain you never saw inflicted in anything he did. Or said. Not to you at least.

Your body jolts in his grip, caused by his hands. He might have tried to shake some life back into you but his hands don’t stop shaking. They are trembling so heavily, as if he’s terrified you’re going to slip through his grasp at any second. As if you’re going to die in his arms. Maybe you will.

“You’re staying with me, you hear me?” he continues, low voice filled with gravel, so wild and anguished. “There’s so much I need to tell you. So much I need to say. But I can’t-” his voice gives out and you basically hear him trying to hold himself together. His breaths are uneven and broken. “I can’t do it like this. No, not like that. So you gotta pull through. You can’t leave me before I get the chance to tell you. Can’t die on me now that I’ve finally fucking found you. You can’t, Y/n! Please! Stay with me. Just stay.”

You try to open your eyes. Try to let your fingers twitch. Try to open your mouth. But there’s nothing.

You can’t tell him that you’re trying. You can’t tell him that you want to hear what he has to say. Can’t tell him that you’re clinging to his every word. Can’t tell him that you’re fading away.

Only a broken exhale slips through.

His arms tighten, pulling you impossibly closer.

He’s pushing himself. His muscles strain and coil, his body still trembles against you. His voice is breathless and full of despair..

“Stay awake! Look at me. Just- please open your eyes. Just for a second. I need to see them. Need to know you’re still in there, okay?” His words are torn, pulled apart, and put together in a desperate attempt. Tears fill his voice. “You always had to prove me wrong, so do it again. Fight. Fight, Y/n! Please!”

Bucky makes it sound like it could actually be easy. But unfortunately, it’s not. His voice is more distant now. Perhaps it’s giving out. Perhaps it’s the hope that leaves him, taking his voice.

Yet, you’re trying to hold onto it. You’re trying so much.

If he says more, you don’t catch it. You don’t catch anything anymore. You think you might be okay with that. Because even if this isn’t real - even if this is all just a fever dream conjured by a dying mind - you think it’s a good way to go.

Sheltered in warmth. In motion. In the arms of the one person you never thought would come for you.

[lostgirlmuseum]

Solitary Confinement

Prompt: Febuwhump Day 2

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (gender not specified)

Words: 462

Warnings: Mentions of death, small space, pretty much whatever solitary confinement suggests

A/N: Sorry it's so short, and lacking a lot of Bucky. I just wanted to get the ball rolling to see if I can still write lol. Lemme know if there is a specific prompt/day you'd like me to do

Prompt List Here

Decay. That was the only word you could think of. 

There were no windows in your cell. No cracks to let the light in. You were submerged in darkness. You had a small toilet right next to the thin mattress on the floor. If you needed the toilet, you had to stumble blindly to find it. The only upside to the small room was that you never had to stumble far to find what you needed. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d been in there. When they had first thrown you in there, you counted the meals in order to keep track of the days. But it didn’t take you long to realize that the meals weren’t served at the same time, let alone every day. 

You were dead.

You were dead, you had to be. You were sure of it.

You were dead, and living your afterlife in this void of mildew and decay.

At first it was cold, so fucking cold, but now you didn’t even shiver. You didn’t have the energy. Rigor mortis had begun to set in, your stiff muscles chaining you to the damp concrete ground where you had laid for your entire death. 

You couldn’t feel—

You couldn’t feel.

You just stared into the black just as you had done for the entire two weeks, months—god, had it been years? 

You couldn’t even remember how you’d gotten here in the first place. 

There was no before, and there is no after. You are bones. You are ash. You are decay.

And without warning: light.

Light?

Everything was blurry, you couldn’t make out the picture in front of you. You cowered back, curling in on yourself to protect yourself from the inevitable beating. 

One rough and one cool hand met your back. They felt familiar, from a time so distant that you couldn’t believe it was real. 

A frantic voice penetrated your ears, but you couldn’t make out the words. It was just noise.

Bucky hovered over you, tears falling from his eyes as he witnessed you. He wanted to tell you that he found you, he never stopped looking, that he was going to get you home. But the only word he could form was your name, leaving his lips countless times. It was a question, it was fact, it was a prayer and a plea. 

He brushed his thumb over your cracked lips and pulled your body into his. You didn’t fight him, but you didn’t welcome him either. Did you even recognize him?

Bucky held you so close that he couldn’t see the wobble of your mouth as you tried and struggled to speak. 

Finally, your dry and fractured voice rang, “Bucky.”

[questionableratatouille00]

Basements and other HYDRA Bullshit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: All was going well until your Boyfriend’s past comes back to haunt him.

Note: Day five of @ailesswhumptober2023! (Hostage/Kidnapping/Held at gunpoint.)

Warnings: Cursing, guns, knives, violence, blood, injuries, Winter Soldier topics. (Torture, murder, etc.)

—————————————————————————

The room felt like it was spinning as you felt warm blood drip down the side of your face. The knife slash to your temple had seemed more of a minor inconvenience at the time, but you now wished you’d stopped to at least quickly bandage it.

“So, you think you can take away the words and you’ll be free? Hm?” The accent of the man speaking was strong, and you knew he was addressing Bucky rather than you.

“The Winter Soldier is gone.” You hissed, not even sparing a glance at Bucky. You couldn’t handle it and you knew it, too.

“The words were only one way to activate HYDRA’s greatest weapon. We have others.” The man grinned devilishly, and it made your stomach flip.

“You’re gonna leave him alone.” Growling as you said this, you tried to force yourself forward. The chains around your wrists bound you to the walls of the dark, cold, and unwelcoming cell you were in.

“You are not in control here!” He rushed out the words as he barked them. He completed his sentence by raising his hand, ready to backhand you across the face. “I am!” He sounded erratic, and absolutely deranged.

“Don’t touch her.” Bucky’s voice was low, and dark.

“Or what?” The man spat, grinning. “What are you going to do about it?” He pulled a small red book from his pocket.

You couldn’t really recognize what the book was, but you knew it was significant. It matched the description of a book Bucky had told you about, the one that haunted him in his dreams and in his flashbacks.

“I’ll fucking kill you.” Bucky glared at the man defiantly, and you attempted to copy his expression.

“You can try. But you are a dog, and this is your leash!” He waved the book in front of Bucky’s face, taunting him.

“Who the hell are you?” You asked finally.

“You should ask your companion this. Tell me, Soldat, do you remember her? Do you remember my daughter?” He barked.

You could feel your own heart sink, and with one glance at Bucky, you knew he was feeling the same thing. “Buck, who is this?”

“Victor Rostov.” He stated. “His daughter’s name is—“

“Was. Her name was Alina! She was eight. Eight years old, and you shot her in the head! You’re nothing but a monster! A monster!” Rostov howled as he raged.

“It wasn’t his fault!” You shouted at him. You didn’t want Bucky to have to hear any of this.

“She died at his hands!”

“HYDRA called for no survivors, right? They wouldn’t target a child.” You tried to reason. You didn’t want to think about how they totally would target a child.

“She’d be twenty eight! My daughter, my little girl, will never be able to live. And he can’t even fucking remember her?” Rostov’s voice was filled with pain, and you could tell that she meant a lot to him.

“I remember all of them.” Bucky admitted grimly.

“You deserve to die, monster. And so you shall.” He clicked a gun in his pocket, raising it to Bucky’s forehead.

“Hey! Hey, let’s talk about this.” You gasped, ready to beg. Rostov could hurt you all he wanted, but not Bucky. He couldn’t take Bucky from you.

You panted as blood dripped from your temple onto the ground, making a tiny little puddle. It made you feel sick, just seeing it.

“Why shouldn’t I—“ A loud gunshot rang out through the cell, or really the small basement you were being kept in. You shrieked, tears immediately rushing to your eyes as you screamed.

“Bucky! Bucky! Bucky, no! No!” You sobbed, as Rostov fell to the floor.

“It’s us! It’s us!” A few familiar voices shouted. Natasha, Steve, and Tony.

“It’s not me! It’s not me!” Bucky reassured you at the same time as you wailed.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” You sobbed. “I thought you got shot. I thought you got shot.” You couldn’t seem to get enough air into your lungs, making your words, which were already mostly sobs, seem a bit breathy.

Steve and Natasha immediately rushed to the to of you, unchaining you from the walls. Tony stayed back in case anybody else was around.

“Not shot there.” Bucky tried to make you feel better, but the truth was that Rostov had shot him in the thigh before he’d died. The two of you were safe, and that was all that mattered.

—————————

“What he said..about the monster thing. It’s not true.” You said as you got to work on patching up Bucky’s thigh.

“Not so sure about that, dollface.”

“It’s not.” You glanced up at him, before looking back down at his thigh. “Promise.”

“If you say so.” He sighed, accepting defeat here. You nodded once, getting ready to bandage the wound.

“I do say so.” After a long pause, you continued. “You gonna be okay?”

“I’ve been through worse. I’ll live.”

“I didn’t ask if you’ll live. I asked if you’ll be okay.”

“I will be okay.” He laughed every so lightly, and you smiled.

He would be okay. And so would you.

[melles1276]

New chapter is online!

Excerpt:

Chapter 15 - Still there

Steve immediately storms into the room, rushes to the bed, and kneels next to it. “Bucky!” His hand shakes as he places it on Bucky's bearded cheek, trying to convince himself that he isn't imagining it and that his friend is actually lying in bed before him. Immediately he notices the fever, the clammy, damp skin and a slight tremor.  “Oh my God!” he breathes a sigh of relief, despite the dense situation.

“Is-is that …” It takes a while for Bucky to react, but he finally cracks open his eyes a little. 

“It’s me.” He explains. “It’s Steve.”

“Ste-ve?”

A smile of relief appears on his face. "Yes. Yes, it's me." Tears of joy form in his eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

“Steve.” Life slowly returns to Bucky and with it the pain. He manages to lift and turn his head a few centimeters. His gaze goes to Steve and then to Fahim, who is standing next to him. He tries to reach for them, but he’s too weak, and his hand falls back onto the bed. “I-I thought…” he strains, “…you were smarter.”

Frowning, Fahim tilts his head before shrugging his shoulders.

Exhausted, Bucky lowers his head again and closes his eyes. “If they find me… here…” His voice trails off.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Steve shakes his head, hoping to allay some of the man’s fear of being discovered. “The Taliban were already here looking for us. But Fahim’s people hid us well.” Little by little everything’s starting to make sense. The enemy group must have followed them and as soon as they arrived in the village everything had to happen quickly. Only now does he realize what a great risk the village community has taken to help them. 

Everything in Bucky screams to get out of here. But he’s tired. So, so incredibly tired. Breathing through his half-open mouth, he lays there trying to think clearly. His eyelids are too heavy to open, so he doesn't try a second time. His left arm appears to be on fire. Without meaning to, he groans softly.

Steve's stomach clenches painfully as he hears the strangled sounds. Especially since he knows he’s responsible for it. “Shhh-shhhh,” he tries to calm Bucky and strokes his cheek. He carefully lifts the blanket and notices that Bucky's injury has apparently been taken care of. So far  - it seems - someone with medical knowledge took care of Bucky by also giving him an isotonic saline drip. At least that’s what the label says that is attached to the bag. Where does the equipment come from? Steve shakes his head. He can wonder about that later. Now he tries to get as much information as possible about Bucky's current condition and he takes a closer look. The bandage is new and Bucky is no longer wearing the vest. He’d also been given a new T-shirt. The stump of his arm is slightly elevated on a small pillow and is no longer attached to his upper body. Steve hopes that whoever has taken care of him has done so without aggravating the injury any further. 

The sight seems to unsettle Fahim and he quickly looks away.

Steve takes the opportunity to ask the boy for something. "Water? Drink?” He tries to make himself understood and emphasizes his words with a hand gesture in which he brings an imaginary glass to his lips.

Nodding, Fahim starts moving.

Steve is just about to tuck Bucky back in when Bucky's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“W-we have to... radio contact...” He doesn't get any further when an excruciating pain shoots through his arm. He quickly lets go of Steve's hand and instinctively grabs his left elbow, holding the stump of his arm tightly to his chest as he rolls his upper body slightly to the side. The damp cloth also slips from his forehead. Groaning, he squeezes his eyes shut.

Seeing him suffering like this breaks Steve's heart. His thoughts are racing. The pain seems to increase in intensity, telling him that there’s no adequate pain relief available right now. How much time has passed since the last morphine injection? A glance at his watch reveals that it is early afternoon. In all the chaos he has lost all sense of time. He tries hard to remember the events of the past 24 hours. They had left shortly after sunrise and walked for how long? And after Fahim found them, how long did the journey to the village take? How long had he remained in hiding? He can't say. He only knows one thing for sure; they still have two injectors left which-

Without thinking, he reaches for the pockets of his vest and sticks his hand inside. He suddenly becomes aware of something and it makes his breath catch. He frantically feels the vest from top to bottom. His heart seems to skip a beat, because all the pockets are empty. Then he remembers that he had been searched for hidden weapons before he was dragged onto the cart. He quickly looks around, bends down, and even looks under the beds on all fours, but can't see a backpack or anything like that. “Shit!” he blurts out.

[aragorn-my-love]

Amidst the hells of the Stalag camp, Bucky and Buck cling to each other for solace, never straying far from each other.

But their fragile sanctuary is shattered when a German General takes a keen liking to Bucky and forcibly takes him from Buck’s desperate arms.

Despite Bucky's struggle, he is overpowered and swiftly whisked away by General Klaus, leaving Buck behind.

Will Bucky remain strong enough for Buck to find him before it’s too late, or will the General break him?

[anamelessdragon]

State of Shock | Chapter 11 | 3.2k

by NamelessDragon (@anamelessdragon)

———————————

Excerpt:

Olivia Walker could not be more happy for her husband as she waited on the field for his interview with Good Morning America, her favorite coat draped over her shoulders. The night air was perfect: not too cold, just enough of a breeze to keep things from getting muggy. The sky was crystal clear, the moon bright overhead - like the weather itself knew what an important day this was, and wanted John to succeed as much as she did.

John had made his first appearance as Captain America, but this would be his first real public interview. Thousands were about to see and react to what she saw almost every day; a man who was strong, smart, capable, kind, devoted, and worth loving.

The people who already knew that about him surrounded her in their designated spots close to the stage. Lemar was off to the side laughing with some of his army buddies, their smiles reflecting the pride she felt filling her chest to bursting.

As she scanned over their interactions, letting their joy feed into hers, the one person nearby who was not smiling caught her eye.

Bucky Barnes.

———————————

Bucky's pardon requires that he wear an artificially intelligent shock collar as a term of his release. Bucky accepts, knowing it's his only chance to get out and do some good in the world.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of people ready to severely misuse that power.

A retelling of TFATWS.

Pairings/Characters: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, appearances by the general TFATWS cast

Warnings: Chapter 11 - trauma, angst, all from outside POV

Author’s Note: Apologies for the delay on this! I’m…pretty literally working 7 days a week minus holidays for nearly the rest of the year, trying to make up for major financial issues. I didn’t have time to flesh out or edit this chapter out as much as I would have wanted, with apologies to Olivia Walker.

Next chapter will be Bucky’s POV. Unfortunately, I’m now not quite sure when I’ll update again.

Read on AO3.

[lynlee494]

Master List

For the record, it was not the Winter Soldier who brought on the end of humanity. It was more of a group effort really.

And that clutz Murphy, a product of Hydra nepotism putting someone in a position they shouldn’t be in.

And now several years on Bucky has a lot of confusing memories, but at least the fast paced environment and literal walking nightmares means he doesn’t really have time to dwell too much on the more distant past.

In the end none of it mattered anyways.

Bucky is merely surviving, avoiding best he can the lingering human population and avoiding Empties when possible.

This task is going well, until he gets stuck with a small but fierce blonde named Steve. *Steve/Bucky ______________________________________________

**Currently tucked away while I finish the full story, heavy edits under way to improve** *WIP; *Pausing participation in events that involve long fics till complete - priority story as chapters return from editing. Bucky Barnes’s family is indebted to Alexander Pierce, a powerful man who has preyed on him and those like his family for decades. There are only a few years of service left to pay his debt, but recently Pierce's brute Rumlow has been escalating in his violence. Fearing the inevitable and with nowhere to actually go Pierce can’t reach, Bucky had begun to accept his fate.

Then Bucky’s luck turns when a persistent advertisement for an insanely affordable apartment in Bed-Stuy interrupts his browsing at a bakery, the shop close enough to pick up the free wi-fi from the Avenger’s Tower.

Maybe there is a chance.

Clint Barton has a surprise new tenant that he is pretty damn sure there had been no application for. Likely Jarvis’s idea, the AI sparing some processing to help manage Clint’s apartment building. Avenging and being a landlord takes a toll.

Not a problem except the top floor ��� Clint’s floor – has been left empty save him for safety reasons. Which meant the only vacancy was right next door. And it turns out the new guy is hot. And maybe kinda in trouble. Which is so his type.

So many ways this can go bad, and Clint is sure he'll find all of them. *Bucky/Clint ______________________________________________

**Stucky Reverse Bang Entry *WIP *Currently posting

The Soldier’s understanding of the world begins to unravel after he completes a mission and finds a helpless, shivering, and soaking wet kitten. Unable to leave, knowing the frail thing will die in the elements, the Soldier makes a choice...

The Soldier can not risk contact, capture, and the inevitable return to Hydra and captivity would bring. He may remember Steve Rogers, but he also remembers Captain America. Similarly enhanced, the Captain would have the advantage, the Soldier’s movement would be limited with the kitten’s safety to consider.

A surveillance approach is the safest angle to take. There had been notebooks at the museum exhibit, so there may be more memories to be dredged up if Steve Rogers still keeps journals, keepsakes, things that may stir up more memories - more pieces to fill in the expanse between Bucky and the Soldier.

He’ll seek out Steve Rogers, who seems to feature in nearly every memory with Bucky, but he’ll be cautious. Can hopefully glean from the exposure more about the time before Bucky – before he – was presumed dead in a war. From before Steve’s Bucky became Hydra’s, time stuttering by till the Soldier was born.

*Bucky/Steve ______________________________________________

“How do they do it? Boxed in like that. Back to the only open space around you? Sitting around all day. Nothing to do...” Clint’s voice is tinny through the comms. “Ooh, if you see any decent munchies, snag me a few. I missed dinner.”

“Hey, bird brain, focus. If we’re too late getting back, I can’t pick up Alpine from Kate’s till late tomorrow.” Bucky’s voice is low, while the building should be empty, they aren’t able to watch all the entrances from Clint’s angle on the opposite building. A lot of this relies on the element of surprise and stealth.

"Dude, you just walked past a break room.”

“Are you looking for stray guards, or are you looking for snacks?”

“Both, of course.” Clint scoffs on the open mic. “Wait! Nine o'clock!”

Bucky growls but reaches out and grabs a handful of caramels from a desk and puts them in the breast pocket of his tactical vest.

“You’re the best.”

“Shut up, Barton.”

*Clint/Bucky

______________________________________________

“Steve?” Bucky finally speaks, having been standing – no, shaking – in the living room entrance. The brunette says his name with such disbelief. Like they hadn’t just seen each other. Right?

“Stevie?” and he crosses the distance between them and all but picks Steve up with desperate hands, “Steve, you look...they said you’re dead Stevie.”

Bucky sinks to his knees before Steve with a sob and real panic claws at the smaller man, causes a hitch in his breathing he is glad Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. Bucky claws at him too, both hands fisting in his shirt, pulling Steve tight to him while the man’s head presses against Steve’s stomach.

As time passes lazily around Steve the growing sense that something is off nags at him when all Steve wants is to see his ma.

And find out what is suddenly wrong with Bucky. *Steve/Bucky

______________________________________________

Bucky also knows Steve’s touch, delicate and light, always too cold despite rubbing Steve’s charcoal stained fingers warm himself. It was something he found himself doing a lot in the winter when they couldn’t always afford charcoal for the whole night, so they waited until right before bed to begin heating the room. No, these weren’t those surprisingly long but skinny fingers with knobby knuckles he would lay gentle kisses onto, warming each with the heat of his mouth.

“Shit, Morita, he is burning up,” and not-Steve sounds so worried that Bucky can’t help but lean into the touch and just pretend for a moment it is his Stevie. *Steve/Bucky ______________________________________________

It wouldn’t have been so bad, Bucky could have shrugged this off easily once he caught his breath, but he found the more he pulled to free himself the worse it seemed to be. Barnes thinks he hears shouting, but it is distorted and drowned out by the pounding in his ears. Ripping further at the trap that was furthering ensnaring him he found himself snarling and just ripping at it with brute strength and panicked rage that echoed of the Asset’s frustrated rampages through Hydra personnel. *Clint/Bucky ______________________________________________

It was a fairly routine outing for the Avengers, aside from the location making Steve and Bucky uneasy, not even forty miles from where Bucky had fallen into Hydra’s control for nearly seven decades.

What was he supposed to say, ‘I know this is where I failed you, so just wondering if you wanted to sit this one out?’ or maybe, ‘This might be hard, but do you want to talk about how this is where they dragged you off from, after I left you behind, broken and bleeding?’

Instead Steve had been too in his own head at the same news that had unsettled Bucky, the train, the snow, Gabe’s face when he saw Bucky’s absence and Steve’s broken state – making it real, sealing it.

The two had both sat there in a sort of stunned silence, heartbeats passing, and then it was too late. Bucky was out the door, shoulders back and his stride long, and Steve merely followed him to the armory. *Steve/Bucky ______________________________________________

It is 1994 and James Barnes has been out of Hydra’s grasp for several months. Barnes is just trying to stay ahead of Hydra, and is at an event to take out an exposed Hydra commander to help with this.

Seeing the young Tony Stark at the event shakes Barnes's loose grip on his own mind however, and Barnes's attention is suddenly split between the past and now - and between his need to remain hidden and his desire to reclaim part of the Bucky he remembers.

Meanwhile, Tony Stark has been avoiding as many responsibilities as possible in the three years since his parents died - but tonight is the first step into entering Stark Industries as the CEO.

Instead Tony's greatest strength is dampened and he finds himself suddenly at the mercy of those around him, and to top it off he begins to worry for his sanity when he finds himself wanting to help a hallucination of Bucky Barnes. *Tony/Bucky ______________________________________________

There is no warning or retort when a punch to his side causes him to stumble, followed by a searing burn blooming from his left bicep. Clint manages to get cover behind a set of dumpsters as he makes out the distinct ping when a bullet hits where he’d been. Gunshots. He had been shot and the night air was not the least bit bothered by it. Luckily his arm seems to be nothing but a deep graze but his side would have to wait. Obscured and hindered by his uniform at least the compression suit would help in the meantime.

Hawkeye only knows one man who handles a gun that quietly, and this makes twice the fucker got the drop on him. And he is supposed to be dead. *Clint/Bucky ______________________________________________

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50552095

After a close call, Bucky Barnes finds himself alone in the Tower.

Solitude is not something that bothers Bucky, and a chance to relax and nurse his wounds wouldn't be so bad...if it wasn't also Steve and Bucky's anniversary.

It certainly doesn't help things that there may have been a mix up with Bucky's medicine. *Steve/Bucky ______________________________________________

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50520286

“Mrs....Mrs. Rogers...he looks…” a small voice sobs quietly, and Sarah was at his level immediately, her arms tight around him. Bucky let out another sob, this time muffled by her shoulder. His small body shaking against her as she can tell he tries to hold it in.

They stay like that for a few minutes and some of the tightness leaves Sarah’s chest just a little, and the trembling in the small boy calms some. Bucky sniffles and murmurs an apology. Sarah gently pulls back from Bucky and sweeps some hair out of his eyes. Stevie might be the frail one, but this poor Barnes boy had such a soft heart. *Steve/Bucky ______________________________________________

[toxiclxki]

New fic posted!

Title: Bucky Barnes Season of Whump chapter 7: lost and found and lost

Author: ToxicLxki

Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Bucky&Steve

Warnings: Mild blood and gore

Word count: 4161

Bingo squares filled:

@stuckygeekevents Stucky Geek Bingo, square O4 - Blood loss

@buckybarnesbingo C1 - Whump

@buckybarnesevents Build-a-Bucky Bingo, August prompt 'bathtub'

[lavenderpanic]

New chapter of I Am Ash From Your Fire up now!

[buckybarnesfanfiction]

One of the best fanfics ive ever read...

Prisoner of War

Pairing: WW2!Bucky x POW!Reader

Anonymous Requested: How about one with Bucky “ you can’t even imagine all the enemies I’ve made” , but the reader is saying it. Thank u. 

Warnings: Intense Violence, Explicit Language, Gore, Death, Mentions of Torture, Suggestion of Rape, Highly Suggestive Themes, and Angst.

Word Count: 6.8k+

A/N: I just have two things to say. Holy shit. 

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Nazi Germany  |  1942

.  .  .

           Bucky let out a short cry of pain as a gloved hand gripped the dirtied locks of his hair and drug him across the blood splattered mud to a group of other Allied prisoners. He reached up weakly and clawed at the hand, only getting dropped onto his face in the mud. He pushed himself onto his knees and glanced up to only have the butt of a rifle slam into his cheekbone. 

           He grunted and collapsed at the Nazi’s feet; knocked unconscious. The Nazi held a look of disgust as he slung the rifle onto his shoulder and pushed Bucky’s limp form onto his back with a blood-smeared boot. He sniffed and spat into the mud before looking over at two other Nazis.

           “Help me get the fuckin’ American with the rest,” He snapped in German, gesturing at Bucky. 

           The two Nazis gripped their guns and trotted over, bending down to scoop one arm under Bucky’s shoulders and heave him up to hang limply between them, boots dragging as they finished bringing him over to the group of prisoners. They let him drop onto the ground and glared at the other young men crouched in a tight circle, relishing in the exhaustion and fear in their bloodshot eyes.

           The prisoners were what was left behind of the 105th and 107th Regiment. They were forced to retreat when the Nazis overwhelmed them and Bucky had twisted his ankle in the retreat, causing him to be captured with a handful of others. It was a large farm plot that the battle took place on, the grasses stamped down and the dirt churned up to only be turned into thick mud. Bodies of both sides were littered over the land and the Nazis had to post up at the abandoned farmhouse that the farm plot was on to collect the stragglers.

           “Tie them up!” The Nazi who knocked Bucky out ordered in German. He turned and disappeared up the porch steps into the farmhouse, obviously being one of the few in charge out of the sixty Nazis.

           Bucky came-to just as the German foot soldiers approached with rope and weapons drawn, their eyes filled with hatred towards the Allied prisoners. His face pounded and stung terribly, an unbearable pain flourishing in his right temple and cheek as the young man next to him nudged his rib cage. Bucky glanced over and recognized one of his comrades, but with that small relief came a deep guilt.

           “Everybody up!” A Nazi directed venomously, his accent thick.

           Bucky struggled to his feet and leaned heavily on his left, unable to walk on his twisted ankle. He clenched his jaw and forced bile down his throat as the splitting pain in his head and face brought it forward. Bucky turned with the other prisoners and limped heavily along, squinting his eyes as he tried to focus on keeping upright.

           They were put into the hayloft of the barn, hands and feet tied together tight enough to lose circulation and lined along the far wall. They had been groped to make sure none of them had any hidden weapons, but the only thing they found was a small knife on a Frenchie from the 105th.  

           It smelled of moldy hay and sweat, but it was better than being outside in the mud and choking on the stench of death and gunpowder. Bucky wiggled his tingling fingers and released a soft sigh, slumping back against the wall as he finally let his eyelids shut. He pushed past all the pain and thought of just how fucked he was. Bucky was put right in the hands of the enemy and completely at their mercy, if they decided to slaughter them all he would never return home to Brooklyn—to Steve.

           Steve.

           Bucky had let him down. He was the only person he had and now… the damn Nazis had him. God knows what the punk was doing, probably trying to enlist for the thousandth time, but Bucky was relieved that he would never get drafted. Steve was too sick and fragile to be put into a man’s war. Bucky could at least die knowing that Steve is safe at home in Brooklyn.

           “Hey!”

           Bucky jolted and blinked rapidly adjusting to the dark surroundings to see the looming figure and gleam of a gun walking over to one of the prisoners a few people to Bucky’s right. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as the Nazi used the end of the barrel of his pistol to tip up the prisoner’s chin and Bucky forced himself to look away.

            The Nazi growled, “Want to say that again?”

           “Go to hell.” The prisoner’s hissed, spitting into the German’s face.

           Bucky ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for what was to come. He tried to block out the noise of the Nazi grabbing the prisoner by his hair and dragging him ruthlessly over the floor, the prisoner grunted and was thrown down before the Nazi crouched beside him and peered into his eyes.

               “Auf Wiedersehen, Soldat.”

           Click.

           Bucky bit down on his bottom lip and waited.

           BANG!

           Soft yelps came from the prisoners around him and they all flinched. Bucky shook his head and relaxed against the wall again, refusing to open his eyes to see the young man who just got his brains blown. The picture was already knitting itself in his mind as the Nazi grumbled disgustedly in German before shouting an order to the two Nazis that had witnessed everything. He knew in the morning that the body would be gone, but the blood would still remain.

.   .   .  

Hayloft  |  8 Hours Later

             Bucky was woken up by a Nazi throwing a piece of hard bread into his lap and he blinked blearily down at it, glancing around to see that everything was illuminated in a soft early glow so Bucky estimated it was around five in the morning. He noticed that the other prisoners weren’t the only ones just waking up, because one of the Nazi guards was sitting against a hay bale rubbing at his eyes. The thought of no one noticing the guards asleep pissed him off, but he had to give everyone the benefit of the doubt; they were just fighting for their lives yesterday.

           He lifted his right shoulder and pressed his cheek against his uniform, jerking away when it sent pain splitting across the side of his face, but with a quick glance at the fabric he was glad it wasn’t bleeding anymore. Bucky saw one of the prisoners next to him struggling to get the bread and the prisoner looked up at the Nazi, left eye swollen shut and mud caked in his short hair.

           “How are we supposed ‘t fuckin’ eat this?”

           The Nazi quipped, “Figure it out.” He took a seat beside his buddy and they shared a canteen of water. Bucky was slightly confused as to why they didn’t backhand the guy next to him—let alone kill him, but he then realized these were two new Nazis overlooking them. They looked just about as exhausted as they were.

           “I know what you’re thinking,” A soft voice whispered to his left, drawing Bucky’s attention to look at the feminine-like face of a young man. He had his head shaved and hardly had any marks on him that advised he was in battle, but the dirt streaking his skin said otherwise.

           Bucky was reluctant to reply, too scared to cause a rise from the Nazis, but the other prisoners were now quietly conversing between long pauses. He released a slow breath and he asked, “What am I thinking?”

           “Why these two switched out with the others,” The young man whispered, “After the show they put on last night they think we’re too scared to step out of line, so they let the recruits watch us.”

           Bucky examined the Nazis with raised brows, the left side of his lips tugging up as he glanced at the prisoner next to him. He said, “You’ve got a good eye. How long have you been out here?”

           “A month after the U.S joined the war, what about you? You’re a Sergeant, aren’t you?”

           Bucky nodded and shifted on his butt. “Yeah, Sergeant Barnes. I was shipped out to England three months after we entered the war.”

           “Barnes, eh?” The young man’s voice remained a whisper, “I’m Y/N.”

           Bucky furrowed his brow and turned his head to look at the prisoner. His eyes flickered to the Nazis, but they could care less as they talked quietly amongst themselves. Bucky asked, “Are you a girl?”

           Y/N shushed him and bent close into his side, muttering into his ear, “They were never going to let a woman join this war, so I shaved my head and demanded everyone call me by another name. Now, I don’t think it matters anymore. They have no real use for us and we’re as good as dead.”

           Y/N leaned away and looked down at the piece of bread in her lap, she slid her legs under her frame and the bread rolled onto her knees. Y/N expertly used her knees to grab the bread and bent her legs so she could bite into her breakfast. Bucky knew Y/N had dismissed him with that and he sighed, attempting at the same trick.

           He watched the bread skitter over his muddy pants and onto the wood floorboards, with a soft sigh of defeat he straightened his legs out in front of him again and collapsed back against the wall. Bucky flexed his numb fingers before rolling his jaw painfully and eyeing the Nazi recruits, seeing that they were busy lighting cigarettes. He would kill to take a drag from a cigarette right about now, but that would probably never happen.

           “You aren’t going to last long if you give up, Barnes.” Y/N drew his attention and bit into the chunk of remaining bread between her knees, she turned her head with the piece in her mouth and raised her brows at Bucky.

           Bucky eyed the bread then Y/N before he leaned forward and sank his teeth into the hard crust. His eyes watered at the immense pain that flourished from the action as Y/N let him have it. He shifted and let out a muffled grunt before pulling his knees up to his chest, ankles bound together, and he held the bread between his knees.

           Bucky struggled to chew the food, but he was grateful he got something into his empty stomach. He glanced at Y/N and choked down a dry bite, before he said softly, “Thanks.”

           Y/N just shrugged and slumped against the wall. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

           Bucky didn’t quite know what Y/N meant, but he was glad she was smart enough to pay attention to everything.

.   .   .

Hayloft  |  12 Hours Later

             “Get your asses up!”

           Bucky’s eyes shot open and he was met with darkness before one of the Nazi guards lit up a kerosene lantern, illuminating the hayloft in a soft light. He felt a nudge to his left and Y/N was slowly getting to her feet, somehow standing with her ankles bound. The Nazis had their guns slung over their shoulders and were watching the prisoners rise with scowls, the green uniforms looking sinister in the light.

           Bucky attempted to get up but his ankle forced him back against the wall, drawing the attention of one of the guards. The Nazi said something in German before handing the lantern over and advancing towards Bucky, who slightly recoiled as the Nazi crouched in front of him. Bucky forced the lump in his throat down and met the dark eyes glaring into his.

           “Why can’t you fuckin’ get up, American?” The German asked crudely, his accent thick.

           Bucky let the silence drag out and when the Nazi raised his brows, he forced out a reply, “T-Twisted my ankle…”

           The Nazi’s gaze dropped to where his ankles were bound and he slid a knife out of his pocket, immediately making Bucky’s breath hitch. He clenched his jaw and leaned away from the blade as the German held it in front of his face.

           “Don’t get any ideas, American. We’ll gun ya down faster than ya blink.”

           Bucky relaxed his tense shoulders when the guard gripped the ropes encasing his ankles and swiped the blade through them, snapping the strands. The Nazi slid the knife back into his pocket and stood up, stepping away to take the lantern from his buddy. Bucky had an easier time getting up and favored his left foot when he stood, his bare feet tingling painfully as they regained feeling.

           “Listen up!” The guard standing beside the one with the lantern snapped, “We’re takin’ you to the boss. He’s choosing who gets to stay here and who gets taken with us, so say your prayers and hope you don’t get left behind.”

           Bucky exchanged a look with Y/N, before the Nazis stepped forward and ordered them into single file, the lantern guard climbing down the ladder first that lead to the main ground of the barn. Y/N kept behind Bucky and made sure he didn’t fall as he limped across the hay and to the ladder. The second guard was stationed beside it, holding his knife and cutting everyone’s ropes around their wrists and ankles.

           Once they all made it down, more Nazi soldiers awaited them with guns aimed at the prisoners. Bucky kept his head down as he gimped along behind one of his comrades in the 107th. When he sensed a presence come up beside him, he tensed and anticipated what was to happen, but Y/N’s hushed whisper eased the tension.

           “Suck it up and put some weight on your foot. You don’t want to be left here to rot.”

           Bucky clenched his jaw and applied more weight onto his bad leg, sending tense pains that made his ankle weak. It worked though, because he noticed the Nazis had focused on him again with a gun trained on his form in case he took off.

           They halted in front of the farmhouse and were turned to face the porch, the white paint of the house peeling and the floorboards leading to the closed door tracked with mud. A Nazi ordered for them to raise their hands up and kneel in the mud, the prisoners slowly lowered themselves to the ground and Bucky felt gloved hands wrap around his rope-burned wrists. He grunted as the German jerked his arms behind his back and gripped his wrists in one hand, while pressing the barrel of a pistol against the back of his skull.

           Bucky dared a glance to his left and saw Y/N was in the same position, but her face was devoid of any emotion and her eyes burned with a cold rage. She stared at the door awaiting for the “boss” and Bucky returned his own gaze to the front door, before it opened and the man who had blasted Bucky in the cheek with his rifle stepped out.

           He had his gloved hands curled around his belt and his black boots were shiny, the Nazi armband no longer dirtied, and his hair was combed back. Bucky blinked and watched as the man strode down the steps and traipsed through the mud to stand a few feet in front of him. He dared not look up at the Nazi and kept his eyes trained on the man’s boots.

           “We are leaving within the hour and are only taking four of you,” He said gruffly, his accent making it hard to understand, “If you are left behind, you’ll be in the barn tied up again, and we aren’t coming back.”

           Bucky squared his shoulders and hardened his features, forcing the pounding of his pulse to ease so he didn’t look scared. This was the moment of judgement and if he wanted to see Steve or return to his regiment then he had to get that ticket with the Nazis. The guard behind him gripped the raw skin of his wrists tighter and nudged his hair with the pistol, tilting his head down completely to stare at his knees.

           He heard the Nazi Captain move to the left and approach the end of the ten prisoners, nothing but the sound of breathing and distant thunder filling the silence. Bucky swallowed thickly and heard the Nazi speak in German.

           “Töte ihn,” The Nazi waved his gloved hand and stepped to the next prisoner.

           The guard holding the first one hauled the young man to his feet and shoved him a few steps forward, making him stumble a little ways away. The guard raised his pistol as the prisoner turned and the dirtied man glanced at the Nazi Captain with horror in his bloodshot eyes.

           “I thought we were just getting tied up, you bastard!”

           The Captain looked at the prisoner and pulled out his own pistol. He fired a few shots into the chest of the young man, the bullets sinking into his chest with wet thump-like sounds before the now dead man collapsed into the mud in an awkward position. The young man’s eyes were wide and lifeless, staring blankly up at the sky with his mouth still open, but the blood seeping from his wounds and staining his undershirt was beginning to pool in the mud.

           The Nazi slid his pistol back into its place and ran his gaze over the quivering prisoners, but Y/N and Bucky held still. He simply stated, “I changed my mind. If any of you fuckin’ Americans have anything else to say do say it now.” After a brief moment, he nodded his head and stepped up to judge the second prisoner again.

           Bucky’s ears were ringing by the time the Nazi Captain stood in front of him. The shouts of the young men from his regiment and the 105th, plus the stomach churning sounds of their dead bodies hitting the ground echoed in his head. The Captain reached out and grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s mud-encrusted hair causing a strangled yelp to sound in his throat, but Bucky was tugged to his feet and forced to look the Nazi in the eyes.

           “How’d it feel when I smashed your face, American?” The Nazi growled.

           Bucky rolled his jaw painfully and tried to ignore the sensation of having his hair being yanked right out of his scalp. He remained quiet and the Nazi released him with a dark chuckle, allowing Bucky to collapse onto his knees in the mud.

           The Nazi Captain ordered, “Put him in the truck with the other two.”

           Bucky felt a wave of relief wash over him and an officer grasped his bicep and jerked him back to his feet, relentlessly tugging him over to the truck that was parked in the road leading to the farmhouse. Bucky had the guns of two soldiers standing at the back trained on him as he clambered weakly into the back. He nearly collapsed once inside the dark truck bed but he managed to plop into one of the long seats beside Y/N’s form.

           Y/N pulled her head out of her hands and looked over at Bucky’s slumped form. She reached out and straightened out his disheveled hair and Bucky welcomed her gentle touch. He had been man-handled for two days and had one too many guns pointed at his head. Y/N picked some of the mud from his hair and flicked it onto the floor, before she sat back with her shoulder brushing his.

           “I’m glad you aren’t dead yet, Barnes.” Y/N said, brushing her fingers over the raw skin encircling her wrists.

           Bucky cracked an exhausted smile and closed his eyes. “Thanks to you saving my ass.”

           “I didn’t save your ass. I just offered some advice that didn’t get you killed.”

           Bucky cast a side glance at Y/N and snorted, “Same thing.”

           “If my wrists didn’t hurt like hell I would smack you.”

           For the first time in what seemed like years, Bucky let a genuine laugh slide past his chapped lips. His face blistered with pain but he couldn’t care less because in that small moment of time in the back of a Nazi cargo truck and after seeing five other people get shot to death, he was able to laugh. Bucky felt his lip split open as he smiled and he raised a finger, pressing it to the now bleeding cut before he slightly wet his lips with his tongue.

           Y/N nudged his arm with her elbow. “Don’t hurt yourself, Barnes. I’ll probably have to kiss it better.”

           Bucky’s jaw dropped and the quiet prisoner seated across from the both of you had his eyes widen into saucers. Y/N kept a deadpanned expression as she rubbed her wrists and Bucky finally shook his head, before he scratched at the good side of his face with a finger.

           “You know,” He drew Y/N’s attention, “if we weren’t in the middle of being prisoners of war I might just do it, but some things and some people we just can’t have…”

           Bucky gazed out through the crack of the thick drapes that blocked them from seeing out of the truck bed and spotted the guard just outside step forward. The Captain looked to have hashed out the final prisoner to go with the Nazi regiment and the truck bed slightly teetered as fingers curled around the tailgate, before a prisoner was climbing through the tarp and standing in the dark.

           “Sergeant.” The young man nodded breathlessly at Bucky before stumbling over to sit beside the quiet prisoner form the 105th. Bucky ignored him and closed his eyes, waiting for the gunshots to sound. He slightly furrowed his brow when the patter of something began to echo off the truck and Bucky guessed it was raining. Bucky opened his eyes to peek out of the crack again.

           That’s when the loud echo of the last shot rang out.

.    .   .

Nazi Camp  |  4 Days Later

             Rain.

           All Bucky ever heard was his own breathing and rain.

           He had lost a sense of time ever since they took them all out of the truck and tied them with ropes again. Bucky had a little relief on his wrists and still could feel his hands, but it didn’t matter compared to the deep guilt he felt for Y/N.

           She had been awfully quiet ever since they took her out of the tent to chat with the Nazi Captain a few days ago. When she came back she willingly let the Nazi guard tie her back up and she kept her head down, but Bucky could see the swollen skin around her eyes and the way her chest quivered. Bucky couldn’t imagine how such a strong person that had kept him sane in this whole process could be broken down and crying.

           He assumed they found out who she was and just what the Nazi Captain had been doing to her for three days straight. It made Bucky livid and he couldn’t act upon anything or he would get killed and that would be the end of the line for him. The other two prisoners that accompanied Bucky and Y/N always talked about rebelling and just making a run for it, but Bucky knew damn well that if it came down to it they wouldn’t have the balls to run. Bucky wanted to stop their suffering and just go home.

           Now, it was dark and the rain pattered off the material of the tent they were cooped up in. Bucky was slowly rocking himself side-to-side with his back pressed against the cot he was tied to. He had his eyes closed and was thinking of his last moments with Steve at the Stark Expo. Bucky knew he couldn’t change the stubborn punk’s mind and he hoped Steve wasn’t alone at the apartment, sitting on the rickety chair in the small living room listening to the radio by himself. Steve was a good guy; a saint compared to Bucky, and if Bucky died out here they would never tell him.

           Bucky let a slow breath ease out of him and he whispered, “I’m sorry, Steve.”

           “Who’s Steve?”

           Bucky jerked his head up and opened his eyes, fixating his gaze on where he could just barely spot Y/N’s figure across from him. Her eyes glistened in the dark and as soon as he heard her rasping voice, he was almost leaping at the prospect of sparking up a conversation with Y/N.

           He kept his voice low so it didn’t wake the two other prisoners. “Someone from back home.”

           “I’m assuming he’s family,” She said, her voice scratchy and tired. Y/N closed her eyes and softly cleared her throat before returning to staring into Bucky’s gaze.

           “Something like that…” Bucky trailed off, dropping his head again.

           She shifted slightly and managed to extend her legs out to have her feet brush his thigh. Bucky knew it was her way of showing comfort and his chapped lips tugged into a ghost of a smile. Y/N’s expression changed into a portrayal of utter defeat, she was letting her guard down and the pain in her eyes mixed with the sad smile caused Bucky’s chest to tighten.

           Y/N’s voice barely carried over to him, “Barnes… The things they’ve made me do…I’m not—I’m not the person you think I am.”

           “What do you mean?” He furrowed his brow and slightly tilted his head.

           She looked away and her lips parted as she sighed, “Back on that field when we were fighting, I wasn’t there to kill Nazis. I was planted in the 105th by the Soviets as a spy. They kidnapped me from my original regiment and tortured me for weeks until I would do whatever they said.” Her throat pulsed as she forced herself to not breakdown. “Barnes, you can’t even imagine all the enemies I’ve made. The people I’ve killed. I have a lot of blood on my hands and it isn’t the Nazis’…”

           Bucky was frozen in a stunned silence. He allowed the patter of the rain to drown out his sporadic breathing, his eyes flickering over the floor as he tried to string together something to say to that. Bucky finally blinked and met her gaze, his voice was strong and pieced with a certainty that brought Bucky a new sense of purpose.

           “All the more reason to get the hell out of here.”

.   .   .

Nazi Camp  |  1 Week Later

           Even though Bucky could hardly walk without almost blacking out and he was twenty pounds lighter than he was since he was first captured, Bucky still held strong to the only thing that was keeping him going, and that was the certainty that they were going to escape. Him and Y/N had spent hours figuring out just how the hell they would even make it out of the tent without getting shot, but with them both being skilled military tacticians they figured something out.

           Y/N had drawn the other prisoners’ attention and asked the one closest to the opening if he could tell whether the guard was alone. He nodded and Y/N shifted to where she was facing all of them at once, her eyes trained on Bucky who had a look of determination.

           “I think we have a plan on how to get out of here,” She said.

           The soldier Bucky knew was from his regiment’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned. “Really?”

           “We can’t get too confident yet, but I think we’ve really got a shot.” Bucky didn’t want to smash the guy’s optimism, but he had to make it known that they might not be able to do it.

           Y/N asked, “You know how the guards make their rounds through the camp?” The two prisoners nodded and Bucky allowed her to do the talking; he never had been very good at it. She continued, “I get taken out of here once maybe twice a day and am walked through the camp before I reach Captain Löwe’s tent—”

           “How the fuck do ya know his name?” The guy from the 105th interrupted.

           Y/N’s eyes narrowed and Bucky snapped, “That’s none of your business.”

           “Oh, stay out of it ya fuckin’ pretty church boy. I asked the lady a question.”

           Bucky clenched his teeth and dug his fingernails into his palms, his nostrils flaring as he withheld from lunging at the man, if he took the cot with him then so be it. His gaze flickered to Y/N who simply shook her head and he almost said something before he thought better.

           Y/N replied to the man, “I know his name because I’ve overheard the guards using it, not because I’m a traitorous bitch, which I know is what you’re thinking.”

           The soldier immediately diverted his gaze and Bucky was slightly impressed by how Y/N knew what he had been thinking. She then jetted into explaining what they were going to do.

           Bucky met Y/N’s gaze as she sat across from him and he breathed, “Has it been an hour?”

           She nodded and Bucky blew out his hallowed cheeks, before he straightened up and looked at the entryway of the tent. It was only left open during the day and he could see the late morning sunlight casting the shadow of the two Nazis on guard outside.

           Bucky cleared his throat and raised his voice, “Hey, I have to take a piss!”

           The Nazi guards shifted and faced each other, exchanging a few gestures before the one on the left ducked into the tent with his gun gripped in both hands. He looked around at the four of them and gruffly questioned, “Who yelled?”

           “I did.”

           Bucky snagged his attention and the Nazi slung his gun over his shoulder and approached where he was tied up. The guard crouched beside him and slipped a knife from his side, taking Bucky’s thin wrists tightly in one hand as he sliced through the rope. Bucky winced when the Nazi grabbed his bicep and hauled him up, causing Bucky’s head to swim and he blinked rapidly to make the black dots dissipate from his eyes.

           The Nazi took him out of the tent and jutted a thumb back at the prisoners. “Sie haben sie?” The guard nodded and Bucky slightly stumbled as he was walked past a few other tents and Nazis. Bucky noted where the German soldiers were laid out, not seeing the patrol making their rounds, and he finally realized that this was really happening. They were going to get the hell out of this camp.

           Bucky was taken out to the edge of the clearing to the surrounding forest and the guard slightly shoved him forward towards the tree-line, training his gun on Bucky’s dirtied form. He snapped, “Make it quick, American.” Bucky turned away and took a step forward before whirling around and gripping the barrel of the Nazis gun, taking him by surprise and giving him possession of the weapon.

           Bucky chucked the gun aside and lunged at the Nazi, causing them both to fall to the ground with Bucky on top. He curled his fingers into a fist and grabbed the collar of his uniform, swinging with all his strength and knocking him square in the jaw. The Nazi’s head sharply snapped to the side before he went limp and Bucky released him, rubbing his now split open knuckles as he rose to his feet.

           “Suck my cock, fuckin’ Nazi,” Bucky growled, bending down to grab his arm and tug him further into the tree-line.

           He stuck him against a rock and began to strip him of the uniform, changing into the soldier’s clothes. Bucky looked down at his own bare body for a moment and ghosted his fingertips over his slightly protruding ribcage, his skin a ghostly pallor with yellowed bruising over his gut. He snapped out of it and pulled up the soldier’s pants on himself, tightening the belt. Bucky changed fairly quickly and adjusted the Nazi armband around his bicep, slightly stumbling down to the creek as he wasn’t used to the heaviness of the uniform.

           The water was cool running over his fingers and he made sure to clean his hands of all the grime, before cupping the liquid in his hands and running it over his face. Bucky felt the rough hair scratch his skin as he felt his jaw and he chuckled softly, wondering how he must appear to Y/N. It wasn’t easy walking away from that moment of peace as he picked up the Nazi’s gun and placed the dark helmet on his head, standing at the edge of the tree-line for a moment as he waited for the signal.

           Bucky’s jaw dropped and his eyes focused on a mortar whistling through the air on the other side of the clearing before it landed in the forest beyond and exploded. He swore he felt the impact deep in his chest and watched as a large plume of dark smoke rose above the trees. Bucky gripped his gun a bit better and began to jog into the camp, seeing the commotion of soldiers as they all were shouting orders and heading to the source.

           He spotted the tent they had been kept up in and the soldier stationed outside had his weapon drawn, watching as a trio of men jogged past. Bucky came up and grabbed his uniform, tackling him inside the tent and pulling out the knife he took from the Nazi. Bucky fumbled with the soldier for a moment before stabbing the knife into his neck, a stream of warm blood spurting over his fingers and immediately causing him to recoil. He stood over the Nazi with his chest heaving, staring down at the man who was clutching neck and choking. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and slid down his chin, before the Nazi stopped struggling and slumped against the ground, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water for a moment.

           “Holy shit.”

           Bucky’s head lifted and he looked at his comrade from the 107th who was gawking at the sight, his eyes glistening with horror. He snapped out of it and wiped the blood off on the pants leg of his stolen uniform, cleaning off the blade with his sleeve. Bucky stepped over the body and crouched before Y/N who was closest, reaching around her to the ropes around her wrists.

           He slightly shook his head and mumbled, “I don’t know how you do it…”

           “Löwe has more enemies than I do, Barnes.” Y/N gripped his outstretched hand and he tugged her to her feet. She patted his shoulder and walked over to the dead soldier, taking his knife and gun. Bucky moved to his comrade and helped free him before turning back to Y/N, who was quietly explaining what the man from the 105th should do.

           “We don’t have much of a window and the possibility we’re going to get shot. Either way we’re dead at this point, unless we make it to the tree-line and don’t stop,” Bucky said, picking his gun up again and checking the magazine.

           Y/N peered out the open flap of the tent and called back, “Clear.” Her demeanor immediately changed and she raised her rifle, posting up just outside and watching her surroundings like an eagle as the two weaponless men ducked out beside her quickly. Bucky came last and they all moved as a close group, immediately turning right to run between two tents and Y/N raised her hand to make them pause before they stepped out into another open path.

           “Barnes, we have two at our three o’clock, which one you calling?” Y/N asked quietly as Bucky came up beside her, looking at where she had her weapon trained.

           Bucky shook his head. “They’re heading away, we don’t want to draw attention.”

           Y/N slightly lowered her gun and glanced at him before nodding and checking if it was clear again. They all moved swiftly across the footpath and ducked between another pair of tents, but that was when Bucky’s comrade, who was jogging a few steps in front of him, snagged his foot on one of the stakes of a tent, causing him to trip. Bucky froze when he heard two German voices come from the tent.

           “Go! Go!” Bucky whispered urgently, shooing the young soldier forward. Bucky took off running after him as the German men stepped out of their tent and spotted them crossing one of the footpaths. They let out shouts of surprise and immediately ducked back into their tent to grab guns.

           Y/N shouted, “Shit! Don’t stop!”

           They all came to another footpath and turned left, heading straight for the trucks that were parked at the edge of the line of tents. Bucky flinched when he heard bullets sink into the ground behind him and he turned back to see the two soldiers chasing after them, now firing freely. The commotion began to grab other Nazis’ attention that still remained in the tents and Bucky swore this is how he was going to die.

           “Barnes, fire back!”

           Bucky obliged and turned, pulling the trigger and letting a string of bullets fly in retaliation. He managed to shoot one in the shoulder, but it didn’t stop what was going to happen next.

           They all made it to the trucks and immediately took cover weaving around the vehicles to the forest that was at least a hundred yards away. Bucky ducked out of the way just in time to have a bullet hit the frame of the truck he was just in front of, but he kept going only to come to a halt when Y/N had posted up and aimed at the Nazis in pursuit. The other men had kept running and we’re almost to the tree-line.

           “Y/N, what the hell are you doing we’re almost there!?” Bucky gasped, crouching behind the vehicle beside her before popping up and firing at the German soldiers.

           Her eyes met his briefly and her breathing was labored, but she managed to reply, “Barnes, if we all make it out they’re going to hunt us down.” They both rose and managed to take down two Nazis, before taking cover again. She continued, “Plus, I’m dying anyway so might as well go down fighting.”

           “Y/N, what do you mean?” Bucky furrowed his brow and gazed at her.

           Her lips spread into a sad smile and she said, “They poisoned me the last time they brought me to that Nazi bastard’s tent. He forced me to drink some coffee and just—Barnes, I’m going to die and I don’t need you dying too.”

           Bucky stared at Y/N for a long moment before she reached out with one hand and grabbed the collar of his uniform, yanking him to her and crashing her lips against his. He didn’t have much time to enjoy it before she was pushing him away again, tears glistening in her eyes as she begged, “Barnes, go. I’ve got you covered, just please save yourself…”

           They both rose and had a brief pocket of time as he stumbled away a few steps, his lips parted and his throat constricting as he fought the tide of emotions welling inside him. He finally choked out, “Bucky.”

           Y/N glanced back at the soldiers that had finally taken cover behind a few tents before looking back at Bucky.

           “What?”

           He began backing up quickly and gripped the gun tighter. He repeated, “My name’s Bucky!”

           She watched him as he turned his back for the last time and took off towards the tree-line, a volley of gunfire following. Y/N cursed and a new bout of rage overcame her, she relentlessly fired at the Nazis and by the time Bucky made it safely to the cover of the forest, a single gunshot sounded. That sound would stay with him for many years after that as he looked back to see Y/N get shot in the head, his breathing leaving him as she seemed to stiffen and slowly fall to the ground.

           “No…”

           Bucky ignored the urging of the other two men who were across a ditch.

           “God damn it, Sergeant! We’ve got to go now!”

           Bucky couldn’t pull his eyes from her form laying on the ground beside the truck and when he finally felt fingers wrap around his bicep, he was snapped out of his trance and looked at his comrade who shared a sympathetic expression. 

           He said quietly, “I’m sorry, man, but we’ve got to go. She’s gotten us this far.”

           Bucky swallowed down his tears and clenched his jaw, nodding. With a gentle tug, Bucky was subconsciously following after the young man and the three of them traveled deeper into the forest, eventually losing the Nazis on their tail.

           Bucky never forgot about Y/N.

Tagging: @pleasecallmecaptain, @writingbarnes, @currentlyavengerstrash, @positixe, @ltsaradharkness, @ek823, @innocent-maze, and @microscopicmonsters. (Please, tell me if you want to be added to all fics/oneshots!)

[buckybarnesfanfiction]

where 70 years of torture started...

[melles1276]

New chapter online!

Excerpt:

Chapter 18 - Difficult time

When Steve opens his eyes the next morning, he feels full of energy. His confidence in making it out of here alive has increased significantly due to the deal he’s made with Bucky last night. Basically it’s nothing special. Just a quick idea that popped into his head.

No, that isn't true.

It is special.

It is a promise.

They had promised each other that they would go home together. And Steve believes that with all his heart. They will make it. There simply is no alternative and he refuses to think otherwise.

He stretches a little and lays there for a moment. The night had been short. They sat outside the hut for some time. Bucky hadn't said anything else, but Steve has the impression that the short conversation had achieved a lot. At some point it got too cold outside, and he put Bucky back to bed before lying down himself.

Someone is outside the door, he can hear that.

So he stands up and quickly glances over at Bucky, who still seems to be sleeping, before he starts moving towards the door. As he opens it, he looks down at Jamila, who is a good two heads shorter than him. With a little smile on his lips, he greets her in Dari and wishes her a good morning.

She nods her head in recognition and returns the greeting with a small smile, too. She holds a jug in her hands and hands it to him.

"Milk. Power. Please drink, okay?” There’s also a basket with more food sitting at her feet.

Still a little bit sleepy, Steve is nevertheless deeply moved by the caring nature and thanks her profusely for it.

“James good?”

“He’s still sleeping,” he replies, surprised that she knows Bucky’s first name. Did he mention that?

“Go to look for arm. Later? Yes? You? You okay?”

So far everything is fine, unlike Bucky’s injury, his leg wound is downright ridiculous. “Yes, it’s good,” he says, hoping to convince her, but the woman is a force of nature you don’t want to compete with. Despite her small stature, she has a very strong personality and somehow wormed her way into Steve’s heart from the start, and he can't shake the feeling that’s mutual.

“I look, okay?” And with that she is already in the hut.

Smiling, he takes the pot and basket with him as he follows her. After putting both things on the table, he sits down on his bed - following Jamila's hand signals. It won't do any good trying to convince her otherwise, so he lets her be.

After taking a look at Bucky, she now turns to him.

Yesterday, when he changed his clothes, he put on a new bandage. It hadn't been pleasant because the wound secretion had crusted on the gauze bandage. Hopefully, that isn't the case again today.

With clear hand movements, Jamila indicates that he should take off his pants.

He hesitates for a moment, but now isn’t the time to be a prude. So he stands up, unbuckles his belt, unzips the pants, and slides his pants down to his knees. Then he sits down again and unwraps the stained bandage, and carefully tugs on the wound dressing before removing it completely. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of the pus that has formed since yesterday. But basically he hasn't expected anything else.

Nodding silently, the old woman reaches for one of the bottles she had brought with her yesterday, pours some of its content generously onto a rag and begins to clean the wound.

[anamelessdragon]

State of Shock | Chapter 1 | 2.3k

by NamelessDragon (@anamelessdragon)

_____________________

Summary:

“The President gave the order. He gets a pardon.”

“An experimental pardon,” Val corrected. “And the President needs to look just as good as the rest of us. He’ll lean into that war hero image until the first disaster and poof! Tune changed. But guess who will get all of that blame?”

“We have very advanced technology to ensure that won’t happen,” Ross said.

“Thaddeus, Thaddeus,” she tutted. “That soldier has withstood every single torture method known to man. Chemicals, deprivation, solitary confinement. Literal brain injury! And he was barely kept in check. What do you think’s going to happen when he’s let loose? We can take bets on the number of casualties.”

Maybe she’d said that last part a little too gleefully. In any case, Ross narrowed his eyes. “Do you have a suggestion?”

----------

Bucky's pardon requires that he wear an artificially intelligent shock collar as a term of his release. Bucky accepts, knowing it's his only chance to get out and do some good in the world.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of people ready to severely misuse that power.

A retelling of TFATWS.

Pairings/Characters: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, appearances by the general TFATWS cast

Warnings: Chapter 1 - angst, torture

Notes: Hello! Apparently, posting one Bucky whump fic is no longer enough for me. This one will run more Gen with the pairings than my previous ones. That being said, there will still be chapters with harder onscreen trigger warnings (ie non-con) but I am challenging myself to try and section them in the fic so as to be skippable. However, general torture and trauma from the collar itself will run rampant and be I ntegrated into the main story, and there may be references/implications of other abuse there as well. Use caution and/or enjoy yourself. Bucky will not be having A Good Time, and we will view his experience from several POVs.

Some of the same general plot from TFATWS will be there, but a lot of it will be majorly changed in terms of scenes/dialogue.

Next chapter will be posted June 1st.

Read on AO3.

[buckbuckstan]

I’m 😢 i didn’t realize how much I needed this.

After All This Time | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello! Who wants to have their feelings hurt?! 🙋🏻‍♀️ I love some good angst, some pain, some emotional turmoil. 

Warnings: relationship drama, references to violence, arguments, crying, ex!Bucky

“What are you doing here?” You stared at Bucky, shocked. Perplexed. He had no business at your apartment. Especially not so late at night. Especially not after what he’d done. The way he’d treated you. It took a long time- too long- to achieve some sense of normalcy after things fell apart. After he broke your heart. You weren’t over him; you feared you never would be. But you finally arrived at something that resembled stability. You were nearly okay- nearly.

But Bucky’s unexpected presence took you out at the knees. Was he always this beautiful? Or did you just miss him? His hair was a bit longer, his stubble a little scruffier. His deep blue eyes softened at the sight of you. No, he was always this beautiful. Dammit.

His expression was stern. Serious. Just like it had been when he left. He’d promised you he’d never come back. “Can I come in?” He was a liar, apparently.

“What? No.”

Bucky breezed past you anyway.

Keep reading

[lostwhump]

Captain America: The First Avenger (2011)