#Bucky has ptsd

[writingmyheartsout]

Nobody's Soldier - a Bucky Barnes story.

So here we are, finally the first part of this story. The prompt was simple paired in a therapy program and the first that came to my mind was Bucky (since the hyperfixation came back) and yes the title is an Hozier song.

Hope you like it <3 (thanks to the awesome beta @green-binder as well )

This fic is also on Ao3 and Wattpad

Nobody's Soldier playlist

CW: talking about trauma, PTSD, nightmares, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning himself), trauma, trauma bonding, unexpected feelings, slight obsession, anxiety, denial, manipulation, reader has female pronous.

(Not much major warnings in this, next one will be a bit heavier)

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Ch. 1 - Paralyzed

"A what now?" Bucky asked his therapist with furrowed brows, visibly in confusion.

"It's a therapy companion program. I think it would be good for you.." Doctor Raynor said bluntly, leaning back in her chair but looking at him with a stern expression. ”…You need to talk to people."

Bucky glares quietly at her then, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't need this.

"Who… the hell anyway...?" he started but suddenly stopped when he heard another voice coming from the doorway.

"Hello Doctor..." you said, standing in the doorway with a bright smile on your face, arriving early as you always did.

You did this before, this program, you were involved from the very beginning and you had already been paired with four people already. Three of them were living their best lives, with little to no problems, but one was still in the program yet away from you, as he had accidentally developed feelings. Safe to say, that time didn't end well.

You hoped this one would be, at least, nice.

As soon as the doctor invited you in, you moved closer, greeting them politely again as soon as you sat down, but he didn't take your hand in return.

You shrugged a little at that, you knew that people could come off as rude with new people around, especially in places like these, and there was nothing wrong with that.

Right after you greeted him, to no answer, Bucky glanced at you the moment you looked away as you listened to whatever the doctor was saying, looking you up and down once, while having mixed feelings about the whole ordeal.

It wasn’t as if he disliked you immediately, he didn't even know you. But the thought of being paired with someone he'd never met made his blood boil with annoyance before even starting. 

The sole idea of talking to a stranger, of opening up to them… He was uncomfortable enough with his therapist, how bad would it be with you?

On the other hand, you completely missed the look of annoyance he had on his face, looking at you uncertainly while you listened to the doctor.

You had and still have your fair share of traumas, but as some kind of coping mechanism, you hid it fairly well, something your own doctor was still trying to fix. As a result, you were exceptionally good with others, listening to them and even helping them to start believing in themselves. All the things you didn’t have, not from the people you wanted to.

Then Bucky let out a silent sigh, turning to look out the window completely uninterested in the whole situation as he focused on the cars driving past the building instead. 

He didn't have to talk about anything he didn't want to, he thought, scoffing slightly in his mind.

Although, with the therapist watching, he knew he'd have to be civil. He glances back at you before looking back out the window. 

"You don't need to be here," he says bluntly then, keeping his eyes focused outside.

"Excuse me?" both you and the doctor turned to him, and you frowned while the therapist explained to him for the nth time why he needed to do this.

You weren't hurt by his words, per se, it was the reaction everyone had, especially with a program like this one, so you were used to it. You shrugged and looked away while he argued with his doctor.

It’s true, you didn’t need to be there, you were well aware of that. Your gaze focused on your lap, and you started fidgeting nervously with your sleeve, pulling at an invisible thread on your sweater.

"I don't need a damn babysitter…" he scoffed, leaning back in his seat before his eyes darted over to you, looking you up and down as his eyes narrowed in silent disapproval. 

“James, don’t start… I already explained why…” Doctor Raynor repeated, visibly annoyed as the frown on her face deepened.

At that he sighed in annoyance, the idea of this program pissed him off. Being seen as weak and in need of someone to watch over him was enough to drive him up the wall.

He didn't need anyone to take care of him. He was a former trained assassin for God's sake.

At that, you looked back with the most unreadable expression on your face and just gently smiled. Then with one last look at the doctor, you spoke up again.

"I'm well aware and I don't pretend to know anything you're going through..." you said, your tone calm yet firm, standing up right after.

"Look… Bucky? Bucky, right…?" you quickly asked before continuing…”.. we've all been there more or less so I'm not forcing you to do anything, really.” 

But before leaving, you pulled something from your pocket, giving it to him.

"This is my number if you ever need anything or someone to stay silent with…up to you," you added, in a much more gentle tone.

After that you walked away but not before saying goodbye to the doctor with a smile back on your face. 

Bucky didn't like the way you smiled at him. It was like you saw something he couldn’t and he didn't like not knowing things. 

His brows furrowed as he watched you get up. He sat there in slight shock as you spoke. 

Why were you being this damn civil with him? Didn't you want to know more? Demand answers? Knowing who he really was? All that and more pissed him off and yet intrigued him at the same time, a million thoughts starting to run around his head.

His frown deepened as you suddenly handed him a small piece of paper. He stared at it a moment before looking up and seeing you walk away. He had no intention of using that damn thing.

One week later, to the day, your phone rang.

After the little misunderstanding both of you had in the therapist's office, your life kept on going like it always did, waking up, going to work, eating… when you remembered to… having a breakdown or two, and trying to manage your anxiety. Normal stuff, just everyday things.

Not that you expected anyone to actually call you but, as you always did, when your phone rang even in the middle of the night, you answered.

This time when you picked up, it was only one sentence.

"I had a nightmare..." 

Bucky's voice was quiet over the phone. He was sitting on the floor, covered only by a thin blanket, breathing heavily as he tried to compose himself. 

Every nightmare always felt so real, so damn vivid. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. Still feel the ghosts of hands, tearing him apart. 

How long had it been since a nightmare hadn't woken him up screaming? He should be used to this by now.

"What do you need me to do?" was the only thing you said to him after that, voice gentle and quiet, partly from sleep.

And then you waited in silence. For him to just calm down over the phone or start talking, whatever he needed from you or didn't, you would help him, no matter how bad your first impression was.

Bucky stayed silent for a moment longer as he tried to catch his breath, his eyes closed tight as he focused on the sound of your voice.

Calm down. Just. Calm. Down. He kept repeating this in his mind. He didn't want to feel like this. He hated feeling like this. Anxious, terrified. Weak.

"Just..." his voice was quiet, wavering slightly. "Don't hang up.”

"I won't..." you promptly replied, your voice still soft as you sat up on the bed, hearing him trying to control his breath.

It wasn't the first time this happened with a therapy companion, it was honestly quite common, you had been there before. 

So you stayed, silence falling over you both as he calmed down, occasionally with your reassurance that everything was alright, spoken gently.

After that night, you didn’t hear from him until a month later, except for a few texts he sent went he felt like he was slipping out again, but no nightmares, or at least that's what he told you.

The more you talked, the more you felt like he was starting to open up.

The next time he did call you again, he was a complete mess.

Bucky was breathing heavily once again, sweating profusely, his eyes wide and unfocused as he stared at nothing. He knew where he was. He knew the past was just in his head. But God did it feel so real.

"I-I can't... I can't breathe." He muttered, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes as his shoulders began to shake.

"Bucky..." you started quietly as you sat on your couch, listening as he almost choked on his own breath.

But he wasn't listening, his breath was heavy, as if he was about to pass out. You knew too well what it was and how disruptive it could be. Still, it was all in his head.

"James..." you tried again, more assertive but still calm "..what can I do for you?"

Sometimes saying out their full name during a panic attack would shock them out of it, sometimes not. But you had to try, hoping this time it would work.

Bucky froze for a moment as if hearing his name was enough of a shock to freeze him in his tracks. He was breathing fast, almost panting, he was struggling to speak, to process his thoughts. It was minutes until his eyes finally refocused, looking around frantically as he realised where he was.

He was in his apartment. In his bed. Safe.

The realization was enough to make his breath hitch, a choked sob escaping his lips. It took him a couple of moments to respond, his voice sounding shaky and pained.

"I-I-" He tried, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"It's fine..." you whispered, heart still clenching at hearing his soft sobs and how he was still struggling to speak. 

You weren't a therapist, you couldn't be that distant with the people you were paired with, so the pang in your stomach was real. 

Was it empathy? Or did you just know what it feels like? Either way, you gave all of yourself to help when needed. 

"I can be on the phone all night if that’s what you need..." you added, a tinge of a smile on your lips. 

You wanted him to know you were there for him.

Bucky closed his eyes tightly as he tried to stop the tears from falling.

He felt humiliated. Weak. For calling you when he should have been able to handle this on his own. It was just a nightmare. 

He was a grown man, he fought in a war, he wasn’t some pathetic child who couldn't handle a nightmare.

But your voice was so damn calm and gentle. Telling him everything would be ok. That you'd stay. It calmed him slightly, but the shame was still there. 

"You… don't have to… stay up for me." He muttered quietly, voice choking up still.

"You're not alone in this..." you replied, reassuring him once more.

These same words were the same your therapist told you the first session you had and they stuck in your head since then, helping and easing the process.

"No one should be alone in this, Bucky..." you added, your tone gentle and light as you stood up and headed to the kitchen.

"It hurts, I can tell you this much, it's not going to be easy… but it will get better" you went on, while you prepared yourself for bed.

You didn't know how long you'll be on the phone so you prepared yourself for a long night.

Bucky listened quietly, to the sound of you moving around on the other end, to your words. 

He didn't understand how you stayed so calm. How even after his rude comment that first time, you still spoke to him so kindly. 

"How… how do you not get angry...?" He asks suddenly, his voice hoarse. "How do you stay so damn calm?”

You laughed quietly at his question, as you pulled a book from your stash on the bedside table.

"Who said I don't?" you replied still amused by his assumption.”…I do get angry, very much so..." you added.

"With time and age, I just learned to let go of many things, it still hurts sometimes, but there's nothing I can do.”

Bucky was a little surprised when you let out a small laugh. It wasn't what he expected from you. He was actually expecting some kind of lecture, something about meditation or some other crap like that. He was so used to the lectures from his therapist and doctors. 

But you were honest. You got angry. You let go of things. 

Then he was silent for a moment, your blunt honesty taking him off guard. 

"Doesn't it get tiring? Being so… calm all the time?” He asked, genuinely curious as he felt himself breathing regularly now, his body slightly relaxing. 

At that you sighed. Still, the smile never left your lips.

"Very much so… but..." you replied after a moment, trying to find the best way to explain this.

"It gets more tiring to be mad all the time..." you said honestly as you now lay on the bed, on one side.

"I still cry, I get panic attacks… and I zone out a lot…" you stated, recalling all the times you still found yourself alone with your breath caught in your throat, legs pulled against your chest.

"Like I said, it gets better, not perfect…”

Bucky was a little startled by your honesty. How bluntly you spoke about your own struggles just to help him out. He knew very well how difficult it was. How frustrating it was to struggle with his past. How much it hurt.

But hearing you talk so casually about your panic attacks and crying was… odd, in a way. 

He was used to hiding his struggles and pretending everything was fine, he thought it was normal. 

Then he let out a huffed sigh. 

"How long does it take, usually?” he asked, deep down already knowing the answer.

"For things to get better?" you asked honestly, a little surprised by that kind of question from him. Of course, it was a rhetorical question, getting better didn’t have a set date, everyone and everything was different when it came to mental health.

"A long time." you then replied, not wanting to sugarcoat anything for him right now.

That's what you did usually, tell them how it was and how you got there. People in the same situation as yourself were mostly tired of unnecessary bits of advice that led to nothing.

"A lot of time and therapy sessions..." you added almost laughing like it was something funny. "... your brain won't be the same though, the trauma is stuck in your head”

Bucky huffed quietly, laying back against his pillows while he listened to you. 

He expected some type of halfhearted reassurance. Some shallow statement about how he'll heal and move past everything. 

But you didn't do that. You kept your statements blunt and straight to the point. You spoke about your own experiences easily. 

You weren't like his therapist. And this was far off a therapy session.

"So… my brain will never go back to normal…" He mutters quietly, not like a question but like a realization.

You lightly chuckled on the other end. 

You expected this kind of reaction, usually that's what happened. You did it too the first time you were told about this. But you eventually accepted it, on most days.

"Your brain is normal, Bucky..." you spoke again, softly this time." ...you still think, talk, laugh and cry… that's normal."

That's what you think about yourself too, when your intrusive thoughts weren’t winning the battle. You were still functional, but living in a world that hadn't been kind to you at all.

"Just with a little spice…” you added playfully. 

Bucky listened quietly, his eyes closed as he tried to keep his breathing even still.

He still didn't understand how you could speak so nonchalantly. 

Just a little spice? He repeated your last sentence in his head, trying to convince himself.

He thought about it for a moment longer. His mind was still messed up but he was still capable of all those things. It was a simple concept but it eased his mind a little, at least for now.

"Are you just gonna keep talking until I fall asleep?" He huffed then, trying to keep his voice distant now that he had recovered.

"If you want me to..." you only replied, maybe a little more sweetly than you intended to.

But you felt responsible somehow, few times had you seen someone so broken yet so stubborn with himself and others that you genuinely wanted to help.

"I could read to you, It doesn't bother me at all..." you suggested, fully expecting him to scoff at that as he was still trying to push you away.

Bucky stayed quiet for a moment. He didn't want to admit but the sound of your voice was soothing somehow.

Normally, he would try to keep himself awake. Stare up at the ceiling until he was so tired, he passed out from exhaustion.

But now, laying in his bed listening to the sound of your voice, he found that he was tired. Not in a tired-from-exhaustion kind of way, but tired in an I-could-fall-asleep kind of way. 

"Fine.” he only answered.

"Alright..." you only said, almost smiling at his reaction. 

You could see all the signs, the reluctance, the way he avoided showing himself truly or how he still bit back. He didn't trust you and it was fine, you were still a stranger.

You ended up reading him a novel, one that told about a knight in shining armour, until he fell asleep.

The next morning you found yourself with your phone next to you, your reading glasses still on and the call ended a long time ago.

Bucky woke up in the morning slightly confused.

Looking around his darkened room, it took him a good minute or two to finally remember last night. He must have passed out during your call as he found his phone still in his hand, a glance at the time telling him it was nearly noon.

Maybe you hung up as soon as you realised he had fallen asleep.

He wondered if the previous night had all been some kind of very weird fever dream. But his phone still showed the call log. It had actually happened.

After waking up rather late you decided to work from home, luckily for you, it was possible with what you did, being between jobs had some benefits after all. 

You felt very sleepy still since you spent most of the night reading until you heard the call ending itself, so your day was slow and rather calm.

While, for once, thinking about yourself, your mind kept replaying what happened last night. How you heard Bucky cry, how his words stuttered and, after he calmed down, the questions that followed.

Then the reticence.

Later that day, right in the afternoon, you shoot him a message anyway.

-to Bucky: you ok? 

You didn't expect a reply, you were well aware of how he still tried to be distant.

And like he said the first time, you weren't his babysitter and he was a full-grown man, so it was up to him if he still wanted help.

On the other end, Bucky nearly dropped his phone when the screen lit up with your message.

He was still very much surprised that you were checking up on him. 

Why?

He stared at the message for a good few minutes, debating on what he should say or not. 

No, he wasn't ok. He was still shaken up from the nightmare he had. He was still frustrated with himself for not handling it alone. 

But he wouldn't exactly tell you any of that so he tried to come up with a reply, but it took him about an hour.

-From Bucky: I'm fine.

When the actual reply arrived, you couldn't hold back a laugh.

He was still so stubborn even after you heard him almost crying that his coldness now felt...different. 

-to Bucky: I don't believe that, but alright :) 

You went up with your usual day after that, busy with some more work while planning your next therapy session that was coming soon.

Bucky huffed quietly after receiving your reply, his eye twitching slightly. He was surprised that you didn't believe him that he was fine. 

But then again, you had heard what happened last night. You had heard him struggling to breathe. You had heard him nearly cry over the phone. 

How stupid he was to think he could convince you he was fine.

He tried to put the phone down, but he found himself picking it up again and staring at the screen. 

You just... Didn’t give up, did you? he thought, asking himself something he couldn’t reply to.

How expected, Bucky didn't reply further and that was fine with you. But deep down, to be completely honest, you started to kind of worry about him, to kind of care...

After a week, when you hadn't heard from him and had yet another session that felt hard, everything came crashing down.

At first, you were your usual happy self, telling your doctor about this therapy companion thing and what happened, minus the details.

But once you got home, you felt it, sneaky as it always was, another panic attack that slowly started to build up.

You spent months without one this strong but with the news in your life and the progress you made with therapy, it was strange that it didn't show up sooner. 

Now flashbacks of past memories and people playing in front of you, still sitting on the bathroom floor with your legs tight against your chest and your phone next to you… on silent.

When Bucky called this time, you didn’t answer.

Bucky had been ignoring the constant feeling of guilt deep in his stomach. You had helped him, saved him from that nightmare and the panic attack that followed, and his way of repaying you for that kindness was acting cold and distant? 

He couldn’t tell if you were worried about him or just nice but you were still trying to help him somehow. 

But he was too stubborn to admit he needed someone right now, to admit he needed you. 

So it was only right that he couldn't reach you when he finally picked up that damn phone.

Sitting in his living room, now staring down at his phone, Bucky tried to call you again and again, but like the other calls he already made, he was sent to voicemail. Not even an answer in text.

Dread started to fill him, his mind immediately going to the worst-case scenario. 

Did something happen? Why aren't you picking up? Did you put your phone on silent? Why?

You pulled through yet again, not without your fair share of tears and so much pain, but you did. Still, your body felt numb and sore, sitting in the same position for hours, your mouth dry and your eyes burning.

You were a complete mess, but your breathing was now finally steady. 

Still, you haven't checked your phone and honestly, it was one of your last thoughts as of now.

You didn't know the time either, as your brain was still scattered and clouded even after the shower you took just to feel something.

So when you finally picked it up, your eyes went wide and you almost cried again.

4 missed calls from Bucky

1 text from Bucky

Guilt and fear started silently spreading inside you all over again. You couldn't do this now, it felt like betrayal but you couldn't.

Bucky sat in his living room, his body stiff and filled with fear. 

He had called you about 4 times now. Each time, he was met with a voice-mail. 

What the hell was going on? 

He was tempted to do something, maybe find out where you lived and go check on you. But he forced himself to calm down, trying to convince himself to not overreact. 

You probably had your phone on silent. You probably didn't hear it. You probably were fine.

When you were about to lay in bed and have some sleep, you received another call and for a moment you were tempted to answer, but you didn’t. Instead, you placed your phone on the bedside table and got under the covers.

But when you were about to drift off, your eyes about to close you picked up your phone again and decided to, at least, read the message.

-from Bucky: what happened?

If you weren't so tired you would have laughed about it, about the worry that seeped from a single message, but even your face felt heavy.

So you just typed a quick answer.

-to Bucky: wasn't feeling myself, I'm sorry...we can chat tomorrow.

And with that, you fell asleep, exhausted and aching with your phone still in your hand.

Bucky read your message over and over again while he lay in his bed. He was still worried but the knot in his stomach started to lessen slightly. He felt like a fool for being so dramatic. 

Of course, you were just having an off day. Off days happened, especially for people like the two of you. He was just overreacting. 

He decided to send you one last text, unable to help himself.

-From Bucky: call me if you need me.

With that, he sat his phone on his bedside table and closed his eyes.

The answer to Bucky's text only arrived at the end of the next day since sleeping past your alarm had made you arrive late for a work appointment.

In other words, your day was a bit hectic.

Then you helped your neighbour on your way back home.

And when finally you were sitting on the couch, in your comfortable clothes, the tv didn't turn on. So you had to call the landlord then.

You were tired, frustrated even and not really in your best behaviour. Still, you owed Bucky an answer.

-to Bucky: did you sleep last night? Saw you were a bit worried. Anyway not my best day but I'm better. Ps: do you happen to know how to fix a tv?

Bucky read over your message, his lips twitching into an involuntary small smile. 

Not your best day. 

He could tell from the way you wrote the message that you were a little bit frustrated with how your day had gone but still tried to stay positive. It was…  cute. 

He quickly typed out a response, ignoring the strange feeling inside his chest as he sent it. 

-From Bucky: I slept alright. And how do you manage to screw up a damn tv?

-to Bucky: how dare you! I was out all day and it was already like this, called the landlord but he said there's nothing he could do :(

You typed out almost too quickly, but then you were distracted, only to finish your text minutes later.

-to Bucky: sorry my neighbour needed something… anyways I’m happy to hear you slept some, at least.

You were so focused on the broken tv, and your neighbour moving out that you didn’t tell him about the episode that happened last night. That made you feel rather guilty, you were paired for that specific reason and while you were all about helping him, you just refused to let others help you when the same thing happened.

Bucky was beginning to pick up on your behaviour, about you only talking about your struggles when you wanted to be helpful but not when you needed it. You had talked him through a panic attack but never said anything about why you were still in therapy.

At that, a feeling of determination welled up inside of him as he read over your message. 

He was going to find out what was going on with you, one way or another. Shocking even himself with that very thought.�� e quickly typed out a reply. 

-From Bucky: Your landlord sounds like a douche. Maybe I could take a look at it for you.

His next message made you stop in your tracks as you crossed the room and went to the kitchen.

The other times you were paired up, it was always by calls and texts as the other were too scared to even go out, so this was kind of unexpected. With the way he had acted when you both first met and how he still tried to, this was kind of a shock.

But then, when you didn’t answer right away, another text arrived, pulling a slight smile out of you, now that he was acting worried.

-from Bucky: so? 

-to Bucky: won't hurt, can send u my address, warn me when you do though.

Bucky tried to keep his heart from beating so damn fast. It was a dumb offer, a stupid thought he had, but you had accepted nonetheless. So he wasn’t sure why he felt… nervous? 

He told himself it was because he was worried about you, worried that you might have been struggling like he was. But a small part of him couldn't help but wonder if maybe it was because he…

No!... not going there.

He stopped himself from thinking more about it, quickly replying to you. 

-From Bucky: Yeah, send me the address. I’ll be there in thirty.

I'll be there in thirty. Well that was quick, you told yourself as you read his last message, totally not expecting this sudden change of heart as a strange feeling of happiness started brewing inside you but, at the same time, you were scared.

Not because Bucky was a bad person, you were sure he had too much good in him, but for the fact that someone would actually want to come over.

This was new.

And while you were overthinking this, trying to tidy up your messy apartment as best as you could, minutes passed and suddenly someone had knocked at your door.

Bucky stood in front of your apartment, his hand raised to knock. He was starting to feel a bit dumb.

It was a stupid idea. Why did he offer to come over? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

But his mind was filled with worry, his heart racing as he continued to stand in front of your door like some kind of idiot.

He finally forced himself to knock, even if the knocking came off a bit too loudly because of his nervousness.

As soon as you opened the door your breath hitched a little. He was standing there, wearing just a pair of black jeans, a leather jacket with a dark blue jersey underneath, and…gloves? 

When did he get so tall and… no, not the right time, as you took in the unreadable expression he had on his face.

But then you quickly reminded yourself that the only time you both saw each other was in his doctor's office.

"Hi stranger..." you said, after a few seconds of internal battle within your brain.."...were you worried about me perhaps?" you joked, awkwardly and only to hide your embarrassment.

But as he looked down at you, you realized you were still in his way and stepped aside enough to let him pass.

The first impression he had of you was bad, and the second? Well, maybe now he considered you an idiot. 

Bucky stood stiffly in front of you, almost towering over you as he looked down to meet your gaze. 

Damn, you were tiny. He hadn’t noticed that before, just now realizing just how much smaller you were than him.

As he stepped in, he tried to keep the cold look on his face, but it was hard to keep his eyes from roaming over you, taking in your messy sweatpants and oversized shirt. Cute, he caught himself thinking.

"Maybe a little bit..." he muttered grudgingly, walking inside your apartment.

“Oh…” you said quietly as he walked in, surprised by his answer.

Then you saw him looking around as if he was searching for something, making you even more confused. 

Then it hit you… his doctor told you he was a former military.

"It's just… just an old tv..." you tried, not really knowing why you stuttered at first as you followed him into your living room.

Bucky kept his hands shoved into his pockets as he walked around your living room, eyes roaming over every corner in search of any potential threats. An old habit of his from his time on the front lines. 

When he spotted the television, his eyes narrowed slightly, only shedding off his jacket and remaining with just a long-sleeved shirt on.

A damn old tv, maybe older than him.

"How old is it?" he asked while he kneeled down in front of it, his fingers already picking at the back of the machine.

It took a little to answer his question, still stunned by the fact that he was really in your apartment.

The same guy that couldn't stand you the first time he saw you. 

"Very… I mean..." you replied, then quickly correcting yourself."...I don't know really, bought it used."

You confessed, cheeks slightly flushing as if you were ashamed by that. You didn't have much on your own and therapy was damn expensive, after all.

As he worked, you tried not to bother him much, staying away as much as possible and sitting quietly on the couch. 

Bucky hummed quietly while you spoke, his mind racing with questions.

How old could this tv be? And just how much did it cost you?

But he held his tongue, not wanting to risk upsetting you with his questions. 

As he continued to inspect the old device, still he noticed how he could practically sense you trying to distance yourself from him and not bothering him much. 

So he held back the urge to look at you, trying to focus on the old machine instead. 

Why were you being too damn polite? Why were you so damn far away?

As you tried to focus, still not very much into yourself after a whole day of unexpected setbacks, the bell rang making you jump a little, startling Bucky as well.

But before he could say anything, you went to check, only to realize it was just your neighbour again as soon as you opened the door.

And while you talked, you didn’t notice that her voice was so loud that it could be heard even inside your apartment, as you both were at the door and away from the living room, so much that made Bucky curious about what was happening. 

Bucky paused in his work on the tv as he heard the bell ring, his head turning to look towards you as you walked out of the room. 

He kept working, the sound of your voices filtering faintly into the living room.

He wasn't trying to listen in your conversation but the more you and your neighbour talked, the more Bucky found himself subconsciously trying to make out what was being said.

He started to feel like a creep, listening to your private conversation like this. But he couldn't help it, the curiosity was eating away at him and...

The more he listened, the more he realised that something was off. 

He slowly rose up from his kneeled position and turned to face the entrance as the voices got slightly louder.

When you finally closed the door with a loud sigh and turned to come back to the other room, you almost jumped as you found him there, standing near the entrance, with a deep frown on his face.

"Jesus..." you gasped, a hand on your chest.”...scared the hell out of me."

"You good? ...did something happen?" you then added as he kept looking between you and the front door.

Bucky kept his face stoic, his mind racing as his eyes roamed over you.

He was about to ask you about the neighbour, about your conversation. It was none of his business but… he just couldn’t stop himself. 

"What the hell was that about?" he asked, gesturing toward the door.

It was your turn to frown, as soon as the words left Bucky's mouth you got confused. 

How the hell did he...? you thought, crossing both your arms over your chest.

You were tired, still bothered by the remnants of your previous episode and on the verge of a breakdown. You couldn't handle this now.

"Listen, I'm going to be as polite as I can right now..." you started, your tone calm but with a slight edge.

"That's none of your fucking business." 

And as soon as you said that, not giving him time to reply or do anything, you stormed off and locked yourself in the bathroom, sitting on the floor as soon as you were in.

Bucky was stunned for a moment, completely taken aback by your reaction. He had been rude, pushing a personal question out of the blue. 

He hadn't really meant it, he was just worried about you. But now he realized he had gone too far, overstepping a boundary. 

God damn it, he was a moron.

He felt panic well up inside him as you stormed off into the bathroom and slammed the door behind you, the sound of the lock flicking in place echoing in the apartment.

Bucky stood frozen still, the silence from the other side of the door deafening. 

Was he supposed to wait there? Should he knock? Leave? He didn't know what to do.

He ran his hand through his hair, feeling completely lost.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave you alone, not while you were clearly upset, so after a few moments standing there awkwardly, he gently knocked on the door.

You missed the first knock, too lost in your mind yet again, trying to calm your breathing the way your therapist told you many times.

Everything seemed to shatter into tiny pieces, even the smallest things now becoming bigger problems.

You just couldn't, while you kept repeating, more like murmuring to yourself...

I'm sorry...

can't do this anymore...

please shut up

Your brain felt like it was on fire, hurting you more than you could imagine. 

Bucky's worry grew as he heard your voice quietly talking to yourself through the door.

He felt like an idiot for overstepping, causing you to feel like this. And now you were locked away from him, alone and struggling.

With a knot in his stomach, he once again knocked on the door. He hated asking but…

"Can I come in?..." he called quietly, placing his forehead against the door.

You were on the verge of crying, but for a moment your brain refocused and you heard knocking as well as Bucky's voice.

He was still here? Why?

Deep down you knew this time you couldn't do it alone, that you had to talk this out but it was like your body was trapped on the spot.

When Bucky started to beg, behind the still-closed door, you felt a heavy sense of guilt washing over you, standing up right after but barely balancing on your feet.

Then you unlocked the door before you hunched over the sink, hands gripping the surface while your breath felt ragged.

Bucky was almost surprised you opened up the door, his heart clenching at the sight of you. He had never expected to see you this vulnerable.

He really was an idiot for causing you this much anguish.

He slowly stepped into the bathroom, gently closing the door behind himself.

"Hey..." he started, not really knowing what to say.

He stepped closer behind you, not daring to touch you, his heart aching again as he saw you hunched over the sink.

When you heard the faint footsteps and Bucky's voice so gentle, you raised your head slightly, the first tears were already running down your face and you only wanted to scream, but you swallowed it.

Instead, it happened in a blur, you turned around and hugged him tight, burying your face into his shirt and leaving him stunned. 

You were weak, felt worse than ever and clearly in need of help.

Bucky’s heart stopped as you suddenly turned around and hugged him.

He had barely been able to register what was happening, but now he froze when he felt you against him. 

His arms hovered in the air at first, not knowing what to do, but the sound of muffled sobs coming from you snapped him back into reality as if suddenly his brain and body started moving again. 

So he quickly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him as he leaned down and gently rested his chin on the top of your head.

You didn't know how much time had passed, hell you didn’t know what time it was as it felt like everything stopped when panic started gnawing at you again.

Your head was still spinning as your fingers dug tighter into the fabric of Bucky's shirt.

And while your breath was uneven and it seemed like you couldn't hold back the tears, you felt guilt. 

Guilt of putting him into this situation. Guilt of embarrassing him so much.

"Not… not your fault.." you tried, as soon as you felt his hands on your back."...I'm sorry, I was already a mess..." your voice was muffled and broken, your brain still struggling to form a coherent thought on its own.

Bucky felt his heart twist in his chest as he listened to your broken voice. 

He kept his chin on your head, listening to you speak.

"What are you apologizing for?" he asked gently, rubbing his palm up and down your back in an attempt to soothe you.

"I’m at fault here, it's my fault you’re upset," he said quietly, silently scolding himself for being so damn nosy and rude.

"I was..." you croaked out then.."I had… an episode last night..." forcing your words out to explain yourself. 

You were aware he probably sensed something was off when you didn’t return his calls and now you were facing the consequences of your actions. 

He was your therapy companion, for God's sake you mentally scolded yourself seconds after, your brain still feeling heavy.

"I thought I was getting better..." 

Bucky was slowly piecing everything together, the picture becoming clearer as you continued. He felt another wave of guilt crash over him, a cold feeling forming in his stomach.

That's why you didn’t pick up last night, that’s why you’ve been so distant.

And he had come over, intruding on your life like an idiot, making it all worse. He held you a little tighter, gently pulling you closer against his chest.

"You are getting better..." he mumbled against your hair.

You actually sob at his words and the way he was now holding you. It felt good, safe and everything you hadn't felt in ages. And that scared you shitless.

"Stealing my words here..." you said, even if your voice was broken, trying to joke as your brain started refocusing itself slowly.

You wouldn't admit it to him or anyone except your therapist, but funnily enough the proximity and the contact helped ground you and not let your intrusive thoughts win.

Even if your major trauma stemmed from touch itself.

And he was indeed helping you now.

Bucky let out a small huff; somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. Maybe stealing your words wasn't that bad, you sounded better after all.

He felt the tension that had been present in your body slowly drain away as he continued to hold you, his hand rubbing small circles on your back.

It shouldn’t feel this good to hold you, and even less feel this protective over you.

He ignored the thought for now, gently pulling you closer to his chest.

"Do you want to talk about it…?" he mumbled quietly.

A soft broken sigh left your lips right after his question, relief quickly washing over your body as Bucky kept on silently comforting you.

You're safe. It's ok, were the thoughts that now replaced the pain in your brain, keeping you sane.

At his question, you just nodded yes, still you didn’t move an inch from where you were, body still aching, too convinced that if you let go you'd fall to the floor.

Bucky felt some of the tension drain from his own shoulders as well as you settled against his chest, the sight of you relaxing against him making his heart feel warmer.

He continued to hold you against him for a few more moments, his hand still rubbing at your back in calming circles.

But then, he did something he shouldn’t have. 

He gently placed a light kiss on the top of your head, an intimate gesture of comfort.

You felt good, calmer even but when you felt the press of lips on top of your head and his breath ghosting in your hair you froze.

This wasn't right, this shouldn’t be happening… this... 

You thought, as your breath hitched slightly while you pulled away, still very much shocked as you looked up at him.

"What..? Did you..?”

Bucky’s heart jumped into his throat when you suddenly pulled away, immediately missing the warmth of your body against his. And when you looked up at him, a mixture of shock and confusion in your eyes, his heart sank.

It was then that he realized what he had just done.

His heart still hammering against his chest as he opened his mouth to speak, stuttering out the first words he could think of.

"I don’t-... I don’t know what came over me-... I'm sorry-” he tried.

You took another step back, your eyes never leaving Bucky's face, watching him as he just realized what he had done.

You didn't want to be mean, to mock him or anything but this wasn't right.

"... I... listen..." you started, voice wavering a little…" we're just…in a program together… there's… there's nothing-" 

Then you stumbled a little, both your hand went to grip the sink behind you to keep you upright. Still, you felt confused, mind clouded as a strange feeling grew inside you. 

Bucky felt his heart ache at your words. He knew you were right, of course, you were right.

But in that moment, the realization dawned on him, the realization that he liked you. He wanted you and the thought scared the hell out of him.

He quickly reached out and gently grabbed your elbow to help keep you steady when you stumbled.

He didn’t speak for a moment, a lump in his throat as he cursed himself silently, the fear of losing whatever you both had taking over him.

You flinched out of instinct when you felt his hand touching you again.

This wasn't on purpose, you weren't scared of him but… What if he wanted more? What if he took advantage of your weak state?

That's why you were fine to keep all therapy partners distant, communicating only when needed and not meeting with any of them. 

This was wrong, this shouldn’t have happened, you needed to heal not get worse.

"I… I think you should go..." you said after a few minutes, looking away."... I... I'll still help you if you… need me to.”

Bucky felt as if he had been punched in the gut as you flinched away from his touch.

The thought of you fearing him broke his heart even more, confirming every thought his traitorous brain was throwing at him. It was all his fault.

He had pushed, he had been rude and he had to go and act on the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have.

So when you mumbled the next words, he quickly nodded, letting go of your elbow.

"Yeah... yeah alright… whatever you want,” he replied as he took a step back and quickly left the bathroom.

You stood still, looking away until you heard the front door open and close, then you collapsed, knees hitting the floor.

You were trembling, you felt confused as stray tears now streamed down your face again but you also felt at a loss, like someone had stolen your breath.

The next morning you didn’t even remember how you got to bed but you had no intention of leaving it any time soon. 

You had nothing much to do and with Bucky probably out of the picture, it was you, alone, all over again.

Still, out of habit in the hours that followed, you checked your phone all the same, finding nothing, as you had expected.

Bucky, on the other hand, was pissed. At himself, that was.

He kept replaying what had happened in his head, the look on your face, the way you had flinched away from him...

All because he had been too nosy, pushing you into an episode, and then on top of that, he had gone and acted on his stupid feelings.

___________________

If you got this far, thank you...more is coming as I already have 40k words about this. <3

[melles1276]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sarah Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & AJ Wilson & Cass Wilson & Sam Wilson & Sarah Wilson Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Sarah Wilson (Marvel), Sam Wilson (Marvel), AJ Wilson, Cass Wilson Additional Tags: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, sam wilson family members, Fluff, Christmas Vibes, family related stuff, Love is in the Air, Slow Burn, First Impressions, Flirting, or something like that, Post-TFATWS, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky needs a hug, aren't they a cute couple, Awesome Sarah Wilson (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Has a Crush Series: Part 3 of Moments in time Summary:

Missing scenes from "The Falcon and the Winter Soldier" series ...

Post Episode 6: Sarah and the boys are coming to town to celebrate Christmas (sort of)

Excerpt:

Sarah looks dreamily at the convivial goings-on in the colorful sea of lights on the ice skating rink in front of the Rockefeller Center. Thickly wrapped up, with the hood of her winter coat over her head, she stands at the edge and takes in the atmosphere. The large gold statue of Apollo towers over the crowd. In the background the huge Christmas tree glitters in countless colors. And over everything there is a blanket of white snow. The later it gets, the brighter everything shines and appears even more opulent than it already is. It's almost cheesy. Maybe that's why she likes the sight so much.

It's the first weekend she's spending with Bucky in New York. Up to now he has always come to Delacroix to see her and the boys because his apartment doesn't have a guest room or much other furniture. But AJ and Cass have done what she hasn't been able to do before - the boys worked on Bucky until he agreed to let them spend this weekend in New York. She doesn't know how exactly they managed it. But what she knows is that Bucky can't deny the children any wish. And that he treats them like his own children from the very first moment. There's probably no other grumpy man with a bigger heart than Bucky. Beneath his rough shell lies a buttery-soft core.

Read more on ao3

Like always, I’m a little late to the party. But yeah well ... it is what it is. ����

Enjoy!

[creator-of-calm-queer-chaos]

Febuwhump day 2: Flinching with Stucky

For @febuwhump ‘s challenge! Day 2: Flinching

Ao3 stand alone: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44733166

Ao3 as chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44655928/chapters/112345108#workskin 

Timeline: Sometime after Bucky gets rescued and before Civil War

TW: Nightmares, brief descriptions of violence 

It was so strange, to suddenly have someone else in the apartment. Steve had grown used to being alone, to eating dinner by himself, to reading a book before climbing into bed and whispering a goodnight to the world. It was odd, but Steve was grateful for the change.

Bucky had been hesitant in Steve’s offer, but he was persistent. After all, so many people were looking for the Winter Solider, it wouldn’t be wise to leave him alone. Or so Steve argued. And so Bucky relented, following him to his corner of town. They stopped by a tiny grocery store where the old woman behind the counter gave Bucky a once over. She squinted at him, then turned to Steve.

“Why does this kid look like those old photos you showed me?” she asked in a heavy Irish accent.

“Guess I got a type,” Steve laughed as Bucky flushed red.

Bucky wandered around the tiny shop as Steve slowly filled his basket. It was remarkably full for being so small, with everything from sugar to thread. To his delight, he found plums. Bucky picked out a few and shyly walked over to Steve, where he was grabbing some creme.

“Um, Steve?” he asked. “Do you think we could get these?”

Steve glanced over at him, then down to the plums. He immediately nodded and gestured for Bucky to place them in the basket. “Is there anything else you want? I’m making soup tonight, but if you want to go look at their chocolate or something,” he offered, nodding at an aisle.

Bucky smiled softly, and walked over. Immediately, he froze. There were so many different sweets, all with different colours and flavours. It was overwhelming, to say the least. And then Steve was there, hooking his arm in his, and walking him over to the chocolates. Steve handed him two different bars, each with different words. One read seacláid le blas sú craobh , while the other said seacláid bhainne .

“Chocolate… with something flavour?” Bucky read from the first one. Steve beamed at him. “And milk chocolate?”

“You remember,” Steve said, placing the chocolates in the basket. “These ones taste most like what we used to eat when we could find the cash.”

With their basket full, they walked over to the counter.

“ Tabhair neart bia don ghasúr seo, tá sé ró-tanaí,” the woman said to Steve, half sternly and half kindly. She threw in some extra chocolates, saying, “free.”

“Beidh mé,” Steve grinned, paying her and taking the bags. “She was saying you’re too thin,” he added as they walked out.

Bucky grinned and scratched the back of his neck. He followed Steve back to his little apartment, and once they got there, he helped him unpack the groceries. Steve took out the parsnips and a knife, and set a pot of water to boil.

“What can I do to help?” Bucky asked, taking a seat at the counter. He was suddenly nervous.

“Why don’t you cut the parsnips?” Steve offered, handing him the knife. And Bucky understood. Steve trusted him.

That afternoon passed wonderfully. They made a soup that Steve’s mom made, sipping hot tea. They are the chocolates on the couch, telling each other fun stories or jokes. They stayed up late into the night, laughing once more.

Eventually, they grew tired, and Bucky insisted on taking the couch. Steve sighed amicably and brought him some pillows and blankets, getting him a glass of water.

“Night, Buck,” he grinned, giving his friend a hug.

“Night, Steve,” Bucky smiled, hugging back.

Steve patted his shoulder, then walked into his bedroom. He climbed into bed and thought of how grateful he was that his best friend was back. Bucky was back.

Желание. Bucky was falling through the air, Steve was shrinking into a speck. He hit the ground, and struggled for air.

Ржавый Figures haloed by lights above him, the sound of metal clinking, excruciating pain, and then he had two arms. Семнадцать He stood in a line with other soldiers, while an officer barked commands. They sparred. He snapped a neck with his metal fist. The Winter Soldier grew stronger.

Рассвет. A mission. He was clad in all black, sneaking across buildings. There was a man in the apartment across from him, eating dinner while watching TV. The Winter Solider assembled his rifle, aimed briefly, and took the shot. It was muffled, and there was only a faint tinkering of glass. The man collapsed.

Печь The Winter Soldier kneeled in front of a man tied to a chair, various torture devices around them. He picked up a knife and drew a little star on the man’s chest. He started to peel back the skin, and relished in the man’s screams.

Девять. Someone was punching him, he was down on the ground, covered in mud. The Winter Soldier threw off his attacker, kipping up to his feet. He knocked ouut the attacker’s feet from under them, and punched them squarely in the head with his left hand. Their skull was dented.

Доброкачественный. The Winter Soldier had a knife sticking out of his leg. He ripped it out, ignoring the pain, and threw it back at the attacker. It was a teenager. His aim was perfect, as always, and the knife hit them in the chest. He stepped over their dying body as he went to murder the parents.

Возвращ-

“WAKE UP!”

Bucky jolted upright and immediately lashed an arm out to the side, where someone was. He was immediately in fight mode.

“BUCKY, STOP! IT’S ME!”

Bucky froze, and everything came back. He was in Steve’s apartment. Steve was in front of him. He was safe.

“...Bucky?”

He turned to look at Steve, who was kneeling beside him on the floor. Too much information was coming in. Steve was wearing pyjamas, and his hair was a mess. His eyes were wide with panic. Their soup bowls from last night were still sitting at the table. Street lamps outside flickered.

Steve moved his hand and Bucky flinched violently, shielding his head with both arms, curling up into a tight ball.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’ll be good,” he whimpered. “I’m so sorry, please don’t reset me.”

“Oh, Buck…” Steve whispered. “Bucky, it’s me, you’re safe.”

Bucky slowly lifted his head, trembling. He scanned Steve’s face for any sign of betrayal, peering into his eyes. All he could think was will he leave me too?  

“Bucky, you’re safe. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917. You’re my best friend. And you’re safe.”

Finally, it sunk in. Bucky let go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He slowly sat up and faced Steve - and then burst out crying. Steve tried to reach out a hand again but Bucky winced and Steve froze. Then Bucky leaned forward and collapsed into Steve’s shoulder.

They stayed like that for a moment, and then, slowly, Steve lifted his arms and wrapped them around Bucky.

“You’re safe,” he whispered into his ears. Even after everything, Bucky still smelled like Bucky. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

[meyerlansky]

i still very much have to plot out the dctctc fourquel but. i might start posting the post-war vignettes anyway, and just shove the fourquel in out of order if/when it ever actually coalesces?

[bemydoctor]

The Cold Shadow

Title: The Cold Shadow

Summary: Bucky is sinking slowly. He is overwhelmed by negative thoughts of the worst kind. Trouble is, he can’t climb back up on his own. Fortunately for him, he doesn’t have to.

Characters: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson

Trigger warnings: sleep deprivation, alcohol and drug abuse, thoughts of suicide and self-harm, mention of blood, depression, PTSD, mentions of nightmares and night terrors

Other tags: Language, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Sad!Bucky, Crying!Bucky, Sam Wilson is a good friend, Bucky Barnes needs a hug, Bucky Barnes gets a hug, Bucky Barnes feels

Notes: Dealing with PTSD is a roller coaster. There are ups and downs, good moments and bad ones. This fic is in no way insinuating that he will miraculously get better after an episode like this. It’s just a chapter on his journey to recovery. It puts him on a path that is hopefully forward and maybe we can hope the next drop of this roller coaster won’t sent him as far back down and he will be better prepared to deal with it and ask for help. All my knowledge on the subject comes from TV shows or other works of fiction besides Google and YouTube, and not from any sort of professional qualification or personal experience. Edited by myself. Please message me if you find anything I might have missed.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44369254/chapters/111587995

Words: 4016

>---<

Bucky listed to the side slowly, eyelids drifting close. His sluggish brain’s delayed response was to get his body upright again.

He blinked blearily, feeling like he was glued to the floor, as if gravity had increased tenfold turning his limbs to lead. His metal arm was so heavy it was just a useless hunk of metal beside him. Moving the fingers on that hand too much of an effort to even bother trying. Anyone who saw it would think it wasn’t even properly connected to his body.

Sometimes, his head would start falling, eyes rolling to the back. On occasion he would catch himself, forcing his mind to work for long enough to lift it again. It wouldn’t stay like that for long and gravity would soon resume its course. Usually, however, it was his head abruptly falling forward and almost hitting his bent knees that would get him to snap it up again. Not too much though. There wasn’t enough energy left in him to get him very far.

He tried to keep his eyelids from drooping, to at least keep them a sliver apart. The tiny slit of blue from the wall across from him slowly getting thinner and thinner. No amount of trying would get him to pry them open again.

A particularly sudden fall of his head woke him. He sluggishly raised it back, getting it to a position it wouldn’t take too much effort to keep it up.

If he had the energy, he would smile for finally getting his mind empty enough to make everything go numb. No amount of alcohol, pills or needles had managed that, his super soldier metabolism too fast to let any of that have any effect. For a moment he had even considered cutting himself. Maybe blood loss would be able to get him there. But then the exhaustion from several unslept days made him consider this.

His dreams had gotten bad enough that sleep was even more torture than wakefulness. Of course, being awake meant thinking too much, feeling too much, hurting too much. But sleeping was even worse. Without any barriers, his subconscious would take over and the nightmares were at a point in which waking up was getting more and more difficult leaving him stuck in a never-ending loop of terror. He would wake up with a sob, drenched in sweat, face covered with tears, lungs sucking in so much air it felt he would pass out straight back to sleep.

So he gave up on sleep altogether.

And right now, because of that, he felt like heaven.

His mind could barely come up with the idea of keeping his body from falling down. Any and all thought had drifted away several hours ago. He was floating in clouds. Finally at peace.

Was this what it would have felt like if the needles had worked?

A deep sense of calm overwhelmed him. He wished he could stay there forever. To just drift away and never wake up again.

Finally be free.

>---<

Sam called Bucky’s name again, his banging on the door more frantic this time.

“Bucky, I know you are in there. Open the door.”

He waited a few beats.

He banged more insistently. “You can’t hide from me, I’m tracking your phone.” More seconds passed. “Bucky, if you don’t open this door, I swear to god I’ll kick it open.”

Still nothing.

Sam sighed. His concern had turned to annoyance when Bucky wouldn’t open the door, but the silence brought the worry back, fiercer than before. This didn’t feel right.

Yes, Bucky would ignore him. He would make Sam wait and knock several times. He would ignore him away, then grumble and groan but would eventually open the door, if only to grunt at Sam and tell him to leave.

Sam shook his head, trying to keep his voice level.

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said as a last attempt to ease the worry away.

He tried the doorknob, not surprised to see it locked. He looked around the nearly empty street. He lowered himself and looked under the mat, finding nothing there. He tried the empty pots on the dead garden next to the entrance and under the rocks nearby.

“Shit!” he swore under his breath.

He would imagine Bucky to be the type to have more than one lock, so even if Sam managed to pick the obvious one, there would be others on the inside.

Sam took in a deep breath and decided to try the window. It was higher than he would have liked but he eventually managed to get it open. He looked around again, hoping no one had called the cops on him.  

He jumped through. “Bucky?”

He continued across the empty living space not seeing much out of place until he stopped by the kitchen counter. It was littered with empty whisky and pill bottles scattered around. He picked up a rubber tourniquet, the kind used to give someone an injection. He saw the empty syringes inside the sink and ominous thoughts swam through his mind.

He forced his legs to move again, his heart now hammering in his chest. He turned into the corridor that led to the bedroom then rushed to his friend’s side.

“Bucky!”

Shaky hands hovered over the limp form on the floor. For a moment he retracted them, too scared to proceed. He swallowed thickly and took in the sight of his friend. No obvious signs of injury or smells that could indicate he had overdosed. He wasn’t even clammy. In fact, he was still breathing. Not only that, but his breaths were deep and steady, and Sam realized the man was asleep. Really very asleep.

“Hey, Bucky!” he whispered, trying not to touch him. When he got no response, he tried again, this time in his normal tone. “Buck, wake up!”

Bucky hadn’t even changed his breathing rhythm. Sam took in a deep breath, resisting the urge to call an ambulance. He remembered the empty bottles of medicine on the counter. They wouldn’t have worked on him. He knew super soldiers couldn’t keep drugs in their systems for long enough for them to have any effect. Not without an elephant-sized dose on a constant IV drip.

But that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t try. If he was desperate enough.

“Hey, Buck, it’s Sam.” He touched his friend’s shoulder gently. “Bucky!” He shook him slightly.

No response. He let out a shuddering breath.

Sam shook him. “Wake up, Bucky!” he said more loudly.

This time, he noticed a slight change and the dread started to fade away. Bucky was alright. Just sleeping.

“C’mon, man. Just wake up.”

Sam tapped Bucky’s cheeks which seemed to rouse him a bit. He continued tapping away, not stopping even after he saw eyes squinting and a moan escaping his lips.

“That’s right, open your eyes for me.” He stopped his ministrations to look at him.

When it seemed like Bucky would fall right back to sleep, Sam continued slapping the man gently.

“Ngh.”

A pathetic arm movement that Sam could only guess it was Bucky’s attempt at waving him off made Sam grab Bucky’s chin to turn his head at him.

“Don’t go all lazy on me. Open your eyes.” he said firmly.

“Shhh. Go ‘way.”

Sam grabbed the limp man’s arm and forced him to a sitting position. Bucky slumped a bit and Sam pulled him back up again. Bucky’s reluctance was making Sam’s worry climb up his esophagus. He swallowed it back down. When Bucky started relaxing again Sam held him upright.

“Na, uh. Stay!” Sam commanded.

“M not a puppy,” he slurred.

“Then stop behaving like one. Now open your damn eyes!”

Eyelids fluttered for a few moments before slowly prying open. Bleary eyes blinked slowly, seeming to have difficulty focusing on him.

“Hey,” he said softly. Sam lifted the man’s chin and looked into his eyes, one at a time. He didn’t see anything that would normally worry him.

They started to close again.

“No. Keep looking at me.” Sam continued to search Bucky’s eyes for anything of concern.

Bucky finally focused on him. His brows drew together in annoyance. He rubbed his eyes then had to gall to pout his lips like a petulant child.

“What the hell, man? What happened?”

“I was taking a nap! What does it look like?” He waved around.

“Here? On the floor? In the middle of the corridor?”

Bucky shrugged. “Good place as any,” he murmured.

“What about, I don’t know, the bed?” Sam waved his arms around towards the bedroom.

Bucky brought his knees up against his chest and looped his arms around them. He supported his head on them. “Why are you here?” he said tiredly.

“Because I was worried about you. I’ve been texting and calling you for days!” He sat down in front of him. “Jesus, Bucky, I thought you were dead!”

He lifted his head. “Well, obviously I’m not. Now, will you leave?”

Sam sighed and ran a hand over his face. He looked at Bucky, examining him. The dark circles under his eyes, disheveled hair, unkept beard, and he didn’t need to sniff the air to know he hadn’t showered in days. His heart sank.

Bucky huffed. “Why are you still here?”

“Bucky, please, talk to me. I want to help.”

“Then leave me the fuck alone!” He shook his shoulder away from the hand Sam was about to place there.

Sam shook his head. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Sam?” His voice cracked and Sam’s heart also cracked a little along with it.

“You need to let me help you, Bucky.”

>---<

Sam moved to sit next to him then just stayed there by his side, their bodies touching. Bucky felt Sam’s body heat and released a shuddering breath, resisting the urge to lean onto him. For several moments Sam was a constant solid presence that wouldn’t let go. “You are not getting rid of me,” he said.

Bucky hid his face on his hands. For several moments, his entire existence was solely focused on getting a hold of himself and yet the vice grip around his chest wouldn’t let go. He felt it tighten and spread all over his body like a cold shadow that turned everything into misery. The pressure inside his head was getting stronger and stronger until it turned into tears that started to sting at his eyes. He suppressed a sniffle and tried to breathe through it but his eyes continued getting wetter by the minute. He started trembling and couldn’t stop himself.

A warm hand circled around his back. Bucky felt himself lose control when the gentle touch pulled him for an embrace. He let himself breakdown for no other reason than the fact he no longer had the energy to hold back. He buried himself on Sam’s shoulder and simply let go. The hand rubbed circles on his back through his tremors, but it only made the weeping turn into desperate sobs.

He gripped tightly and gave up fighting the tsunami of emotions that flooded out of him. He felt himself unable to stop. Every single tear that his body had ever produced overflowed out of him along with all the snot and spit too. He shook uncontrollably and wrapped his hands around Sam.

Sam held him through wails that felt like it would never end. Every single bad emotion that had clung to his chest over the last several weeks, months, years, being washed away.

Time seemed to have stopped. He didn’t know how long it lasted. He felt like he had been sucked into a vortex and come out the other side dazed and muddled. He sniffed away the last few sobs and broke away from Sam, still shaking, feeling a weird sort of disconnect between himself and his body. He was exhausted. Everything moved too slowly. He sat on the floor, shoulders hunched down, mind numb.

“You good?”

Bucky nodded, not trusting his voice to work.

“Why don’t you take a shower? That will help, ok?”

Bucky nodded again, too tired to argue.

Sam stood then an arm appeared in Bucky’s field of vision. He took the arm and gingerly got up onto his feet. Sam held onto him until he was sure he wouldn’t fall.

Bucky walked timidly, still feeling out of sorts. When he got into the bathroom, the water was already running.

“Do you need any help?”

Bucky shook his head and supported his weight against the sink, looking away.

“Okay,” Sam said before he left, leaving the door open.

Bucky shed his clothes and stepped under the stream, the hot water easing the knots he hadn’t realized he had. For several minutes that’s all that he did. He breathed through the numbness and eventually managed to find the energy to scrub himself.

By the time he was finished, he could barely keep himself upright.  He put on the clean pair of sweatpants Sam had left for him at some point during his stupor.

He turned his head slowly when he heard footsteps approaching.

“Hungry? I made you an omelet.”

Bucky shrugged.

“C’mon. It’s ready.”

He sighed, too spent to do anything else. Sam had gone through all that trouble; he might as well try. He dragged his feet all the way to the stool behind the counter where the plate was laid out.

He managed to take a few bites before he found himself unable to swallow any more. He pushed the plate away, looking sheepishly at Sam.

“What about the juice?” Sam looked at him across from the counter.

Bucky forced a few gulps down then put the glass down, surprised to find it empty.

Sam rounded the counter. “C’mon. Time for bed.”

“I’m not a child,” Bucky muttered, shaking his shoulder to get Sam’s hand off.

The comment seemed to have no effect because Sam continued to supervise Bucky all the way into the bedroom. Bucky practically collapsed onto the bed.

“You don’t need to tuck me in too,” he mumbled, even though Sam was already pulling a blanket over him.

He really wanted to complain again, but his eyes were already closing and whatever it was he was going to say, he figured it must be less important than the gentle pull of sleep.

>---<

He woke up surrounded by gentle darkness. A faint light came through the window and Bucky figured it must be nearly morning.

He stared at the ceiling.

It was weird. He felt well rested. His body was relaxed, and his mind refreshed. He tried to remember the last time he felt that way.

He couldn’t.

Then, memories came back to him. The bottles, the pills, the syringes. Sleep depriving himself for days in the hopes of a short reprieve. The thoughts of maybe not waking up again.

And Sam.

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and placed his bare feet down, standing up. He realized his bladder was nearly bursting so he made his way to the bathroom.

After he was done, he followed the faint light and stepped into the living room, finding Sam sitting on the lone armchair in the middle of the room, reading his copy of The Hobbit. Upon hearing Bucky’s footsteps, he looked up, putting the book down.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He stood. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he said, failing to contain the annoyed edge to his voice. He shouldn’t be annoyed. Sam was trying to help.

He walked over to the stool and sat down, noticing that all trash had vanished from his place. He also saw that his sink was empty and that the marble had been scrubbed clean. His shoulders sank.

“You didn’t have to clean up.”

Sam walked over to him. “Yes, I had. This place was disgusting.” He moved over to the fridge. “Hungry? I can heat up the rest of that omelet.”

Bucky scratched the back of his head. “What time is it? How long was I out?”

Despite Bucky’s lack of an answer, Sam had taken the omelet out of the fridge and was putting it in the microwave. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to the second question, but it is now sunrise.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rose. “You stayed here all night? Where did you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about that.” Sam shrugged and placed the food in front of Bucky.

Bucky slumped his shoulders, guilt and shame seeping into him. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to do any of that. Shouldn’t have.” He looked down at the steaming plate, the smell making his stomach growl. “Not for me, anyway,” he continued softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course I had to. You’re my friend, Bucky.”

Bucky looked up at him finding it hard to find any words.

He looked down again. “Why?”

Sam chuckled. “What do you mean why?”

He sighed. “Well…” He looked straight at Sam. “The first time you saw me, I ripped the steering wheel off your car before crashing it with you still inside. The second time, I tore your wing out then kicked you down to what should have been your death. Then the third time, after blowing up a tunnel on top of you, I knocked you out, trying to escape custody.” He ran a hand over his face. “Do I need to continue?”

Sam laughed.

The man actually laughed.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t you.”

Bucky shook his head.

He grabbed the fork and started to pick at his omelet, suddenly finding himself too hungry to continue the conversation.

“C’mon. After you finish up, get changed. We’re going out.”

Bucky whipped his head up. “Where are we going?”

Sam waved at his fridge. “You need stuff. Besides three eggs, all you had inside was an empty carton of milk. An empty one. What kind of animal puts an empty carton back into the fridge?”

Bucky decided his eggs were more interesting and was in the middle of stabbing it with a fork when an alarm went off. He looked at the direction it was coming from, seeing his phone next to the TV, blinking and blaring at him.

“Ah, yes. I took the liberty of setting up a few alarms on your phone.”

“What for?” Bucky asked making his way to silence the damn thing. He unlocked it and saw a series of alarms programed into it, all with different names. This one was for waking up. The next one for breakfast. There was one for cleaning, showering, cooking...

“So you don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

Bucky continued to scroll through, finding his entire routine loosely timed out for him. He ground his teeth. “How did you even unlock it?”

Sam smiled. “Did you know you are a very heavy sleeper?”

Bucky slumped back onto the stool and tossed his phone aside.

“Look,” Sam started. “I just want to make sure you don’t spiral out of control again. Keeping a routine might help. And if you hate it, you can always change it to something you like.”

Bucky let go of his fork, suddenly having lost his appetite.

“Keeping busy is a great way to stop thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about,” Sam continued. “Keeping a stocked fridge, having stuff inside your place, doing something you like.”

“I don’t need stuff,” he mumbled.

“Yes, you do. You need shelves.” He waved at an empty wall. “Then you need stuff to put on the shelves.” He pointed at an empty space on the floor. “You also need a couch. You know why I didn’t sleep? Because you got nowhere for me to.” He paused. “You need a coffee table. Some magazines to put on it. A side table over there.” More pointing. “And then some more stuff to put on it. Some pictures on the walls would be nice. Some plants that aren’t dead, knickknacks, throw pillows, I don’t know, whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours.” He walked closer to him. “I can help you with all of that. You don’t even need to ask.” He tilted his head. “In fact, I insist. And if you don’t go shopping with me, I’ll go by myself and buy everything on my own and have it delivered. Possibly choosing the worst possible color.”

Bucky finally looked up at him.

“When you wake up and open your eyes, you will find yourself somewhere that feels like it belongs to you. Not an empty shell.”

“What if I can’t stop thinking, Sam?” His tone was quiet, defeated. He slumped even further onto the stool.

“Then you can talk to me.” He took a deep breath. “If reading a book, going to the movies and cooking dinner won’t work, you call me. Talk to me, yell at me, doesn’t matter, just don’t keep everything in then try to pour it out in all the wrong ways.”

Bucky suddenly felt his chest constricting again and had to breathe through several times to get himself back under control. “I don’t know how.” His voice still sounded hoarse.

“Then I’ll help you. Because that’s what friends do.” Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are not in this alone and I’m sorry if I made you feel like you were.”

Tears started to sting at his eyes. He blinked them away. He still felt like he didn’t deserve any of it. He certainly didn’t deserve Sam.

He sniffed and wiped away the tears. He was tired. He was bone tired of always feeling like his body weighed a hundred tons. That every step was a chore and that every moment that he lived was one he didn’t deserve. He was tired of thinking, he was tired of feeling, he was tired of being miserable. He looked up at Sam.

“Can you try that for me?”

Bucky shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t know.”

“C’mon. Get dressed.”

Bucky looked out of the window. “It’s too early.”

“You’ll be surprised how early some places open.”

He didn’t know that was true or not but he knew there was no fighting him. Sam would keep bugging him and bossing him around so he just complied.

“Fine.”

>---<

The door closed behind him and Bucky made his way to the kitchen. Sam walked over to the counter and placed the shopping bags down, Bucky following suit. There were too many things, in way too many bags, what seemed like an excessive amount of food for someone that grew up during the Great Depression. Bucky placed his hands on the counter and just stared.

Sam started to take packages out of the bags and spreading them around. “Are you going to help or not?”

By the time they were done, cupboards were full and the fridge fully stocked. Everything from canned foods that could feed him for a year, to just enough vegetables to last a week.

“I still don’t think it was all necessary.”

Sam ignored his comment, talking the items that weren’t food over near the armchair. He looked back at Bucky then let go of the stack of books and magazines on what seemed like an imaginary coffee table. The items scattered across the floor.

There was something about the scene that almost made Bucky chuckle, but he resisted the urge.

“Come on. You thought that was funny. Admit it.”

Bucky glared at him. “Hilarious.”

“Yes, it was.”

Sam was now grinning, his unwavering smile lighting up the room. Bucky failed to keep his lip from quirking slightly upwards. He rested his hands on his hips and shook his head, lowering it until his chin touched his chest.

“That was so fucking stupid.”

Sam raised a shoulder. “Whatever works, man.”

Bucky let himself finally smile. It wasn’t a grin, and it didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was the smile from someone that was finally feeling warm air after weeks of being freezing cold.

“Thanks, Sam.”

>---<

[magic-glasses]

God forbid a mentally ill man exists and is represented as such (to John Walker haters)

[griseldabanks]

How about 38 for Sam and Bucky?

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Prompt: "Stay with me for a while."

Note: I already filled this prompt for Kara and Alice, so I decided this would just be another scene tacked onto the last thing I wrote involving Sam and Bucky.

BOOM.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Boom. BOOM.

Whizz, bang, rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

“Riley! Riley, no, look out—“

Riley turning his head. Their eyes meeting in a flash of brilliant white light. An arc of lightning, stabbing downward.

Not Riley. Steve. Steve, suspended in the air for a moment, arms outstretched, then tumbling down, down, down....

“No!”

Sam jerked upright, his own scream still echoing in his ears. Where. Where was he, which way was up, where was Steve, he was falling, Sam had to catch him, but where were his wings, he was falling—

With a thump, he crashed to the ground. But it wasn't sand or dirt or stone, it was...soft. Carpet.

He threw a hand out, and it smacked painfully against something wooden. He groped in the darkness. A bed. Blankets spilling over the side, tangled around his legs.

Oh. A dream.

A white flash lit up the whole room in an instant, followed immediately by a deafening crash that made him jump out of his skin. Heart pounding, adrenaline screaming through his veins, he raised trembling hands to press against his eyes.

It didn't help. All he saw, projected against the inside of his eyelids like a movie, was Steve. One moment walking towards him, drenched from the rain, a goat cradled in his strong arms. A blinding flash, and he was flat on the ground. Not moving. Not breathing.

With a curse, Sam surged to his feet and marched out of his room, letting the door bang against the wall. He headed into the living room, trying to ground himself in the present. He wasn't in Afghanistan. He wasn't out there in the fields with a storm howling around them. He was in an apartment in Birnin Zana, provided to them while they waited for Steve to get a clean bill of health.

Right. Because Steve wasn't dead. Sam had saved him. He was alive, he was fine. They'd taken him to the hospital as soon as the lightning died down, and the doctors thought he was out of danger, but wanted to keep him under observation that night. And so he and Bucky had reluctantly come to this apartment, with every assurance that they'd be the first to know if anything happened.

Another flash of lightning broke Sam's train of thought, and he flinched again as thunder rumbled so loudly he could hear the glasses in the kitchen cupboard rattling against each other. Sam paced up and down a bare stretch of floor between the living room and kitchen, trying to breathe but failing abysmally.

Because what if something had happened? What if something was happening right now, what if Steve was flatlining and the doctors were rushing to him and no one had called them yet because they were too busy and it wasn't like Sam would be able to do anything just like always and yet again his brother would die and he would be helpless and alone and—

“Sam?”

The lights turned on in a sudden blaze that made Sam jump...but they remained on, a steady amber glow so different from the lightning. In the doorway to the other bedroom, hand still touching the light switch, stood Bucky. He'd changed out of his Wakandan robes and into sweatpants and a T-shirt. His missing arm looked weirder that way.

Another crash of thunder. Sam's nerves were too frazzled to even attempt to hide the flinch.

Bucky just looked at him, expression not changing. Then he walked over to the coffee table, pulled off his bracelet of kimoyo beads, and tapped one of them. A holographic image appeared in the air over the table, of what looked like a cardiograph. A red line moved smoothly through the center of the image, spiking up at regular intervals every second or so. A heartbeat at rest.

“Is that...?”

“Real time,” Bucky said, understanding Sam's breathless question. He sat down on the couch, gazing at the heart monitor. “He's asleep.”

Sam found himself sinking down onto the other end of the couch, swiping a hand down his sweaty face. He focused on trying to draw a deep breath without gasping. It was easier now he could watch Steve's heartbeat.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching those steady spikes. Sam timed his breaths in and out to those beats, until three beats passed before each inhale and exhale. His own heart rate was still faster than Steve's, but it wasn't galloping along like it had before.

Glancing over, Sam noticed that Bucky seemed to be doing the same thing. Focused on the same rhythm, they were breathing in tandem. Looked like Steve was still keeping them all in sync, even asleep and out of sight.

Then he looked at Bucky a little closer and noticed the exhausted furrows in Bucky's brow, the way his eyelids drooped. “You slept at all?” he muttered.

Bucky shook his head, not taking his eyes from the heart monitor.

“You should,” Sam said automatically. Old habits died hard.

“Tried,” Bucky said. “Just ended up watching this instead. Kind of like it used to be...back when he'd get sick all the time. I'd sit by his bed and just watch him breathe. It was like...if I closed my eyes, he might slip away. So I stayed awake.”

Sam nodded. It was usually hard to imagine Steve had ever been skinny and weak like in the old pictures...but on a night like this, when he couldn't stop thinking about Steve lying spread-eagled on the ground, not breathing....

Another crack of thunder. Sam flinched, but made himself take a deep breath and keep watching Steve's heartbeat.

“Is that because of what happened today?”

Sam looked over and found Bucky watching him. There was no judgment in his expression, only understanding. Of all people, Bucky knew exactly what it was like to deal with panic attacks and bad nightmares.

Then Sam realized he'd never told Bucky about Riley. He'd told Steve early on, but they didn't talk about it much; the subject was too painful. And even after Bucky had become a part of Sam's life, there were few occasions where the two of them were alone and in need of filling the silence. Once he'd discovered the difficulty Sam had with thunderstorms, Steve usually made an effort to distract Sam on nights like this.

But now Steve was in the hospital, asleep and out of reach. And the only one here was Bucky.

With a heavy sigh, Sam slumped back against the couch cushions. “I wasn't the only one chosen for the Falcon Program,” he finally said. If Bucky was confused at this apparent change of subject, he didn't say anything. “Riley was with me from the beginning, and he was the only other one who didn't drop out for one reason or another during training. We just...clicked, you know? Did everything together, even when we were off duty. He was like...like....” He tried to say it, but the words jumbled together in his throat, and he couldn't even swallow. Usually, it wasn't this hard. It had been years. But tonight...it was like he'd had to say goodbye only yesterday.

“Like a brother?” Bucky's voice filled the silence ringing in Sam's ears, and somehow he could breathe again.

Nodding, Sam closed his eyes to shut out the flashes of light behind the curtains at the window. He tried to remember Riley's smile, his laugh. It was probably just because of the late hour and his lack of sleep, but all he could see in his mind's eye was Bucky beaming as he ran over to greet them. All he could hear was Steve's belly laugh as they played with the kids in the village.

“What happened?” Bucky asked quietly.

Clearing his throat, Sam opened his eyes and stared fixedly at the heart monitor. “They sent us to Afghanistan. We did some good work there. Made a great team. Just Riley and me, saving lives. Saving each other. All we'd ever wanted to do. And then it was over.” The pain in his chest wasn't as insistent as it had been in the early days, but it still dug down just as deep. He thought he'd rather have one of the Dora Milaje stab him with one of their spears.

“It was a night mission. Nothing special. Just...he went left when he shoulda gone right. And then he was gone. And I couldn't....” His throat closed again, and he had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky whispered.

He didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say, really. But Sam appreciated it more than he could express.

The silence between them was easy as they sat there, not looking at each other. The thunder moved on. The lightning died down. The catch in Sam's chest steadily eased, until he could breathe deeply again, and his heart rate was almost as slow as Steve's.

Sam yawned so wide he could feel his jaw crack. After all the excitement of the day before, and then the sickening rush of adrenaline from the panic attack, he felt completely spent. Everything ached, crying out for the bed in the next room...but would he sleep? Or would he just lie there, staring into the darkness and trying not to think about the dream?

“Guess we should go back to bed,” Bucky mumbled, pushing himself to his feet. “Steve will bite our heads off if we pull an all-nighter.”

“Wait!” The word fell from Sam's lips before he realized he'd opened his mouth, and his cheeks grew warm as Bucky turned around in surprise. Sam looked away and mumbled, “Stay with me for a while.”

For a moment, he thought Bucky was going to laugh at him. But all he did was sit back down—not where he'd been sitting before, but right next to Sam, so close their legs jostled against each other.

Bucky's right shoulder pressed against his left—solid, warm, real. Not like the nightmares. Not like the memories. He wouldn't fade away as soon as Sam reached for him.

Right now, that was all he cared about.

[aquaticmercy]

Hot Chocolate?

Summary: Bucky wakes up from a nightmare and can’t find you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : PTSD, nightmares, panic. very slight cursing. hurt/comfort. Very much an angsty fic.

Requested by : myself again 

Word count : 1.4k

Note : As someone who has struggled with sleep disorders, writing this helped me reach a strange catharsis. Since today is World Mental Health day, please check up on your friends, my loves! Oh and I am still accepting requests, I just have enough prompts for the rest of this week and will be replying to your asks at the start of next week! Also, do Americans use electric kettles? Sincerely, someone who lives in England.

Requests are open!

○ buy me a ko-fi ○

Bucky shot awake. He shuddered, trying to bat away the lingering visions of his nightmare that clung to him like a drenched blanket.

He found his lungs grasping for air with panic gasps as his eyes darted around the bedroom. The shadows casted by the starlight filtered through the curtains took shapes that made his heart race. For a split second, he thought he wasn’t in his apartment anymore. He was back in the Siberian Hydra lab, cold metal restraints nipping into his skin. He heard his handler’s voice speaking Russian, echoing the room with his old trigger words.

He forced himself out of this terrified state, grounding himself in reality. His chest was heaving, his eyes were bleary. Instinctively, his hand reached for the space next to him. 

It was empty.

You weren’t there.

A wave of panic crashed over him, and this was far more constricting than the terror of his nightmares. His heart started pounding more violently in his chest. His fingers grazed the sheets where you should have been. You had at least been gone long enough for the pillows to grow cold.

He could feel his pulse in his veins, each beat hammering the insides of his skull. His mind spiralled uncontrollably, thoughts feeding off the remains of the nightmare and twisting them into something much worse.

Had you left him? 

What did he do? 

Had he driven you away?

Was this it?

Bucky hastily threw off the covers, sprawling it all on your bedroom floor. He stumbled out of bed, mind clouded with fear and panic. The apartment was eerily quiet— too quiet for him to handle on his own. Too quiet for his overwhelmingly loud thoughts.

He waded through the hall as if he was four feet deep in muddy waters, his bare feet softly thudding against the floorboards. The faint sound of water boiling reached his ears. His breath hitched, his heart racing.

Emerging into the open space, his eyes darted around the dark living room, his gaze finally landing on the soft glow of the kitchen light.

He walked towards the kitchen.

There you were.

You were standing by the kitchen counter, a mug in one hand, the other resting on the kettle. You were so beautiful. So perfect, compared to him.

You looked lost in thought, your posture relaxed. It was a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him, though you were unaware.

Bucky’s feet stayed where he was for a moment, as if ice had frozen over him. Relief washed over him so fast that it nearly knocked all the air out of his lungs. 

You were here. You hadn’t left. 

The relief was quickly replaced by the gnawing ache of guilt, the kind that made his chest feel tight and his head swim feel like it was underwater. He’d thought you were gone, and the mere thought of it had sent him into a spiralling depth. How pathetic.

He couldn’t help it. He constantly felt like teetering on the edge of losing you. Like every day with you was borrowed time. Like he had already stayed his welcome. Like he wasn’t worthy of holding you in his arms.

Perhaps the reason he was so jaded sometimes, was that he was sure you’d wake up and realise he was too broken, too damaged. 

When he played this scenario in his head, you’d walk out the door, leaving him a shell of the man he is now. He thought about it more that he’d care to admit.

His heart was still pounding in his chest as he moved closer to you. His footsteps were slow and uncertain. Your eyes lifted to meet his stormy blue ones as he entered the kitchen, your brow furrowing in concern when you saw his pale, shaking face.

"Bucky?" your voice was soft, just barely above a whisper. 

He shivered a bit, unable to form words for just a second. The ache in his stomach and the ball in his throat made it impossible to speak. His eyes dropped to the floor, shame curling a painful knot in his core. 

“I woke up, and you weren’t there,” he finally muttered, struggling to get every word out, as if he was swallowing glass. “I thought…” He trailed off, the rest of the sentence too painful to say out loud. Instead, small sobs escaped his lips.

You set the mug down on the counter and closed the distance between the two. Your hand found his arm, your fingers warm against the cool vibranium. 

“Hey,” you said gently, willing your voice to be as soothing as can be, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just couldn’t sleep.”

Bucky’s gaze stayed fixed on nothingness. You could hear his jaw clicking nervously, like a man terrified for his life. 

“I thought you’d left,” he admitted in a cracked whisper, sounding as fragile as he felt. “Thought I’d… driven you away.”

Your heart broke at the pain in his voice. He sounded like a whimpering puppy, begging to be held.

He had such a raw, vulnerable nature that he tried his best to keep hidden all the damn time. You moved closer, wrapping your arms around him as tightly as he allowed you to. You needed him to know you were never letting him go.

At first, his body was frozen like a petrified statue— he wasn’t sure he deserved the comfort. But slowly, his muscles relaxed under your touch.

“I’m right here, darling,” You whispered. Your words were firm but gentle. “I’m always right here.”

He let out a shaky breath. His forehead dropped to rest against the top of your head, breathing on your scent— the scent that always brought him a sense of calm. “I don’t… I don’t know why I keep thinking you’ll leave.”

“I’m not.” You pulled back slightly to look up at him, your hands resting on his chest. “I’m not,” you repeated again, hoping that if you said it enough times, he’d finally believe it.

The sincerity of those two simple words made his throat tighten, his chest constricting under the weight of emotions he had always struggled to fully process. He had never ever wrapped his head around how you could stand here, looking at him—someone so broken and damaged—with such gentle desire. He had never believed he deserved it.

But he wanted to believe, to trust that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he always feared. That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t going to leave him behind like he feared you would.

The faint shimmer of tears fractured the soft kitchen light. He was at a loss of words at how you were holding him together, when he couldn't even do it for himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I keep putting you through this.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining with his. Your grip was warm, It was reassuring and steady. “Don’t be,” you said softly. You could tell that he had a nightmare. You learned the signs— the shaking, the sweating. The look of restlessness despite being asleep for the last several hours. “You just had a rough night.”

Bucky trembled against you, feeling him unravelling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was short and it came in shaky bursts. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and heavy, soaking into your skin. They started quietly, a gentle release, but soon turned into shuddering sobs that echoed against the kitchen counter, the walls, the floors.

His grip tightened, fingers twirling into the fabric of your shirt as if you were his anchor in this reality. Each sob was raw, steeped in guilt and in the fear of losing you.

No matter how vulnerable he felt, he knew that in your embrace, there was no judgement. You held him tighter, whispering soft reassurances and sweet nothings— promises that you’d stay with him forever and ever. Until the end of time. Until your heart gave out.

“Do you want hot chocolate, too?” you asked softly.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he let out a small laugh, your words a shocking catharsis, bringing him out of the spiral. 

Oh, you always knew how to say the right thing at the right time.

He nodded, squeezing your hand one more time, just to reassure himself that you were real, that you weren’t slipping away.

You smiled gently at his quiet laugh, slightly reaching out to turn the electric kettle back on again without letting your grip on him falter.

As the kettle hummed in the background, Bucky held you close, finally convincing himself that no matter how dark the nightmares were, you would always be there when he woke up.

-end

[amarriageoftrueminds]

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Since it came up recently, link to that therapist on twitter 👆 who was discussing Bucky's terribile therapist in TFATWS and how they should’ve been. 

Transcript:

"As a therapist myself I've had a lot of feelings about Bucky's therapist on TFatWS, and have decided I need to rant a little to let it all out. I've worked w/active duty, trauma survivors, and court ordered clients, so here's some therapeutic conjecture on Bucky's therapy:

Aesthetically her office and presentation don't fit for someone who has been through the trauma that he’s been through. A client like this would need something non-threatening and safe- the whole vibe is overly formal and official in an office building, not at all therapeutic.

6 months working together she calls him Mr. Barnes and then James-he has identity issues and is struggling with who he is, so I think that one of the 1st things they would have done is figure out what he is comfortable being called, by whom and what that means for him.

He is still full out lying to her about pretty much everything including PTSD sx—I’m not saying clients never lie if they have good therapists, but if after 6 months he still doesn’t feel like he can be truthful at all then they haven’t built any trust/ solid therapeutic rapport

The pen and notebook thing-that’s clearly a trigger for him, there’s no reason to antagonize him and take notes in session like a punishment, it’s a power play on her part and it only emphasizes his lack of control in being forced into therapy (she should know his hx w/notebooks)

The whole little arm motion she made when she said “they need to make sure you don’t…” – that made so much light of what has happened to him, he probably feels like his arm is only good as a weapon and things like that will not help him accept it as part of his body

The rules, UGH the rules—from how they were talking about them clearly not something he actively created for himself, more like directives that he’s been ordered to adhere to—something fed to him and reinforced, feels like a way to sign off on liability only

THE AMENDS—this is probably my biggest issue. Amends are for people who need to take accountability for their actions and the repercussions of those choices. He had NO choice. He was a victim of horrific crimes against him, and framing it in a way that he needs to make up for

the crimes that others used him for is abhorrent. The lack of trauma informed care as astounding in the way it is being framed that he has to atone for sins that weren’t his. Its clearly reinforcing the idea in his head in ep 2 when he says “HYDRA were my people".

NO, HYDRA were your captors. They were not your people. That type of thinking needs to get deconstructed and challenged. He can dedicate himself to bringing good into the world and righting wrongs that happened WITHOUT taking on the responsibility of those actions.

Her whole attitude and demeanor were condescending and demeaning. I know some people have said “I love how she calls him out on his bullshit!” That’s not what I see happening. I call my clients out on their shit all the time—this was not that.

And I can only do that with clients ONCE we’ve built the type of relationship where it’s going to be therapeutic for them to hear it, and it’s done intentionally and with purpose. She just came off shaming and mean because they don’t seem to have any form of therapeutic rapport.

She said “you have no history, no family”- there is no therapeutic reason for that, and she’s wrong. He most likely has family alive (he used current tense when talking about his sister) and he was close to Shuri and TChalla, his history is vital to understanding him

When she said “Look, I know that you have been through a lot, but you’ve got your mind back. You are being pardoned. These are good things. You’re free.”—Yeah this feels really dismissive and like toxic positivity. “I know you’ve been through a lot BUT BE HAPPY!!??”

He certainly doesn’t seem to feel like he’s free (especially having therapy mandated), and you can’t just tell someone they’re free. I felt like she was pretty much just like, “shake it off, look to the future!” which feels really shitty when you’ve experienced excessive trauma.

HELLO breach of confidentiality, just introducing herself to Sam as his therapist and confirming it to Walker and the whole police station, it doesn’t matter if they know he’s in therapy you do not break someone’s privacy like that, he still deserves some control over his tx.

Ordering Sam into a session, NO, he’s not your client and you don’t know him well enough to know if that’s appropriate or if it would be harmful to either, and you haven’t asked your client for his consent to have another person in his session

Forcing a trauma victim who was stripped of his bodily autonomy for 70 years into a physically intimate exercise with a coworker that he’s barely interacted with in the last several months? NOPE, just reinforcing to Bucky she has control over him the way his handlers used to

To me, I think she is more focused on signing off on his psychological eval that he isn't a liability rather than any actual healing or attention to his trauma. This unfortunately isn’t unusual in the military where “mental health treatment” is focused on being mission ready.

They are making sure he’s ready to be an “asset” w/ mandated therapy, which he shouldn’t even be forced to do as part of his pardon because he shouldn’t have needed a pardon at all because he was a victim of horrific war crimes, brainwashing, and dehumanization for 70 years.

I’m just saying, if that was me he would be on my big squishy couch, bright open windows, bowl of Hershey kisses, random fidget toys, and two therapy dogs laying all over him while we work through that trauma and he builds back his identity and finds the calm he wants so badly.

And yes he would probably need someone who would see through his BS, call him out when he needs it, not be overly "touchy feely", but only if he feels safe and there is trust, where he gets to work on what HE wants, not what others think he needs.

Anyway thanks for coming to my TEDTalk, I❤️my work and I think being a therapist on retainer for the Avengers would've been a fucking trip, they all needed a team of mental health professionals at their disposal 24/7 and things would've been so much better🤣

ps. They can be a good therapist and just not be a fit for the client, that happens regularly. We know when to make it part of the conversation and when to refer out. Nothing good is going to come out of a contemptuous therapeutic relationship, mandated or not.

pps. That whole situation and the scene with Zemo was so rough. I can't imagine how much it brought back the violation, humiliation, anger, and helplessness of when he was the WS. I'm just imagining him having a therapist he trusts and being able to process that afterwards 😭😭😭"

[urdepressedslut]

You’re Mine, Sunshine (masterlist) ♡

♡ Pairing: Grumpy!Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Fem!Reader (Mob!Au Bodyguard!Au)

♡ Series Summary: Bucky gets picked by a very rich and respected man to be his daughter’s personal bodyguard. The Father warns him that it won’t be an easy job, that she is a brat and difficult to deal with. But what happens when Bucky meets you and you’re the complete opposite?

♡ Series Warnings: mentions of amputation, dark themes, violence, death/death threats, talk of parent death, fluff, angst, stalking, daddy issues, anxiety attacks/panic attacks, abuse, depression, depressive episodes, PTSD, dry humping, hints to smut, (warnings to be added as new chapters are released)

Trope ⇢ Grumpy x Sunshine ☀️

(SERIES ONGOING)

Last Updated: 9/8/23

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | SERIES 18+

⇨ Chapter One

↳ After Pierce interviews Bucky for the job, he warns him of you. Bucky is starting to rethink his decision, but when he meets you... you're not what he expected.

⇨ Chapter Two

↳ Bucky takes you home, and later finds you in the library. You both get to know each other a little better, but Bucky is hesitant.

⇨ Chapter Three

↳ Bucky has a surprise meeting with Pierce, getting informed about your secret admire. Meanwhile, Bucky tries to keep things professional, he’s hesitant to cross the line when you need him.

⇨ Chapter Four

↳ You don’t know what to think of Bucky after he took you to bed last night. Bucky can’t continue to keep the stalking situation hidden from you. Something is found on your doorstep.

⇨ Chapter Five

↳ Getting to know each other better doesn’t go according to plan. Bucky has to comfort you and fix the mess he made. Will you forgive him?

⇨ Chapter Six

↳ Bucky receives a morning visit from Steve, with the news about what was in the box. Bucky continues to think about what he should do. Should he tell you the truth about your stalker?

⇨ Chapter Seven

↳ Bucky finds you making a mess in the kitchen, attempting to bake and offers his help. The two of you get to talking and some reveals about each other begin to come out. Will he finally tell you about your stalker?

⇨ Chapter Eight

↳ After a surprise visit from Pierce, tension arises as he threatens Bucky of his job. Pierce wants to have a talk with you and it doesn't go very well.

⇨ Chapter Nine

↳ After the events from the other day, you try and cope with the reality of what happened. The world is a lot less colorful than you remember. Bucky helps comfort you after you realize you have no one left.

⇨ Chapter Ten

↳ Someone comes knocking at your door in the morning. Bucky answers and is surprised with who he finds. Are they going to help them or hurt them?

⇨ Chapter Eleven

↳ The tension can't be ignored anymore between you and Bucky. Steve shows up and he's not alone.

⇨ Chapter Twelve

↳ Reality is hitting you as you, Bucky, Steve and his men all venture off to a secret safe house only Steve knows about. The events from the last couple of days are starting to hit you with a sickening force, leaving you weak and crippled.

⇨ Chapter Thirteen

↳ Your dreams consist of random memories of your parents, but are they really random? Despite the past days of hell—you still find it difficult to resist Bucky. You two spend a heated morning together, devouring each other while you still have these moments.

[flowersforbucky]

higher than heaven

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 5.5k - my masterlist

summary: bucky's first time smoking 🍃 since the 40s. bucky finds you smoking alone one night, leading to two of you growing much closer.

warnings/tags: use of marijuana, language, brief use of alcohol, nightmares, ptsd, anxiety, pining and tension, heated kissing, friends to lovers, pretty fucking fluffy, no use of y/n, fem reader, 18+ only

author's note: no smut? gasp! everything else i've written for bucky has contained smut so bare with me, i just wanted to take a break for some fun and fluffy (but still tension-filled) toking.

a/n 2: bucky and reader smoke in this, but i wouldn't say that's the main focus of this fic, just something that brings them closer together. i tried not to focus too much on that aspect, and also tried not to give too vivid of descriptions of being stoned so hopefully readers who don't smoke 🍃 can still enjoy this fic for the fluff and feels. however, if this is a triggering topic for you in any way, please be careful and read at your own discretion 🖤

The Avenger's compound truly has everything you could ever need. A state of the art gymnasium and training center, indoor and outdoor pools, beautifully maintained grounds with walking trails and lake access.

And, one of your favorite things, no shortage of secluded smoking spots.

Tonight's choice? The roof directly above the living quarters. This is likely the spot that you frequent the most, out of sheer convenience.

You keep a couple of extra folding chairs stashed in the stairwell, for the rare occasions that you can convince Natasha or Wanda to relax enough to join you.

Tonight, like most nights, you're by yourself. You don't mind - you enjoy this alone time. You usually come up here after missions to unwind before passing out in your bed.

It’s a chilly night, with temperatures finally dropping down into the low fifties as the early days of fall approach. You're bundled up in an oversized hoodie, sipping on oolong tea to warm you from the inside. In your left hand you clutch the warm mug, and with your right you pinch the tail-end of a burning joint between your thumb and index finger.

You've been up here long enough to have already burnt through one joint, and you now take slow, heady hits of a second as you wait for the meteor shower that's expected to begin over the northeastern United States any minute.

The creaking of the large metal door that leads to the roof startles you, causing you to break your gaze away from the stars littered above you in the New York sky. All the times you've come up here to watch the sunsets over the lake, no one has stumbled upon you. You're surprised by who emerges from the doorway a second later.

Bucky freezes in his tracks when he notices you sitting just a few yards in front of him.

“Oh, sorry,” he pauses, seemingly glancing around the roof to see if there's anyone else here with you. “I didn't expect - I didn't think anyone would be up here right now,” he stutters out.

“You're good,” you smile at him over your shoulder before turning your attention back to the sky. “Trying to get a good view of the meteors?”

“Yes, actually,” he says, surprised. You hear his boots scratching the pavement of the roof as he walks closer to you. You look up at him when he comes to a stop right next to where you're sitting.

“Well, you've come to the right place.” You gesture towards the scenery in front of you - the endless inky sky overlooking the lake next to the compound. “There's some extra chairs stashed in the stairwell, if you'd like one.”

“I didn't know that you smoke,” he says curiously, eyeballing the blazing joint still clutched between your fingers. He visibly sniffs a couple times, as if to confirm that he is indeed smelling what he thinks he is. He doesn't acknowledge your offer of a chair, instead choosing to sit directly on the cement, criss-crossing his legs at the ankles.

“Are you going to tell on me?” You ask as if what you're doing isn't perfectly legal and your friends don't already know.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he smirks up at you, eyes flicking between you and the joint.

“Want a hit?” You offer, extending your hand towards him. He hesitates, uncertainty blooming across his features.

“I haven't smoked since the forties,” he starts with an awkward laugh. He reaches up, carefully taking the joint from you and pinching it between his own two fingers and inspecting it. “I still remember the last joint I smoked before finding out that I had been drafted. If I had known it was going to be my last, I would've appreciated it a lot more.” There's a hint of nostalgia in his words.

You picture it - baby-faced Bucky, in his early twenties, with glossy blue eyes and a lazy, content smile. The thought makes your cheeks warm, and a small, sad smile spreads across your own face. That was a literal lifetime ago, and you didn't know if he had felt as carefree since then.

“Well,” you begin after a sip of your tea. “You're no longer property of the United States Army, or HYDRA, or any organization. So if you want to smoke, then smoke. And if not, that's okay, too, but give me my joint back because you're burning perfectly good weed right now.”

He chuckles at your scolding before bringing the joint up to his own lips and taking a slow, long puff. There's a sharp inhale before he erupts into a coughing fit, smoke billowing out in a cloud in front of him. You give him a few awkward pats on the back while he works through the burn that he is undoubtedly feeling in his esophagus.

“Damn, I've missed that,” he sighs once he has regained his composure. He holds the dwindling joint back up to you.

You shake your head. “Finish it off,” you insist. “I've already had one tonight. It’s all yours.”

You expect him to argue but to your surprise, he takes a second hit. And a third, and fourth, while you sit next to him in an amicable, comfortable silence. Soon, there's nothing left but a small roach that he stubs out against the cement next to where he sits.

“How're you feeling?” You ask, knowing that his tolerance has to be in the negatives if he hasn't smoked in over seventy years.

“If twenty-two year old Bucky knew that I was this stoned off half a joint, he'd never let me hear the end of it,” he says with an amused smile, propping back on the palms of his hands to stare up at you.

“Well, I think one-hundred and six year old Bucky is doing just fine for himself,” you muse. “Twenty-first century weed has got to be more potent than whatever dirt weed you were smoking in the forties, so cut yourself some sla–”

“I did not smoke dirt–”

“Look!” you exclaim, cutting him off as you point up at the sky. He goes quiet, following your gaze.

You both watch in awed silence as flashes of bright white-blues and purples begin to dash across the sky above you. At first, there's a bolt here and a bolt there - but before you know it, there's dozens - too many meteors to count, here and then gone in the blink of an eye. Where one disappears, another takes its place.

You lose track of how long the two you sit there, on the roof, under the shower of the shooting stars - and it has nothing to do with being stoned. They are just that mesmerizing.

“I think we’re supposed to make a wish,” you murmur after a long while, remembering the old legend about shooting stars. You watch the last few meteors as they burn out, and then the sky goes dark once more. When he doesn't respond, you glance down at where he sits to find that his eyes are closed.

You smile to yourself - you didn't actually plan on making a wish, and you definitely didn't expect him to. You figure that he is just humoring you, but you can't help but think how adorable it is nonetheless. You can't stop yourself from snorting a laugh, causing his eyes to snap open and up at you.

“What? Did you make your wish?” he demands, his tone serious.

You hum. A familiar, glowing warmth grows from your lips and down to your toes despite the chilly night air as you stare at him. You tell yourself it’s a physical effect of the marijuana.

“I think I’m good, actually.”

••••••

Every year, a different member of the Avengers chooses a charity to hold a gala in honor of.

Sam's choice last year, Homes For Our Troops, build specially adapted, custom homes for severely injured veterans. Natasha's choice the year before that, Children of the Night, is a non-profit organization dedicated to rescuing and rehabilitating children who have been victims of prostitution.

Always funded by the Stark Relief Foundation, always held in the most high-profile and illustrious venues that money can buy, and always filled to the brim with every philanthropist and major news reporter in the state of New York.

This year, for the first time, it was your turn to select a charity. You decided on Women For Women International - a noble and worthy cause that you are proud to raise awareness and donations for. However, now that three hours into the gala, you are fucking burnt out. From the moment that you and your teammates arrived at the venue, guests and reporters began forming lines for their chance at interviewing you or getting their picture taken with you. You feel like you’ve talked to every person in the building, except for the one person that you truly wanted to. Add in a ten minute long speech addressing five hundred plus guests, you are drained. Physically, mentally, and socially drained.

“You did incredible with your speech,” a soft voice says from behind you. “All that worrying for nothing.”

You're exhaling a sigh of relief at the familiar voice before you've finished turning around to meet his dimpled grin and deep blue eyes. You think he might just be as ready as you are to get out of here with the way he's already loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his tux. His hair is tousled - though you haven't had a free moment to speak with him since the car ride over here with Sam and Steve, you have no doubt that he's ran his fingers through the short locks a few dozens times throughout the evening - a habit that flares up every time he's out of his element. With this being the first gala he's attended as an Avenger, and possibly the first gala he's ever attended, you're surprised he has any hair left.

“I wouldn't say for nothing,” you turn back to the bar in front of you and wave a singular finger to the bartender, signaling your desire for another drink. “I stuttered at least eight times, and lost my place on the page twice. I felt like I was going to puke shrimp cocktail and espresso martini all over the podium.”

You can see him grimace from your peripheral vision. He pulls out the barstool next to where you stand, and then takes a seat. You're pinned between the chair on the opposite side of you and his thigh, the cool silk of his pants tickling the bare skin of your leg where your dress cuts off just above mid-thigh. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiate from him and smell the essence of his piney aftershave. Subconsciously, you relax for the first time all evening.

“You are your own worst critic,” he reminds you, repeating the sentiment that he’s been saying to you for the last few weeks, anytime the gala or your speech would come up in conversation. “No one else noticed if you stuttered. They’re all too full of liquor, or too concerned with getting their photo op with Iron Man or The Hulk..” he trails off, glancing over his shoulder at where Tony and Bruce are both striking signature poses for some selfies with guests.

“And what about you? Have any of your fangirls begged you to take a picture with them?” You smirk at him as the bartender slides your martini across the countertop. You angle your body so that you’re now turned to face him, leaving practically no space between the two of you.

“More than I can count,” he exhales, and you force a laugh to not roll your eyes - not that you were surprised or that you could blame them for wanting their picture taken with him.

“Well, I’m glad that we were able to raise so much money,” you sigh into your drink. “But I would be lying if I said I’m also not glad that it’s over with. I’m ready to get these shoes off, submerge myself in a hot bath, and then sleep until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Always the introvert,” he murmurs, a sly grin appearing on his face. He carefully tugs the lapel of his jacket to the side and reaches his flesh hand inside, pulling out a tin of wintergreen Altoids. You look at him curiously as he gives the small container a shake. It makes no sound, seemingly empty of mints. You cock an eyebrow at him, about to ask him what the deal is, when a familiar, earthy scent wafts towards you.

“What’s in the tin, Buck?” you ask rhetorically, as if the odor isn’t a dead giveaway.

“Just a little something I’ve been saving for when I could finally get you alone tonight,” he shrugs, slipping the tin back inside the interior pocket of his jacket. Your heart skips a beat at the possibility that maybe he’d been wanting to talk to you, see you, spend time with you as much as you had him.

“I’m just happy to see that you finally have your own weed,” you tease, trying to polish off the remnants of your drink so that you can get the fuck out of here. “Now you can stop smoking all of mine.”

You’re just giving him a hard time, of course. You’d lost count of how many times the two of you have smoked together since the night of the meteor shower just two months ago, and you were more than happy to share your supply with him - he gives you a lopsided grin that tells you he knows you don’t actually mind.

“Hence why I have pre-rolled three joints just for you,” he quips back. “One for how much time and effort you put into this event, one for conquering your fear of public speaking, and one for how much of your weed you have let me smoke.”

Your cheeks warm at the thoughtful gesture. You swallow the last swig of the brown liquid and slide the glass back across the bar.

“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go get a cab.”

Half an hour later, you and Bucky are in the backseat of the taxi that drives you away from bustling downtown Brooklyn and towards a park that Bucky had instructed the driver to take you to. You didn’t object, trusting that he knows this area of New York better than you do.

The driver comes to a stop next to a nearly desolate sidewalk that appears to lead to a waterfront walkway. Bucky hands the driver a handful of cash, tells him to keep the change, and hops out of the cab before extending a hand to you as you scoot across the seat to follow his exit. You mumble a quick thanks to the driver as he helps you onto the sidewalk and shuts the door behind you.

You pull your coat tighter around you, attempting to shield yourself from the chill of the November air. Fall is now in full swing in New York, and the short cocktail dress that you wore to the gala does little to protect you from the night air.

“Me and Steve used to come to this park all the time,” he tells you as he pulls the Altoids tin and a BIC lighter from his jacket. “I vividly remember having to break up a fight he got into just past that fountain when we were teenagers,” he motions towards a large granite fountain ahead of you, “when some asshole stole a kid's frisbee.”

You laugh as he passes you a joint and the lighter, able to picture the memory he describes clear as day. It's far from the first time he's told you about a time that he had to get pre-serum Steve out of trouble.

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” you mumble as you pinch the tail of the joint between your lips, inhaling as you hold the flame up to the opposite end. A wave of smoke instantly fills your esophagus and lungs with a familiar, comforting burn and you pass the blazing joint back to him. “He’d still do the exact same thing, too,” you add as you exhale the thick cloud of smoke that mixes with the cold air. “Only difference now is that he can handle any fight that he gets himself into.”

“Some things never change,” he says before bringing the paper up to his own lips. You follow as he guides you across a small grassy area and to the walkway that runs alongside the river. Truthfully, it’s too chilly to be on a park stroll at this hour in your current attire, but with Bucky’s body heat radiating from directly beside you and the buzz you feel from the weed, you’re surprisingly comfortable.

“One thing that has changed however,” he continues as you’re inhaling a second hit, “is how well I’ve started sleeping on the nights that we smoke together. On those nights, I don't wake up over a dozen times. Hardly ever even have nightmares anymore.”

Your skin tingles at his admission - a whole flight of butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach that you push down. You know that he means this because of the weed, not because of you, but for some reason - maybe it's the way his arm keeps bumping against yours or the way the moonlight reflects in the pools of his blue eyes as he glances over at you - you let yourself believe, even for just a split second, that you're aiding in bringing him peace on those evenings spent together. On the roof above the living quarters right before bed, or at the edge of the lake's water when you stop after a late run to watch the sunset, or -

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful that I found you up on the roof the night of the meteor shower,” he continues when you don't respond, his voice now possessing a nervous edge. Your mouth suddenly feels dry - the worst cotton-mouth you've ever had times ten. “For more reasons than one.”

You both gradually slow until you've come to a complete stop in front of a boat dock. Between the martini you had before leaving the gala, the effects of the marijuana, and the way he's looking at you while standing so close, you think it's a miracle that you haven't tripped in these ridiculous chunky heels and fallen into the East River. You clear your throat, hoping that you don't sound like a lovestruck teenager when you speak.

“I'm really glad too, Bucky.”

••••••

You stare down at the picture displayed on your phone screen as you and Natasha take the elevator up to the compound's living quarters.

Rolled and ready for you to be home reads the text attached to the picture of the joint pinched between the thumb and index finger of his flesh hand that Bucky had sent you ten hours ago, before your flight from Arizona to New York was supposed to depart.

Our flight has been delayed due to a thunderstorm. No current ETA your reply reads with a frowny face emoji at the end.

Now, at 2:16 in the morning, you are finally back home hours later than originally expected.

You were sure that Bucky was asleep by this point, and you didn't blame him. You wished you were asleep right now, too. Natasha slept the entire plane ride back to New York.

You, on the other hand, may or may not have spent the plane ride reading back over recent text messages between you and Bucky and zooming in on the picture he had sent you because for some reason you really like his hands. Both of them.

You were acting like a goddamn fifteen year old.

“What are you grinning at?” Natasha's voice snaps you out of your trance. You quickly shove your phone into the pocket of your duffel bag.

“I'm not grinning,” you lie, but it's Natasha - of course she sees right through you.

“You were grinning,” she shrugs with a knowing smirk. “But it's okay. We'll chalk it up to sleep deprivation.”

“I am sleep deprived, actually. Someone snored the entire flight back home.”

“For someone who wasn't grinning you sure are being defensive right now,” she retorts with a shit-eating grin as the elevator dings and the door slides open. You roll your eyes as you both step out into the hallway that leads to the living quarters. You turn to the left, towards your bedroom, and she takes a right but then comes to a sudden stop, calling your name. You freeze, turning to look at her with a raised brow.

“For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. It's obvious to everyone around you two.” She looks at you expectantly.

“Get some rest, Nat,” you huff a small laugh under your breath, and try not to smile. She doesn't press the subject any further.

Before reaching your bedroom, you pause at the door to Bucky's room. You don't knock, but wait to see if you hear any movement from inside. All that you hear is a loud static from his white noise machine.

Although you expected him to be asleep at this hour, you couldn't help but feel a small pang of disappointment that you hadn't been able to get back earlier. You knew you would see him tomorrow (well, technically later today), but you hadn't gone this long - a mere three days - without seeing Bucky since the two of you had become close months ago.

You quietly make your way into your bedroom and toss your duffel bag onto the end of the bed before stripping off the dirty, sweaty tactical suit that you'd been wearing since the early hours of the previous morning.

In your bathroom, you turn the faucet handle to the hottest setting and watch as the small room fills with steam before stepping under the showerhead.

You think about what Natasha said as you scrub your body clean and let the harsh but satisfying stream of water relax your aching shoulder muscles.

You wanted to go for it. Goddamn, you wanted to go for it. Every time you are alone with him - whether he's helping you train with target practice, or you're paired up together for re-con, or you're just simply eating breakfast together in the common area - you want to go for it.

All you have to do is stare at his stupid, pretty pink lips for a split-second too long and you're thinking about going for it.

But for so many reasons, you don't.

Though your heart wants more, you love your friendship with him, too. And you would be devastated if you tried for more and it didn't work out and you lost that friendship altogether.

You also don't know if Bucky wants more. Natasha says that everyone around you sees it, but he's never directly said it. You know there's an undeniable chemistry, but what if you're the only one experiencing it?

You watch the last few suds of your body wash go down the drain and turn the shower off, deciding that it's too late and you're far too tired to be thinking about this right now.

You speed through your post-shower routine, desperate to feel the silk of your bedsheets against your clean, freshly moisturized skin as you drift off to sleep.

You're rolling some deodorant under your arms when a deep, loud cry thunders from somewhere outside of your room causing you to let out a shocked gasp. You drop the object in your hand immediately and it falls to the floor as you rush out of your bedroom, wearing only thin cotton shorts and a matching tank top.

As soon as you step into the hallway, you are able to identify where the screams are coming from. Pained, booming yells originate from behind the door directly across from your own.

Bucky’s room.

You don't hesitate to twist the doorknob, letting yourself and shutting the door behind you.

The pale orange glow of a small table lamp in the far corner of his bedroom illuminates the room enough for you to make sense of what is happening. The sight before you makes your heart sink to the floorboards.

He's asleep - his eyes pinched shut and his brows furrowed together in obvious agony. He's shirtless, and his skin looks pale and clammy with thick beads of sweat littered from his forehead to his torso.

There's a meek voice in the back of your mind that tries to remind you that you don't know what you're walking into, as you've never encountered Bucky while he's having a nightmare before but he looks so fucking pitiful that your only concern is alleviating him from whatever prison of torment his mind is currently trapped in.

You rush over to the side of the bed, nearly tripping on the comforter that he's apparently through to the floor in his sleep. Both of his hands form tight fists, his knuckles strained pale. He lets out another guttural yell that causes you to instinctively flinch away.

“Bucky,” you say, attempting to keep your voice from breaking. “Wake up, Bucky. You're having a nightmare.”

He gives no indication that he can hear you, his head thrashing violently and fists slamming down against his mattress as he makes a pitiful whimper.

“Bucky,” you repeat, leaning down to perch on the few inches of free space on the side of the bed. You reach out to place your hand on the flesh of his bicep, about to attempt to gently stir him awake, when he shoots straight up in his bed. You flinch again, but don't move from your position next to him, firming your grasp on his bicep in an effort to ground him. His blue eyes are as wide as saucers and his chest heaves as he takes in his surroundings.

“You're okay,” you assure him in a soft, uncertain voice, rubbing your thumb in circles against the skin of his flesh arm. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is–”

“I could have hurt you,” he interrupts you, his voice faltering on the last word. “I could have–”

“You didn't hurt me,” you interrupt him back. “You're okay, and I'm okay, too.” He nods, and you can tell he's trying to convince himself that the words you say are true.

You quickly glance around his room until you find what you're looking for. Strewn on the floor next to his bedside table, you see a black t-shirt. You reach over, picking it up. You hesitate for a moment before slowly extending the fabric to Bucky's face, where you delicately wipe away the thin layer of sweat that glistens on his forehead. He relaxes into the movement, his eyes closing until you pull away.

“I'm sorry that I woke you up,” he murmurs after a moment of heavy silence.

“You didn't wake me up,” you assure him quickly. He watches you with something akin to guilt across his features. “I had just gotten out of the shower. We didn't get home until half an hour ago.”

He glances down, noticing your attire. You suddenly feel naked in only the thin gray shorts and tank top. You awkwardly clear your throat, reaching to place the t-shirt on his bedside table when something catches your eye. Bucky follows your gaze to the joint laying on his bedside table.

“I tried to wait up for you,” he exhales a soft laugh. “Ended up passing out around midnight.” Your whole body warms at his admission. The idea that he tried to force himself to stay awake just so he could see you when you got home makes you feel dizzy despite the fact that you're sitting down.

“Do you want to now? To help you sleep?” you ask, gesturing towards the joint. You don't even care that it's three in the morning and that you're borderline delirious from lack of sleep.

He takes one of your hands in between his own and brings it closer to him, giving it a tight squeeze as he shakes his head.

“No, I know you're tired. But could you just..” He trails off, bringing your hand clutched between his up to his mouth to rest his lips against the skin of the back of your hand. It's not quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps across your flesh nonetheless. You're holding your breath without realizing it. “Could you just lay with me for a while?”

You nod your head in agreement without even thinking about it. “Yeah - yeah, of course,” you answer, hoping that you don't sound too eager while simultaneously knowing that your voice has risen several octaves.

You lean over once again, grabbing his comforter off of the floor as Bucky scoots towards the middle of the king sized bed to give you room to crawl in beside him. He extends his flesh arm away from his body, a clear indication that he wants you to lay in the space between his arm and his chest. You lay down, tucking your head under his chin so that your cheek rests against the mildly clammy but soft skin of his chest. He helps you tug the thick blanket across your bodies before bringing his arm around your abdomen, pinning you to him.

Luckily, you’re far too tired, and he’s far too warm for you to overthink it.

“You smell really good,” he murmurs into your hair and you hope that his preternatural abilities don’t pick up on the way your heart skips a beat. “I probably smell like sweat.”

You hum a laugh against his chest, sniffing the skin next to your nose without thinking about it.

“You don’t smell like sweat. You smell just as good as you always do, somehow,” you assure him, reveling in his unique scent of vetiver and something citrusy.

You’re both quiet for a moment, sleep threatening to overtake you at any moment when he brings two metal fingers to the underside of your chin and gently tilts your face to look up at him. Your breath is trapped in your chest at the close proximity of your lips and his.

“Remember the night of the gala, when I told you that I’d started sleeping better and having less nightmares since we’d started smoking together before bed?”

You nod, not trusting your voice to answer verbally. He’s so fucking close, you can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste from when he’d brushed his teeth hours ago.

“That was true,” he continues, looking down at you with an indiscernible expression. “But what I’m now realizing is that I don’t think it has anything to do with the weed,” he pauses, a small smile forming across his face. “It’s just you.”

You can’t stop the smile that blooms in return, just as you can’t stop what you do next.

Closing the distance between your lips and his own, you kiss him as you’ve thought about doing for months now. You’re hesitant at first, worrying that you’ve crossed that line that you can never go back over - but then he’s moving his mouth with your own in a synchronicity sweeter than you could have dreamed.

His arms dart under the comforter, wrapping around your body and pulling you even tighter against him. You bring one of your hands to cup his face as he sweeps his tongue along the swell of your bottom lip. You open up for him, letting him inside your mouth as you move your hand from his jaw to his hair - lacing your fingers through the short brown locks as he explores your mouth. Your thigh hooks around his, and it takes everything in you to hold back - to not swing yourself over him and lay the full weight of your body flush against his.

He’s just had a nightmare, and it’s late, and you’re tired, and you don’t want to move this sweet, special thing that you have too quickly.

He pulls away, and you fight against whimpering at the loss of the sensation of his soft lips.

“The night of the meteor shower,” he starts, his voice strained and his pupils dilated. “You told me to make a wish, and I did. Now that it’s come true, I can tell you what it was I wished for,” he pauses, running his metal thumb across your kiss-swollen bottom lip as you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “I wished for as many moments like that as I could possibly get with you.”

Your heart swells in your chest. You're convinced that you're asleep because this is something straight out of your dreams. You remove your hand from his hair, placing it directly above his heart to make yourself believe this is real.

“Speaking of meteor showers,” you start as you trail the tips of your fingers over the defined planes of his chest. “There's supposed to be a cool show at the planetarium in Manhattan this weekend. Do you want to go with me?”

His answer is a soft smile before attaching his lips to yours once more.

thanks so much for reading! as always reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated. i hope you enjoyed 🩷

other recent works by me: love language • delirium • it's nice to have a friend

[jen-with-a-pen]

𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is. 

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter–  to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day. 

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week. 

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.  

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together. 

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival. 

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’ 

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door. 

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger. 

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder. 

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit. 

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing. 

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.  

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink. 

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it. 

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time. 

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell. 

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear. 

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below. 

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape. 

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully. 

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium. 

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form. 

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.” 

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan. 

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours. 

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.” 

You wanted to take his finger and break it.  

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.” 

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion. 

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance. 

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles. 

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously. 

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side. 

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?” 

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward. 

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard. 

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body. 

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!” 

“No! Fuck– Get off me!” 

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.” 

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it’d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” 

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.” 

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged. 

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you. 

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.” 

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why. 

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door. 

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy. 

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however. 

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?” 

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release. 

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core. 

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs. 

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass. 

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.” 

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him. 

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure. 

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you. 

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!” 

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you. 

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode. 

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile. 

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

[anxietyriddenbutterfly]

Superheroes struggle with mental health.

Tony Stark has anxiety and PTSD

Bruce Banner has depression and suicidal tendencies

Steve Rogers has survivor's guilt, PTSD, and suicidal tendencies

Bucky Barnes has PTSD

Clint Barton has depression

Sam Wilson has PTSD

Wanda Maximoff has depression and struggles with grief

Thor has depression, binge-eating disorder, and alcoholism

Natasha most likely suffers from PTSD and childhood trauma

Steven/Marc has Dissociative Identity Disorder

Peter Parker suffers from grief and possibly PTSD/depression

Thena has dementia

Peggy Carter suffers from memory issues

Rocket Raccoon has PTSD and depression

Nebula has PTSD

Gamora has PTSD

Peter Quill struggles with grief and anger issues

Drax has PTSD, anger issues, and struggles with grief

(Lets just face it all of the Guardians have at least one mental illness)

This doesn't even cover all of them. I just feel like our lil mentally unwell superheroes deserve more recognition for fighting even when things are hard.

[amarriageoftrueminds]

#of course it is easier for Marvel to assimilate the idea that a woman is a victim #even when a woman is the perpetrator she is not seen and judged as the “bad guy” as much as a man would be #as in the case of Wanda whose crimes and abuses are excused on the basis of her pain and loneliness #again it is very easy to accept the idea of a woman being the “victim” of the situation #but what happens when it is a man who lost his agency and was subjected to the will of a third party? #this is an automatic “NO” #because a man can't not be in control of the situation #a man “always takes responsibility for his actions” #i think this… this is precisely the “problem” Marvel has with Bucky… #that as a man “he must be held accountable for his actions” #ACTIONS OVER WHICH HE DID NOT HAVE THE REMOTEST CONTROL BECAUSE HIS CONSCIENCE DID NOT EVEN EXIST! #but for marvel this is not important… #he should be held accountable for his actions because “that's what men do” right? #but wait… then what about Clint and Erik? they are men too… #it seems that literally everyone can be excused and recognized as a victim… #everyone but the only one who lost his identity. the only one who was enslaved and tortured for decades #the only one who suffers irreparable brain damage. the only one amputee. the only one disabled #thinking about it… is ableism the real problem? #or is it just the most vile and blatant case of dislike that a company holds for its own character that has ever been? #whatever the “reason”… absolutely nothing excuses the abominable injustice to which marvel has subjected Bucky literally since forever #the bastards even said they don't think Bucky deserves to be happy!! #i really have no words for this…. #literally the longest suffering victim ever #who has been most mistreated and scorned by the industry that created him… #i just… ahhhhhhhhh!!! #anti victim blaming #anti ableism

RE: the intersection of this with ableism:

Bucky and Antonia are both permanently disabled during the catalyst incident which begins their imprisonment and mind-control...

But only Bucky is blamed for what he did under said mind-control.

I have noticed that the creators starting to blame Thor for things too (ie. blaming Thor for not killing Thanos) happens to coincide with Thor becoming permanently disabled (losing his eye).

And Clint becoming deaf also coincides with him having to face consequences (not for something he did under mind-control, of course, but for the voluntary crimes he committed during the Snap.)

So maybe their unique disgust of Bucky is motivated both by disgust of a male character being a passive/non-agentic victim (further non-agentic in the sense of having his personality taken from him too; unlike Erik, Clint, etc.), and disgust at disability? 🤔

It's like they think they're doing him a favour by implying he was agentic and to blame -- they think they're making him more Manly and Therefore improved. 🤮

🤡 Markus and McFeely 🤡: “Yeah, Bucky’s just a POW who had his entire agency explicitly removed in not one but TWO ways but he’s for sure guilty because we don’t want him to have fruit salads with Steve”

[purple-babygirl]

don't call me daddy III

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x little!f!reader

Word count: 3,840

Summary : In a world where littles are openly themselves, they volunteer to help and be helped by willing caregivers. In spite of himself, Bucky finds himself stuck with one and to keep the nagging away, he has to learn how to be around her with everything that that entails.

Warnings: Bucky is less mean, age regression, period blood, intrusive thoughts, crying, Bucky's PTSD & nightmares.

A/N: Here you go, beauties💜 Thank you for your patience, please enjoy xx💜tell me your ideas about how we should proceed with these two if you have any💜

~

She shifted again on the couch, the discomfort in her abdomen turning more and more into a sharp pain by the minute.

Sitting up to rub sleep out of her eyes so she could go to the bathroom, she felt the dampness in her underwear and quickly realized what was happening.

She didn’t need to go to the bathroom; it was something else.

Oh, no.

It was her period, and it has made a huge mess on her clothes and possibly the leather couch. Bucky’s leather couch.

He was going to be so mad at her.

Unless she got up before he came home and cleaned everything up, right?

She took a deep breath, leaving the couch to look for pads in her bag, only to find nothing.

She forgot to pack her pads? Oh, no! What was she going to do now?

She was in so much pain and she was literally bleeding. She didn’t know if she should change first, clean up first or try to find painkillers first.

It was too much.

But, of course, as if all of this wasn’t enough, her little mind closed up and she was standing in the middle of the room, crying, when she heard his key turn.

“Bucky,” she called out, panicked and nervous.

She could see the shock on Bucky’s face, but given his previous behavior, her small mind translated it as anger; anger directed at her, “I had an accident.”

“What happened?!” Bucky dropped his jacket on the floor and ran to her, holding her by the shoulders, checking for wounds on her face.

“I—” she hiccupped, clearly scared of him again, she didn’t realize he wasn’t angry at her, but rather scared himself.

“What is it?” He asked again, shaking her shoulders before frantically searching her arms and hands.

“Period,” she sobbed, her voice quavering.

She felt so bashful, but also annoyed because she didn’t want to want or need Bucky’s help. She wanted to give him the space he’s wanted ever since he’s gotten her.

She didn’t want to tell him. She wanted to help herself.

“What?” Bucky genuinely had no idea what she was talking about.

“It’s that time of the month. Period.” She bit her lip, “I need pads.”

“So you’re not hurt?”

She looked at him with confusion for a second before shaking her head.

She heard Bucky mumble something that sounded like thank god as he hung his head down.

“Well…Okay, do you wanna get dressed?” He suggested with a sigh, letting her arms go.

“I can’t go anywhere like this,” she cried more, embarrassed at her state. She couldn’t believe she forgot her pads back in her room at the institution.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go!” Bucky said quickly, surprising her and himself by bringing a hand to her cheek.

She closed her eyes in fear, but whatever harshness she was anticipating never came.

Bucky’s thumb stuttered as it wiped away her tears, “I’ll get them.”

“Really?” She sniffled, slowly opening her eyes.

“Yes, go change into something clean and come back to tell me what pads… look like?”

Bucky has never done this before and he frankly had no idea how he was going to do shopping for period pads.

She nodded, hurrying to the bathroom with her bag.

She thought she’d use toilet paper as a temporary substitute until Bucky’s gotten her the pads in order not to ruin anymore clothes.

She lined her underwear with the tissues as best as she could before collecting her bloodied clothes in hand and opening the door.

“I— ehm— could you please start the washing machine for me?” she timidly asked, holding her stained clothes behind her back.

“Why?!”

“I wanna clean my clothes.” She swallowed, shifting on her feet uncomfortably.

She remembered well enough that ice cubes on bloodied clothes made it easier for the stains to come out. Maybe she should tell him about that.

“Leave that for now. I’ll do it.” Bucky waived his hand, wanting to go and get her what she needed.

He couldn’t imagine what periods were like for women, and in her state? He felt like she shouldn’t be going through this at all.

“But the blood—”

“It’s okay. Leave them on top of the hamper.”

She wordlessly did as told before coming back out, rubbing her tummy as discreetly as possible.

“Are you in pain?” Bucky asked, moving to sit down.

She nodded quietly before shouting, “no! Don’t sit there!”

“Why not?!” Bucky frowned and she grimaced before grabbing a couple of tissues.

She wiped the stained couch a couple of times before running with the tissues to the trash.

“Oh.” Bucky swallowed as she ran to wash her hands.

He didn’t think he’s ever been in a similar situation in his life and if he has, he certainly didn’t remember. But Bucky knew he wasn’t disgusted; only worried for her.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was worried about someone and it made him uneasy.

As she dried her hands, she was dreading leaving the bathroom because she didn’t want to hear Bucky’s scolding about how she’s gotten his couch dirty.

Tiptoeing back into the living room, she had her hands back on her sides, desperately rubbing where her ovaries were to ease the piercing pain.

“I’ll get you some painkillers as well.” Bucky nodded, his frown never leaving his face.

He probably didn’t know, but his normal face as well as his intense stare were screaming I will kill you and it didn’t help her.

“Thank you.” She bit her lip again, eyes casted down.

“Here.” Bucky grabbed his jacket from the floor, hand fiddling with the pocket, “eat this.” Bucky brought a chocolate bar out of his jacket’s pocket, “I got it for you last night but you were asleep.”

“How did you know I was getting my period this morning?” she tilted her head innocently.

“I didn’t. I— I was gonna give it to you to—” Bucky stuttered.

To say I’m sorry

“To say good job during the visit yesterday,” Bucky sighed, the lies heavy on his unaccustomed tongue.

She took the chocolate without a word.

He was manipulating her again, wasn’t he? Probably just trying to build credit for the next visit.

“Mrs. Morrison isn’t coming the rest of the visits this month. She’s coming next month,” she informed him, disappointment evident in her tone, before leaving the chocolate bar on the coffee table.

I know, he wanted to say, but he didn’t want her to know he listened in on their conversation.

Bucky merely nodded, trying not to show dejection.

“Let me grab a pen so you could tell me what you need.” He got his new notebook out of his back pocket and sat down next to her.

“Can’t we just ask for it to be delivered?” She suggested, wanting to get away from receiving Bucky’s help, especially with something so private.

“Well, I’m offering to get them, aren’t I?” Bucky snapped, slightly losing his patience again.

He was internally mad he had to lie. Why couldn’t he just say he was sorry? And why was he feeling like he needed to protect her against the pain of this monstrous monthly visitor?

Her eyes teared up again as she stood up and started giving him the details about the brand and type of pad she used without an extra word.

Wow, she didn’t even want to sit next to him now.

Bucky understood, but he wished things weren’t the way they were. He wished he wasn’t the way he was.

Only now did he realize, she’s been a literal saint to him all along and he was all but the most ungrateful person she could’ve ever crossed paths with.

~

At the store, Bucky stood in the middle of the long aisle with his notebook in hand on the verge of crying because what was all these brands? Why did you need so many colours? And how did any of those have wings?

He needed to get back to her with those pads as soon as possible but he couldn’t because he didn’t know which was which.

She’d told him the ones she used had a pink package, but there were at least 4 groups of those coloured pink, different shades too.

Two women noticed Bucky’s dilemma and pushed forward to where he stood.

Oh shit, he looked creepy, didn’t he?

“Can we help you?” One woman asked with a smile as she stopped her cart by Bucky’s.

“No— yes. I don’t know.” Bucky shook his head sheepishly as his cheeks grew red.

He's never done this before. He never thought he would either.

He didn’t want people to think he was a pervert, but he couldn’t leave without bringing her home those pads.

“For your girl?”

“Yes!”

Well, that was a fast yes.

The blonde woman looked at Bucky weird before laughing to the brunette next to her.

“First time, huh?”

Bucky nodded, blushing deeper.

“What did she tell you?” The brunette asked knowingly, not wanting to embarrass him more.

“Here, I wrote it down.” Bucky showed them the page where he had the description for the pads scribbled down haphazardly.

“Aww that’s so sweet!” The blonde woman put a hand on her heart, making Bucky smile awkwardly.

“We’ve been married two years and she’s never took down notes of my words!” She gently elbowed her wife.

“I don’t need to because I know what you want by heart!” The brunette defended before going to look at the pad described in Bucky’s notes.

“True,” the blonde standing with Bucky giggled, “your girl is gonna appreciate this very much.” She nodded with a smile.

Bucky faked another polite smile in reply.

Ah, if you only knew…

“Here, that’s the one you’re looking for.” The brunette handed Bucky two baby pink packages, “just in case.”

“Thank you so much!” Bucky was eternally grateful for the couple for saving him from going in an endless journey down that aisle.

“You’re welcome,” the brunette sang, pushing her cart away with her wife.

“Don’t forget to get her some ice cream!” The blonde shouted to Bucky.

 Bucky saluted with a chuckle, walking with purpose to find the ice cream fridges.

Enough stalling. Today was the day he made everything right. He was going to apologize even if the words killed him.

~

“Thank you.” She hastily grabbed the pads and a clean underwear and ran shyly to the bathroom to put them to use.

Bucky just changed his clothes and waited outside so he could ask her what she wanted to eat and maybe properly apologize this time.

He waited and he waited and there was nothing but silence.

She wasn’t coming out.

Now, he didn’t know how much time it took for girls to use those things, but he felt like she’s taken enough time.

Could she be in trouble? Was she too mad at him to leave the bathroom?

“Hey, everything okay in there?” Bucky knocked on the door, unknowingly making her drop the pad as she jumped.

“Y—yes!”

She was trying hard to remember the steps to put on the pad, but she kept messing it up, her mind just too little to function properly.

“Are you sure?” Bucky called for her again.

“No.” She opened the door with tears in her eyes because she was about to ask for Bucky’s help for the millionth time when she wasn’t supposed to; didn’t want to.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, his voice unconsciously caring and worried.

“I don’t remember how big me puts it on and the pain won’t go away and my underwear is all messy again,” she sobbed without breathing, covering her face with her hands when she was finished.

“Okay, okay, let me help,” Bucky suggested, feeling dumber than ever because he had no idea how to do this either, but he felt so bad for her.

“Mr. Barnes is a man. Men don’t get periods,” she whimpered.

So she was back to calling him Mr. Barnes… good job, Buck.

“We’ll look it up online. Sam showed me how before.” Bucky found himself reassuring her as he guided her out of the bathroom and back to the couch.

“It’s here.” She pointed to the drawings on the side of the package describing how to stick the pad on one’s underwear, “but I still can’t do it.” She shrugged helplessly, crying more.

“Oh, okay!” Bucky took a look at the package, trying to understand what to do, “I can do it. Let’s get you something to eat so you can take the painkillers first.”

Wait what? He wasn’t going to let her ‘figure it out’ and feed herself?

She nodded dumbly as Bucky led her to the couch.

He heated up some pizza from the box he brought last night and got himself a piece too when his stomach started making sounds at the smell.

“Here.” Bucky set her plate in her lap and his on the coffee table.

She raised her underwear to him and he discreetly took it from her, trying to avoid being inappropriate.

Was this the first time he was consciously holding a female undergarment in seventy years? Yes. Yes, it was.

He attempted to follow the steps on the packaging as he removed the thin paper on the pad, revealing the sticky side of it.

He pressed the pad on the inside of the underwear and stared at it hesitantly, “now what does that paper cover?” He removed the shorter paper, revealing two more sticky parts.

“Wait, is this side supposed to stick to your body?!” Bucky asked, horrified at the idea.

“No.” She shook her head.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, trying to find a use for the upper sticky part of the pad.

She nodded without a doubt because she knew that nothing was supposed to stick on her skin.

“I think…” she started, gaining his attention.

“Hmm?” Bucky looked at her for clues before bringing his gaze back to the underwear, determined to do it right.

“I think it’s upside down…” Her small voice stated cautiously, fearing Bucky’s anger.

“Huh.” Bucky examined the underwear with an open mouth.

After another half hour, the pad had lost its stickiness and was no longer useable.

She’d finished eating both her slices of stale pizza and took her painkillers, but Bucky was still going at it.

As she sat down looking at how determined Bucky was to help, she didn’t understand.

He was probably just feeling bad because she was bleeding, right? That must’ve been it because like he had told her, it was impossible that he’d suddenly want to be around her.

She looked at his plate and saw his food untouched. He didn’t eat a bite, too focused on the pad project.

She was mad at him and didn’t want to talk to him, but she felt really bad. Maybe she could help him without talking to him?

Without thinking too much about it, her hand was grabbing Bucky’s slice, raising the tip to his mouth so he could eat.

Bucky temporarily looked up from the underwear in his hands, speechless at her gesture.

She looked away, not wanting to meet his beautiful eyes because she was ‘mad’ at him.

Bucky bit back a smile, quietly taking a bite, “thank you.”

She nodded indifferently, head still turned away, hiding her own smile.

It was the first time Bucky has ever thanked her since they’ve been together.

But that didn’t really matter because Bucky still didn’t want her help, right? She was just doing this because he was helping her with her pad. Or at least that was what she was telling herself.

When Bucky was finished with his pizza, she took the empty plates and walked to put them down in the sink.

All of a sudden and before she could hold it in, a fart has escaped her and exploded aloud in the quiet room.

Bucky stopped trying with the pads and just stared at her silently for a second.

And then she was choking up again.

“Why are you crying now?” Bucky shook his head, not wanting her to cry, but she took it for frustration.

“Because it’s embarrassing and yucky,” she sobbed, covering her hot face with her hands as she plopped down on the couch.

“It’s not embarrassing or yucky. It’s human,” Bucky told her, leaving the underwear for a second to touch her hands.

“Mr. Barnes is not mad at me?” She sniffled, allowing Bucky to hold her hand.

“No.” He rubbed the tears off of her palms before handing her a tissue for her face.

“Do you think I’m disgusting?”

“No,” Bucky chuckled, amused that that would be her concern as she sat there literally oozing blood.

“Really?”

“Did you think I was disgusting when I was sweaty fresh out of a nightmare and you hugged me?”

“No,” she answered without hesitation.

Bucky remained still for a second, just cherishing her for everything he’s never noticed before, “it’s like that, too. I’m not disgusted.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” She smiled gratefully.

It was a really short smile that Bucky could’ve easily missed it.

But he understood. He’d take what he could get. He had plenty to make up for.

“I’ll just look it up.” Bucky shook his head finally giving up on the pad project, resorting to his phone for help from YouTube.

Women’s lives were hard.

~

Ten more minutes and Bucky was enthusiastically yelling, “Yes! I did it!” while raising a feminine piece of underwear in the air.

Too soon, however, his excitement was deflated when he saw that her reaction and expression didn’t match his.

All she did was mutter a polite thank you, Mr. Barnes as she took her fixed underwear and went to the bathroom to change.

He knew why and he knew he shouldn’t expect anything less.

She’s let him off the hook many times and he couldn’t expect her to do it forever.

No matter how kind or innocent, she was only human.

Inside the bathroom, she was thankful for Bucky and proud he’s managed to do something that she was sure he’s never done before, but her feelings were still hurt.

Bucky made her feel unwanted again after she had almost forgotten what that was like. He made her feel like she could never be loved for all that she was, or exactly as she was.

She didn’t understand him. She didn’t know when he hated her and when he didn’t. She didn’t know if he was nice or mean.

And she hated these games. They confused her too much and that was the last thing she needed, especially while little.

And even if she made everything okay again and let this, too, go. It wasn’t what Bucky wanted. She couldn’t keep ignoring his wishes forever.

And so their night continued in silent TV watching and more cold pizza consumption; and instead of being familiar, the quietness was scary to Bucky.

The way she looked so blue gnawed at his insides because he knew he was the cause of it.

She didn’t try to poke at him, made sure she didn’t accidently touch him and only spoke when necessary and she called him Mr. Barnes all over again.

Is this what it would’ve been like had she conformed to his rules from day one?

So what? Why was he upset about that now? Wasn’t that how he’s been ever since he came back to himself? Why wasn’t it comfortable anymore? Silence and solitude were what he wanted, right?

Bucky wanted to talk to her before bed, to hopefully end this agony, but she quickly gave him her back after swallowing her painkiller.

“Listen—” Bucky started, gaining her attention.

She looked like she knew what he was going to say and so she did something that goes against everything polite she’s ever learnt; she cut Bucky off.

“I’m sorry about ruining Mr. Barnes’ couch. It won’t happen again,” she apologized first.

Couch? He wasn’t worried about some leather couch!

“That’s not—”

“I’m also sorry about making Mr. Barnes go shopping for me when I promised I won’t annoy him no more. I promise not to do that again.”

“It’s—”

“And I’m sorry for interrupting just now.” She bit her lip, unable to not apologize for something that she knew was wrong.

Bucky stayed silent, however, so she assumed she’d covered what he wanted to reprimand her about.

“Good night, Mr. Barnes.” She gave him her back again, pretending to have instantly fallen asleep.

With a sigh, Bucky went to his makeshift bed as well, swearing that tomorrow morning was apology time. It was final.

~

She wanted to be strong, but she just couldn’t bear Bucky’s thrashing and his suffering any longer.

She wished she could only give Bucky what he wanted and not care, but instead, she was going to give him what he needed, what she was here for and knew how to do.

She got on her knees by his shaking body and patted his flesh shoulder gently, still resisting calling his name.

Bucky woke up with a loud gasp to find her concerned eyes pouring love onto him.

Without a word, she began wiping away his tears with her sleeve, her other hand patting his shoulder to calm him down.

“It was just a bad dream,” she whispered, wishing she could hold her daddy close and make all his fears go away.

Yes, he was her daddy even if he didn’t agree.

“Sorry, that’s embarrassing,” Bucky chuckled, trying to make little of the fact that his nightmare was so horrifying that he was crying in his sleep as he wiped at his own cheeks.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s human.” She echoed Bucky’s words and that was when he felt it; her warmth flooding his heart and body, surrounding him in gentle waves.

He looked up to meet her gaze and saw only care and compassion reflected back. He wanted to drown in those eyes; hide from everything that was hurting him.

And for the first time in decades, Bucky decided to let himself receive kindness because maybe, just maybe, he deserved some.

Before she could register, Bucky leaned in carefully, his forehead was on her shoulder and his arms at her sides as he let himself cry.

Her eyes were wide, not believing herself as her heart pounded. Bucky was seeking comfort. From her.

Without much thinking, she wrapped her arms tightly around Bucky’s larger body with an unspoken vow not to let go any time soon.

“I’m here, Mr. Barnes,” her small voice whispered, hands going up and down his back in slow, loving strokes.

Bucky shook his head on her shoulder, “no.”

“Bucky?” She quickly switched to his first name, but he shook his head again, raising it this time to lock eyes with her.

“Call me daddy.”

part IV

~

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[cherienymphe]

Basic Training XVI (Peter Parker x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER, violence, kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

~

You knelt beside Peter with your hands in your lap, staring down at them as the conversation flowed around you. While you’d never had much to contribute to the conversation before, you still felt awful about being purposely excluded. Even more so because your humiliation was on full display for the whole house to see.

“It’s disappointing to see another empty chair at the table.”

Steve’s voice wasn’t very loud amongst the other low conversations, but it carried, nonetheless. You didn’t need to look up to know that his gaze was on you. You could feel it. It was then that you felt a gentle touch on the top of your head, fingers trailing down to rest just under your chin.

“Yeah,” you heard Peter sigh. “…but she knows what she’s being punished for.”

You did.

The night you told Peter that Nat had mentioned a pregnancy scare, he hadn’t said much to you for the rest of the evening. You could count the number of times Peter had been really mad with you, and his visible anger hadn’t done much for your sleep. You hadn’t been able to deny the pang in your chest when he laid down for bed without sparing you a glance.

You had almost wished you could take it back.

…but if it would prevent Nat from being on the end of whatever punishment Bucky saw fit for her, then you would accept however Peter retaliated. You weren’t being tied to some tree nor walking around with some collar on your neck, but it was no less embarrassing to sit at Peter’s feet on your knees while the rest of the household ate dinner.

Occasionally, Peter’s hand would come down to give you something to eat, and with starving as the only other option, you had no choice but to open your mouth and accept.

“I’m very disappointed in you,” he’d said just hours earlier, gazing at you with a small shake of his head. “…and to think this is something you knew before she even left. What if she was pregnant and has lost the baby? Do you have any idea what that will do to Bucky?”

You hadn’t had the heart nor courage to tell Peter that you didn’t care about Bucky. You didn’t care about him, at all. Your priority had been Nat and keeping quiet on something she herself hadn’t even known what to do with. That was then though, and while your first priority was still Nat, now you only wanted her out of harm’s way in whatever way you could achieve that. Even if it meant disappointing Peter and making Bucky aware of her possible delicate condition.

You knew that with Steve over his shoulder, Bucky was liable to do unspeakable harm to Nat. It didn’t matter that he’d grown up with her and therefore shared a deeper history than any other couple in the house. In fact, you’d wager that those circumstances only made him angrier, made him feel more betrayed. You didn’t count on Bucky being fair, on the punishment fitting the crime. The dark-haired man was angry and hurt—something you’d never understand—and he seemed the type to take it out on her.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sight of a fork in front of your face, and lock clockwork, you leaned in to eat what Peter offered. Your embarrassment lessened as you thought of the humiliating things the other wives probably had to go through. One incident stood out amongst the rest, and as you glanced up, your eyes met a familiar brown pair. She threw you a brief sympathetic look, something in her eyes telling you that it was okay, and you looked back down.

You tried to remind yourself that if your husband had been literally anyone else, you’d be dealing with far worse. Even Thor—who seemed a gentle giant most times—had forced Jane to hang the clothes to dry while completely naked once. At least, that was what Jane had said, and despite how long ago it was, you’d been able to see that she was still hurt about it. You wondered if that contributed to how “well behaved” she was for the blond. You wondered if she just didn’t want to experience that hurt again, and that was something you could understand.

When dinner was over, instead of following behind the rest of the men, Peter remained seated. You could feel his gaze on you, and you kept your own on your lap as you heard him stand. He stood there for what felt like a long time while the other women cleared the table. When the both of you were alone again, he quietly told you to stand and follow him.

Peter hadn’t said all that much to you since that day, and you didn’t know what you were walking into.

You kept your gaze on the back of his head while you followed him, tracing the brown strands with your eyes. There was a part of you that could acknowledge Peter’s disappointment, even understand the twisted logic in some sick way, but another part of you didn’t feel bad, at all. Whether or not Nat was pregnant was not something Peter needed to know. It simply wasn’t for him to know. It hadn’t even been for you to know until Nat decided it so, and it equally hadn’t been for you to tell.

…and you weren’t…until Steve and Bucky were itching to hurt her in ways she just didn’t deserve.

Even now, you wondered if you did the right thing. Only time would really tell, but you felt so…helpless. That night, you’d felt helpless, but it was a different kind of helpless. It was a helplessness that came about of your own accord. You could have very well told Peter you saw her. You could have even ran downstairs yourself to go after her, but you hadn’t. You’d remained quiet, and the opportunity to do anything to help or hinder the situation had passed you by.

You had left the fate of everyone in the house—including you—in her hands. Your future had depended on whether or not Nat was caught or not, both yours and Peters. You felt like something of a coward to leave that in Nat’s hands. Although, you guessed that your decision had been made when you simply…let her go.

You were frowning when Peter spoke to you again.

“You do understand why you’re being punished…don’t you…?”

You licked your lips, starting to nod before thinking better of it, remembering that Peter preferred you use your voice.

“Yes,” you told him.

“Tell me,” Peter urged, sitting down on the bed.

Your eyes met his, and like they had been for days, they gleamed with a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

“It’s important that Bucky knows everything pertaining to Nat’s health…and I helped her hide that from him.”

You repeated the words he’d said to you even though you didn’t quite believe them yourself.

Peter reached for you with a small sigh, and you slowly reached for his hand in return, moving closer. When his fingers threaded with yours, he pulled you to stand in between his knees, taking your other hand too. He looked at you with a look you couldn’t name, pink lips pressed together as he studied your face.

“If you were pregnant…surely you’d understand why I’d need to know that,” he continued before you could say anything. “Even if you just thought you were pregnant…that’s important, Y/N.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Now…now I have to find a way to bring this up to him. I did make a promise, after all,” he said to you, reminding you of your plea not to tell Bucky you told him.

Peter pulled on your hands, forcing you to sit in his lap. One of his hands came to rest on your waist, and you held his gaze as he kneaded his hand into your side.

“…and you wouldn’t want me to break my promise…would you?”

Peter tilted his head at that, and you shakily shook your head.

If Bucky knew you knew…you shuddered to think of what would happen. Peter reached up to cup your face, gently brushing his thumb over your skin. It disgusted you to think that not even thirty minutes ago, he had you kneeling at his side and eating whatever he fed you like a dog…and now… Now, you were sitting in his lap, reaching up to cover his own hand as it rested on your face.

Was this how any of the others felt?

Did Margaret feel that conflicted mix of anger and sadness and admiration whenever she gazed at Steve? Did she remember the ways in which he’d humiliate her as he kissed her? Did Pepper think of Tony leading her around the house like a pet when he smiled at her? You wondered what Laura thought about when Clint hugged her and if it was that time she was forced to keep him warm in her mouth at the dinner table?

“I was very proud of you tonight,” Peter eventually told you. “You were so well behaved and did exactly as I told you.”

Peter pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering there.

“Only four more days to go.”

You were outside in the garden when you first saw it.

Laura and Jane were planting some garlic with you when you saw Steve and Bucky talking and walking around the house. They were coming from the front yard, presumably from work seeing as they were still in their uniforms, and Steve had it in his hand. A whip­—long and braided and dark brown. By the looks of it, you could tell it was real leather, and even in Steve’s grasp, it looked big…and torturous.

The sight of it made your stomach turn, and you had the brief thought that you were going to be sick…until you actually were sick.

“Oh my God!”

Both Laura and Jane’s voices caught their attention, and the poor garlic bulbs you’d had every intention of planting were suddenly covered in what you ate that morning. Your legs were unsteady as both women hurried to pull you to your feet. Both men were nearing you, something crossing their faces that looked oddly like concern.

It was strange.

You’d seen something like that on Bucky’s face before, notably that night when you ran into him outside the basement door. There was a hurt and crestfallen look there that told you as mad as he was at Nat, something in him hated the idea of punishing her more. Steve, however… You had never seen anything remotely resembling unease before, and it was then that you were reminded of something Peter had said to you once.

“You’re family, Y/N,” Peter had whispered one night. “Steve may be hard on you, and it may seem like he’s out to get you, but he just wants you to fall in line and be part of the family.”

Laura was wiping your mouth with a napkin she kept in her apron.

“Are you alright? Did you eat something bad?”

No.

You didn’t know how to tell her that the sight of that whip in Steve’s hand—the whip that was still in Steve’s hand—had disturbed you so badly you couldn’t even keep your food down. You could feel pressure behind your eyes, a burning sensation, and you wanted to scream. On top of throwing up on yourself like some child, you were now on the verge of crying too.

“Y/N…”

You weren’t on the verge of anything. You were crying…and badly too. You couldn’t stop shaking, covering your face with your hands as you fought to keep standing. Laura’s hands were on you as she guided you into the house, and your knees buckled. You would have collapsed if it weren’t for familiar arms catching you, and you clung to him instantly.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me, Y/N,” he softly urged, one hand on your head and the other on the small of your back. “What happened?”

He was addressing someone else, now, and you didn’t hear what they told him. You only shook your head, unable to get the words out. You wanted to be sick again, and you pressed a hand to your mouth. Peter took that as a sign, hurrying to get you up the stairs.

He softly called your name again as soon as you made it into the room, and you finally did collapse.

“Is that what he’s going to do to her?” you asked him, tearfully looking up at Peter as he looked down at you in confusion. “Whip her?”

Realization bled into Peter’s eyes, and you watched his shoulders fall.

“Like…like some animal that needs to be broken into submission? …and for what? Because she ran?”

You swallowed down something else that threatened to come up, and Peter knelt down with you. You were fighting to keep it together, but your chest felt so tight, and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The mere thought of Nat being on the other end of that almost made you sick again, and the room spun just a bit.

“Woah, woah, hey,” Peter cooed, wrapping his arms around you and leaning you back into him.

You descended into another fit of sobs, turning your face into Peter’s shoulder, and he rocked you. You reached up to grip the arm around your chest, holding onto him. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, but what else could you possibly say that would stop this?

“Did you talk to Bucky…?” you finally choked out.

You both felt and heard Peter sigh.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Look…Y/N…”

Peter paused, rubbing your arm and resting his chin on the top of your head.

“I know you want to protect Nat…want to stop this from happening to her, but she did a bad thing.”

You started to shake your head, but Peter continued.

“She has to be punished, made an example of. Hell…we still need to figure out how she escaped.”

Those words gave you pause, and you swallowed.

“She won’t say a thing about how she got out of the house with any of us none the wiser. How she snuck past all of us, Bucky especially,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “She could do it again. Any of you could try to imitate her…and we can’t have that.”

Peter pulled away a bit, looking at you as you looked at him.

“I would lose my mind if you escaped,” he told you. “…and I mean that.”

He took your face into his hands.

“You don’t understand what you mean to me…all I’ve done to keep you by my side,” he gently said. “All I would do to have you again if you ever did what she did.”

You believed him.

You didn’t doubt him for a moment, and that in itself didn’t scare you. It was the fact that you didn’t see yourself ever doing what Nat did, never even trying, and that thought was equally imprisoning as it was freeing.

You stared into the darkness with your arms wrapped around your knees. The stair beneath your bottom didn’t even feel that hard to you anymore, long growing numb to the feel. It was so hard to sleep lately, so tonight you’d just given up. Even with Peter at your side, you hadn’t been able to find lethargic bliss, too plagued with thoughts of Nat.

The memory of that whip in Steve’s hand made you grow so cold, like something was being sucked out of you. You had imagined the worst for her, but actually seeing it was another thing entirely. As much as Bucky scared you, you couldn’t really picture him doing that to her. Even for him, it seemed wrong, but then again, it was hard to tell what Bucky was actually feeling and what he wanted.

He kidnapped the girl he grew up with and he was the one to feel betrayed when she ran.

You wondered if a day would come where you’d sleep soundly again. Maybe when you knew for sure that Nat was going to be okay? You wondered if you’d even fret this much if you hadn’t seen her that night. You liked to think that you would, but you couldn’t deny that your guilt and fear over the whole situation played a huge part.

Rubbing your forehead, you pushed yourself to your feet.

When you turned around, the imposing figure at the top of the stairs almost made you fall back. You let out a gasp, taking a stumbling step back and almost falling in the process. The sound of your heartbeat was loud in your ear, and even before he turned the light on, you knew who it was.

Steve was as scary as he always was, but even more so now with the memory of him holding the whip that was most likely intended for Nat. It was crazy to think that even in the middle of the night, a time of day that should be for the most relaxed version of oneself, he still looked like a strict leader just itching to hand out a punishment.

“You should be in bed.”

You swallowed as he looked down his nose at you, lips trembling.

“I…I couldn’t sleep. I have trouble sleeping, sometimes,” you forced out, truthful.

The blond didn’t reply right away at that, simply raising an eyebrow at you as he studied you.

“Is that so…”

It came out more like a statement than a question, and you frowned.

“Since when?” he wondered, and you realized this was probably the longest you’d ever talked to Steve and definitely one on one.

“Since…since I got here, I guess,” you whispered with a frown.

He sniffed, looking past you for a few moments before meeting your eyes again. They narrowed at you, and for the life of you, you couldn’t place the look in them.

“You spend most of your nights awake? Sitting on the stairs? Hmm?”

“No,” you hurried to say. “No, this is a first. I guess I didn’t want to wake up Peter.”

There was a brief pause, and the silence was so loud.

“Is that okay…?”

You tried to keep your voice even, but you supposed you couldn’t cover the mocking tone well. It was hard to keep up with what was allowed with Steve, and it wasn’t like the other night when you were trying to bring Nat some food. You’d just been sitting on the stairs. What rule was there against that?

Steve stared at you for what felt like a long time before suddenly throwing you a tense smile. It looked fake, plastic even.

“Of course,” he almost sang as if it were obvious. “You’re family, now, and this is your house too.”

His tone, like yours had been, sounded almost mocking, and you didn’t like it. Unable to continue engaging in conversation with the blond without wanting to hurl, you moved to make your way back to your room. Steve’s gaze remained on you the entire time, and it was only when you were past him did he speak again.

“I never realized what a night owl you were…”

You slowed to a pause, looking over your shoulder at him, but his back was still to you as he stared ahead.

“You probably see all sorts of things from your perch.”

Your chest grew tight at that, and you stumbled back to your room without another response.

Peter seemed to reach for you on autopilot, pulling you into his arms and holding you close even in his sleep. You held onto him too, tears kissing your eyes as you forced your heart to stop racing. You pressed your face into his chest, thoughts going a mile a minute.

You hadn’t liked Steve’s words nor his tone, and you wondered…

Did he know? He couldn’t know, but his dubious tone and hidden meanings in his words couldn’t mean anything else. Unless he only suspected, and even then, that did little to reassure you. You weren’t good with lies, poker faces. As it were, it was taking everything in you to keep lying to Peter, and the way you felt about Peter was nothing at all how you felt about Steve.

It was taking all you had to lie to the man whose face you looked forward to seeing every day. You couldn’t even pretend to imagine you’d be good at lying to Steve. The thought made you sit up some, gazing at Peter’s face as he slept. You thought about your conversation earlier and what he’d done for you, the feeling in your chest when he told you he’d talked to Bucky.

“I just mentioned to him he might want to have Bruce come and look over her first before…”

He had trailed off after answering you when you asked him what he told him, quieting at the look on your face at the reminder of what was in store for her.

“They’ve been trying, you know, and I just reminded Bucky that he’d never forgive himself if he did anything that could take away something he didn’t even know he had.”

Your worry hadn’t disappeared completely, but it had definitely lessened, causing you to hug Peter. He had hugged you back, but you’d been more concerned with pressing kisses to his face. Even if Nat turned out to not be pregnant, it would put off her punishment for a bit at the least.

Sometimes you wondered why Peter did anything for you. You supposed it was equally for his benefit, to make you more susceptible to him, and you couldn’t deny that there was merit to it. Did it really matter the reasons behind anything he did to make you happy? As long as it made you happy, right…?

You leaned over, pressing your lips to his cheek, silently thanking him. You grazed your fingers over his own, listening to the sound of his breathing, and you kissed his cheek again before sliding out of bed. You moved to stand at the window, feeling very reminiscent of that night as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

You knew that you needed to get up early, and that you’d probably regret having such a late night in the morning, but you saw no value in trying to force something that would not come. Like the night Nat ran, you stared out of the window, looking over the yard...

…and just like that night, movement caught your eye.

The figure was unmistakable, his hands on his hips as he stood in the backyard, gazing around. You didn’t know why he was out there, especially at this time of night, and you frowned as you watched him. The sight of Steve would always serve to do the opposite of calming you down, so you were just about to turn away when he suddenly turned instead. Steve’s eyes met yours from so far below, and you could tell by the look on his face that he could see you.

You could also tell by the look on his face…that this did not surprise him.

His expression was even as he stared up at you, and you blinked, a slow frown forming between your brows. You didn’t understand why he was out there nor why he was preoccupied with looking up at your window, but the longer he stared, the more he seemed to find whatever he was looking for, frowning at you before you made the choice to turn away completely.

The next morning was as normal as any other.

For some reason, you hadn’t expected that. It had taken you forever to fall asleep, doubly so when coupled with the memory of Steve staring you down both on the stairs and through the window. You helped Margaret make Egg’s Benedict before getting started on a key lime pie she wanted to have ready by dinnertime. She brought little Sarah around for a bit, something you were grateful for.

“I know what they think,” she whispered as you shook the girl’s hand playfully. “What they say…”

You glanced up at her at that, and she sent you a sad smile.

“You would never hurt any of them,” she assured you. “You just need more time to adjust, that’s all.”

Knowing that Margaret trusted you around her child despite what Steve thought made your chest feel warm, and you thanked her. You often wondered about your own future child, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t worry for them. After all, if Steve and the others were worried about you around the other children, what could you possibly expect with your own?

You helped Christine in the garden, feeling much better than the other day. You felt that had more to do with the lack of a whip in your line of sight than anything. Peter was gone most of the day, at work, and when he finally returned home, it was almost time for dinner.

“What were you two planting? You smell wonderful,” Peter mused, watching you as you helped him undress.

“Sweet Pea,” you replied, unhooking his belt. “Pepper wanted some on the side of the house.”

You felt Peter press his face to your hair, deeply inhaling with a hum that fell over you like a warm blanket. When Peter kissed you, you were unsurprised when it didn’t remain just that, allowing him to pull you into the bathtub with him. Much wasn’t said between you, more preoccupied with the feel of his lips on yours and his hands on your waist.

It was a wonder neither of you were late to the dinner table.

Despite your interactions with Steve the previous night, dinner remained unproblematic. In fact, the blond was much more concerned with his wife whose forehead he kept touching. Truthfully, you didn’t quite know what you’d expected. Perhaps your disastrous birthday was still fresh in your mind, no stranger to Steve’s lack of reluctance to cause a scene.

You left dinner without a care, and you managed to go to bed without a care.

It was late in the night, however, when the horror you expected finally arrived.

It was the sound of yelling that disturbed you, the height of sound something you’d only heard the morning Nat went missing. You remained in bed in confusion—and slight annoyance—as you blearily stared at the ceiling. Sleep was still just within reach, and despite the disturbance, you were determined to find it once again.

That wasn’t possible though.

“Let me talk to her!”

It was Peter’s voice, the sound of it making your eyes fly open. You slowly sat up, never knowing Peter for one to raise his voice under any circumstances. There were a lot of voices mingling together from below, and they all quickly drowned his out. You slowly blinked as you stared at the door…

…and an uneasy feeling started to stir deep in your gut.

It only just occurred to you that if he was downstairs, then he wasn’t asleep next to you. You reached over and slid your hand along his side of the bed. It was cool to the touch, telling you he’d been gone for quite some time, and your frown deepened. What was going on?

Just as you thought that, you heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and you stared at the door in dread. They were nearing your room, the sound of them echoing in the hallway, and for some reason, you expected Steve’s imposing frame to be on the other side of the door. It wasn’t, but you still felt no relief at the familiar sight of Peter.

You rubbed your eye as your gaze met his, the dark-haired man standing in the doorway.

“Peter…”

It was hard to pinpoint the look on his face, only that it was strained and pinched. You watched the way his jaw ticked, chest heaving slightly, and when your gaze lowered, it landed on his tightening grip on the doorknob. You said his name again, growing even more nervous the longer he didn’t speak.

“Peter.”

That wasn’t your voice.

Your lips parted at the sound of Steve’s stern voice coming from over Peter’s shoulder, and you guessed that he was somewhere in between the door and the stairs, somewhere in the hallway where you couldn’t see him. At the sound of the other man’s voice, Peter seemed to visibly tense. He stood there for a few more seconds before finally stepping into the room.

“Peter, what…?”

“It’s okay,” he whispered to you although you felt like it was absolutely not okay. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

He took your hand, threading your fingers together.

“I just…I need you to come downstairs.”

His voice was so low, and despite the confusion you felt as you gazed into his eyes, you allowed him to lead you out of bed. You surmised that Steve went back downstairs because he was nowhere to be found when you followed Peter into the hallway.

Every step of yours felt heavy, and you didn’t miss the tight hold Peter had on your hand as he gently pulled you downstairs. You had no inkling of where you were even going, but you were shocked to realize that he was leading you towards the den. However, the biggest shock of all was the sight that met you.

You faltered as your eyes roamed over every single one of the husbands.

“Peter…”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but you knew he heard you by the feel of his hand gently squeezing yours.

You didn’t understand what was going on, and as you looked around, you almost wished you hadn’t. None of them looked happy, and while that in itself wasn’t alarming, it was the degree of unhappiness that unsettled you. Your gaze briefly met Bucky’s, and you suspected that if looks could kill, your throat would have slit on sight.

You took a step behind Peter.

“I always knew that your methods would backfire one day, Peter.”

Your eyes landed on Steve as he said this, and you watched the blond pour himself a drink. Thor was sitting in the seat closest to him, and you felt grateful for that because you were sure that the sight of an angry and imposing Thor towering over you would have made you faint.

You glanced at Peter, face almost hurting now from how much you were frowning.

“Peter, what’s going on?” you whispered.

“Yeah, Peter,” Steve mockingly agreed. “What’s going on?”

You looked between them, that feeling a full-fledged impairment, now as you almost felt like you couldn’t move.

“Ask her, Peter.”

Steve’s voice had lowered, his tone cold when his blue gaze finally met yours.

“Ask her, right now.”

You wanted to run for some reason, get far away from here…but you couldn’t. Peter seemed to be hesitating about whatever he was supposed to be asking you, and Bucky beat him to it.

“Did you help Nat escape?”

The question shocked you both for how unexpected it was and also because it wasn’t true. You felt your lips part as you looked at Bucky, withering under his venomous stare.

“What?” you gasped. “N-No!”

You looked around, a painful feeling washing over you as you realized what all of this was about.

“No, I-.”

“I don’t believe you,” you hadn’t even been able to get the words out, interrupted by Bucky who charged towards you. “I don’t fucking believe you.”

You stumbled back per courtesy of Peter who forced you back with a hand on your waist. Your hand gripped his arm in fear as you looked around him, watching with wide eyes as he faced Bucky. The other man looked at you like he could kill you without thinking twice about it, and you supposed that he could. He’d done it to Wanda, after all.

You hadn’t realized that you’d started crying, your cheeks cold all of a sudden.

“Bucky.”

“She helped her, Peter. I know she did!” Bucky spat, pointing at you as you shook your head.

“No! I didn’t-! Peter,” you pleaded, looking at him, now. “I didn’t!”

Your voice was cracking, and you hoped they didn’t take that for an admission of guilt or something. You hadn’t helped Nat escape, but you knew that to them, the truth might as well be the same, and you couldn’t stop crying.

“Remind us again, Peter… Repeat to us the events of that night for you,” Steve finally spoke up again, his voice eerily calm as he looked at you both.

His words had you blinking, and you looked to Peter in confusion. He looked conflicted, almost miserable, in fact, and you watched him pull his lip between his teeth.

“What was it you said? You woke up…?”

You looked at Steve, hating him and his mocking tone. You hated the way he talked like he already knew the answers he was looking for, like he was the smartest person in the room.

“…because Y/N wasn’t beside me,” he finally answered.

Steve nodded, slowly and with a hum.

“…and why not? Where was she?”

Your heart dropped to the very bottom of your stomach, and the room swayed for half a second as you tightened your hand on Peter’s arm. You didn’t stare at any of them, your eyes falling to the floor as you fought to keep your food down. You felt numb and heavy all at once, and for the first time in a long time, you genuinely wanted to die.

“Where was she, Peter?” Steve asked again, not so nice this time.

Peter didn’t respond right away, and you wrapped your arm around him, forehead falling to his frame as you held in a sob.

“She was by the window,” he finally breathed, sounding defeated. “Looking out of it.”

You heard Clint mumble something, and although you couldn’t make it out, you knew it wasn’t nice.

Only another moment passed before Peter was harshly pushing you back, but it wasn’t fast enough. Bucky’s hand had gripped the sleeve of your nightgown, both ripping the fabric and scratching your skin in the process. You screamed in both shock and pain, hurrying back until you met the wall, clutching your arm as Peter harshly shoved the older man away.

“She didn’t do it!”

“Move, Peter,” Bucky hissed. “Anyone with half a brain can see that she helped her! She-.”

Bucky cut himself off, and when you looked around Peter, the other man’s chest was heaving as he stared you down.

“Anything could’ve happened to Nat,” he forced out. “Anything, and she-!”

“I didn’t help her!”

“Shut up,” he snarled at you, so harsh and violent that more tears fell.

You pressed your hands to your mouth, trying and failing to hold your sobs in.

“I don’t want to hear another word out of her mouth unless it’s the truth,” he bit out.

“Do not talk to her like that,” Peter told him, taking a step towards him. “Do you hear me?”

He continued before Bucky could say anything else.

“You’re angry, I get it, but if you think I’m going to stand here and let you talk to her like that, you’ve taken one too many blows to the head,” Peter sneered.

They stared at one another for what felt like too long, just staring each other down, and you felt yourself sliding to the floor. The room was blurry from your tears, and it felt so hard to breathe. You brought your knees up to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut as more tears fell.

“Let me talk to her,” you heard Peter whisper, the same thing you’d heard him yell earlier.

You couldn’t stop crying no matter how hard you tried, and you let your head fall into your hands. The room was quiet save from the sound of you, and it wasn’t long before you felt Peter’s hands reach for your own.

“Peter,” you sobbed.

“Look at me. Hey…look at me,” he softly said. “Please…”

You reluctantly peeled your eyes open, and you glanced up when Peter gripped your chin.

“Don’t look at them,” he told you, voice gentle. “Look right at me.”

His voice was soothing, and you reached up to grip his wrist as you met his dark gaze. His eyes were soft, but there was something swirling there that made you nervous. An underlying skepticism lie there, and you pressed your lips together.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he quietly praised, sadly smiling at you.

He wiped your face, tongue darting between his lips. He stared at you, running his eyes over your face, and drinking you in for a moment.

“Did you help Nat escape?”

“No,” you answered without hesitation. “I didn’t. I… I could never.”

…and it was true.

You weren’t like Nat. You were weak, passive at best, and you could never have the courage to actively help anyone in this house escape. At least, you didn’t think so. The best anyone would get out of you was…well…simply looking the other way, and that was why as Peter took a deep breath, hinting that he was not done, you feared what would come out of his mouth. You dreaded his next words…

…and Peter looked like he dreaded them too.

He looked like he dreaded them more than the question that had just left his lips, and maybe it was because he knew the truth in this moment.

“…but you saw her leave.”

He held your gaze, and you held his. You didn’t move…didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to. Your silence was confirmation enough, and you flinched when you heard Bucky break something. It sounded like a glass.

“Peter…”

“You saw her leave…and you didn’t say anything,” he sounded heartbroken, and you soon realized why. “You lied to me.”

Your head lowered, and you wiped your face, but more tears just replaced those. You reached for him, gripping his shirt, trying to keep him close.

“Peter… Peter, I’m sorry,” you choked out, trying to pull him closer.

“That’s why…” he trailed off, sighing to himself as his eyes fell closed.

He chuckled to himself, but it lacked humor.

“That’s why,” he said to himself, his own head lowering so that his forehead touched yours.

You felt him wipe your face, a shaky sigh leaving him.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he murmured. “…but I’m not who you should be apologizing to.”

You looked at him with wide eyes when he pulled away, and you released another sob. Just the thought of what was waiting for you had you breathing short, and you pressed your hand to your chest. Peter still had one of your hands, and you could feel his chin on top of your head.

“Anything could have happened to her,” he told you. “Nat could’ve been seriously hurt…she could’ve died.”

“We told you,” you heard Bucky harshly tell him. “We told you you were being too soft on her.”

“Bucky…”

Peter’s voice reeked of exasperation as he held you to him, letting you cry into his chest. You couldn’t stop shaking, and your head was pounding so much from your tears. What would happen to you now? Would you be going down into the basement? For how long? Or…

Or was Steve going to make Peter tie you to a tree?

“What? You’re going to look at us and tell us we’re wrong, now? Nat escaped!”

You flinched as Bucky raised his voice, sounding much closer, too close.

“…and she just let it happen,” he snarled. “If she wasn’t yours…if she was just some random woman on the street, I’d wring her neck.”

That was enough to have Peter pulling away from you, presumably confronting Bucky, but you couldn’t even care, couldn’t even focus on that. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how hard you tried. Every time you did, you almost choked, and between that and trying to suck in air…

“…and why would I be like you…? Or Steve? You don’t think you broke her enough when you killed her friends? What did you expect, for her to behave rationally all this time?”

You heard Bucky chuckle, and for some reason, you hated the sound of it. It was cold, nasty, and it sounded like something that preceded trouble.

“Get off your high horse, Peter,” Bucky threw at him. “You’ve done just as much damage to her as we have…”

Bucky’s next words made your breath stop entirely.

“…it wasn’t us who killed…what was her name? Was it Michelle? Was that the one you shot?”

You felt…paralyzed, and the distinct lack of sobs filling the room was evident. Your hands had been on your forehead, and you could only stare at the floor as you felt like nothing was below your feet, falling without an end in sight. A sharp pain in your head forced you to squeeze your eyes shut, and you shook your head.

No.

No…no…

That wasn’t right.

It couldn’t be.

Sam…Sam killed her. Hadn’t he?

Your chest was hurting so bad that you actually clutched it, gasping for breath, and your other hand reached for the wall, trying and failing to steady yourself. You felt like you were in pain, and when you tried to stand up, you only fell back down. You felt familiar hands on your arms, and when you looked up, you flinched.

Peter frowned.

“Y/N…”

“What…?” you breathed.

That couldn’t be true…and yet…you couldn’t recall actually seeing Sam shoot Michelle. You…you had just assumed… But Peter was the first one to get to you that day, but he’d also spoke as if it was Sam…but Peter… As you looked into his brown eyes, the brown eyes that you had grown to look forward to looking into, you realized that Peter was a liar…and a murderer.

…and you wanted to be sick.

His hands were on your face, and you tried to bat them away.

“No, no, no,” you repeatedly mumbled, shaking your head. “No!”

You shoved at him, but Peter wouldn’t budge, determined to get you to calm down. Too preoccupied with wanting to be as far away from him as possible, you were none the wiser to Steve’s approach.

“It’s a good thing you brought Nat back up to prepare for Bruce’s visit,” the blond said, shoving past Peter and roughly grabbing you. “…because now she’ll have the whole basement to herself.”

The scream that you let out hurt your throat, and despite your anger and disgust with him, you still reached for Peter as Steve dragged you away. Your hand just barely grazed his as your feet lifted from the ground, and you reached out, trying to grab onto anything you could. You could hear Peter following behind Steve, begging and pleading with him on your behalf.

You could hear something occasionally being knocked over by you, the sound of breaking glass reaching your ears here and there. When Steve finally did reach the basement door, you pressed your feet to it, trying in vain to prevent this from happening. You hadn’t been in the basement since your first few days here, and it was not somewhere you wanted to be again. Not now…not after…

However, enthusiastic to see you suffer for letting his wife get away, Bucky unlocked and opened the door for Steve, the darkness threatening to swallow you whole. When Steve’s arm pressed into the cut Bucky had made on your arm, you winced.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time…”

…and with those last words, Steve tossed you inside. Your hands slid over the steps as you fell, feet tangling together, and you reached out to grab the rail, but it only slowed your descent. It did nothing to stop it, landing at the bottom of the stairs in a heap just as the door was slammed shut. You were surrounded by darkness, but it was the least of your worries, a choked wail escaping you at the thought of Peter.

You pressed your face into the floor as you cried, lacking the strength and will to move.