#Bucky in therapy

[m4rv3l-girl]

Not the kind of partner I’m used to..

Bucky is referred to a paired therapy program..

Warnings: None, little bit of angst…Kind of?

The chair was too small.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched like a caged animal. The walls of Dr. Raynor’s office were the same off-white shade of every other government-sanctioned therapy clinic he’d been forced to visit, and the fluorescent lights hummed in a way that made his teeth itch. He hated it here. He hated therapy. And, most of all, he hated whatever new hoop Raynor was making him jump through this time.

"This is stupid," he grumbled, voice low and flat. "I don't need a - what do you even call this? A therapy buddy? A trauma pen-pal?"

Raynor gave him that look. The one that said she was just barely tolerating him. "It’s a paired therapy program."

Bucky rolled his eyes.

"You agreed to try," she reminded him, flipping through her clipboard. "The point is to help people with… let's say, complicated pasts, to build social connections. Get used to interacting. Being normal."

"Great. So you’re admitting this is a group project."

"Not a group," Raynor corrected, sitting back in her chair. "Just the two of you. One-on-one. You can do that, right? Make one friend?"

Bucky sighed through his nose, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

"Well, lucky for you, she’s not thrilled about this either," Raynor continued, glancing at the door as voices echoed from outside the office. "I warned her to be civil, but fair warning - she's not exactly a social butterfly."

Bucky’s interest piqued at that. He listened, keen ears picking up the muffled sound of a woman’s voice.

"Look, Doc, I’m just saying - do I actually have to?" The voice huffed. "I don’t need a therapy partner. I’m doing just fine avoiding people all on my own."

Bucky smirked.

"Y/N, you promised," the other doctor’s voice responded, a familiar level of exhausted patience in her tone.

A pause. A groan. The sound of a doorknob turning.

Then she stepped in.

Y/N had the kind of posture that screamed reluctant participation. She entered the room like it physically pained her to do so, crossing her arms and scanning the space with an expression that read: ‘this was not my idea, and I hate it here.’ When her eyes landed on Bucky, she froze for a fraction of a second - just long enough for him to notice. He was used to that reaction. The pause. The flicker of recognition. Like she was debating whether to acknowledge who he was or pretend he was just some guy.

Bucky arched a brow. "You must be thrilled about this."

She gave him a flat look. "Over the moon."

Raynor clapped her hands together, the universal therapist signal for ���let’s begin.’ "Great! Now that you’ve met, let’s set some ground rules. The goal here is casual interaction, low-pressure conversations. Just get to know each other."

Y/N’s mouth twitched like she had about ten sarcastic things she wanted to say, but she bit them back.

"I’ll leave you to it," Raynor announced, already making for the door. "Try to keep the glaring to a minimum."

Then she was gone.

The silence stretched. Bucky stared at Y/N. Y/N stared at Bucky. The tension between them was less hostility and more… mutual disinterest. Like two kids forced to work on a school project together, neither wanting to be the first to break the silence.

Bucky sighed. "Guess we should start with the basics. Name’s Bucky."

"Y/N," she responded, shifting her weight. "But I already know who you are."

He tilted his head, not really surprised. "Yeah?"

She gave him a look like he was an idiot. "Because you’re Bucky Barnes. The white wolf. The Winter Soldier. Avenger. Internationally recognized brooding champion."

Bucky blinked, caught off guard. "Brooding champion?"

She shrugged. "You do have a very… ‘resting murder face’ thing going on."

Bucky stared at her for a beat, then snorted. "That’s a new one."

Y/N shifted again, looking slightly less miserable than before. "So, uh… what exactly are we supposed to do? Just talk about our feelings until we magically become better people?"

Bucky smirked. "Pretty sure that’s the idea."

"Gross."

"Agreed."

A beat. Then-

"Wanna get out of here?" Y/N blurted out.

Bucky blinked. "What?"

"Not, like, run away forever," she clarified. "Just… sneak out. Get a coffee or something. We can pretend to do the therapy thing and check it off the list."

Bucky considered this. On one hand, Raynor would definitely give him hell for it. On the other… he really didn’t want to sit in this room for an hour talking about his feelings.

He stood, stretching. "Alright, partner. Lead the way."

Y/N looked surprised for a split second before masking it with an easy smirk. "Try to keep up, Grandpa. We have an hour."

They stepped into the hallway, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia. It reminded him of old missions—sneaking around, trying to keep a low profile. Only this time, there were no explosions or rifles. Just the muted sounds of people trying to put their lives back together. The smell of over-brewed coffee and sadness.

"This way," Y/N whispered, jerking her head towards the stairs. "The café's less crowded." They descended the stairs, Y/N moving with the kind of ease that came from spending too much time in places like these. Bucky followed, watching the way she moved—like she was trying to be invisible, but couldn’t quite pull it off. She had a presence about her. Something that made people look, even when she didn’t want them to.

When they reached the café, it was indeed quieter than he’d expected. A few patients nursed their drinks, staring into the abyss of their pasts. The barista looked up, giving them a nod that suggested he’d seen this sort of thing before. Bucky couldn’t blame them—therapy was a weird gig.

They claimed a table in the corner, far from prying eyes and eager ears. Y/N slid into a chair, her eyes scanning the room with the kind of wariness he understood all too well. She was checking for threats, even though the biggest threat here was probably someone asking how their week had been.

"So," she said, breaking the silence. "What’s your damage?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" "Your tragic backstory," she elaborated, rolling her eyes. "You know, the reason you’re stuck in that soul-sucking building." He leaned back, arms crossing over his broad chest.

"You first."

Y/N’s smirk grew. "Okay, fine. I was in the military. Mission went tits up, ended up with a few too many pieces missing. Now I’ve got metal where there should be meat and therapy where there should be… well, anything else."

Bucky nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He liked her. "Sounds like a blast," he said, voice dry.

Y/N chuckled, a low, dark sound. "It was. Literally."

The conversation flowed from there, surprisingly easily. They talked about their military backgrounds - Bucky’s HYDRA days, his time as a SHIELD agent. It was like two old soldiers swapping war stories, except the enemy was less about bullets and more about inner demons. She had a sharp wit, he noticed, and a way of cutting through bullshit that was refreshing. No pep talks, no pity. Just raw, honest words that stung a little.

As they talked, Y/N’s defenses slowly started to lower. She spoke about her past missions with a passion that was palpable, her eyes lighting up with a fierce intensity that made him want to lean in closer. And as she spoke, he realized that she wasn’t just some girl with a tragic past - she was a fighter. A survivor. And she’d earned every single one of those metallic scars.

Bucky found himself telling her more than he’d ever told anyone else. Stories of Steve, of the Avengers, of the endless nights spent trying to drown out the echoes of his past with a bottle of whiskey. The words poured out of him like they’d been damned up for too long, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel the need to censor himself.

Y/N listened, really listened, without judgment or the need to fix him. It was a strange feeling, one that made him feel both exposed and oddly at ease. They talked about their fears, their regrets, their hopes for the future - things that Bucky hadn’t allowed himself to think about in a long time.

The bell over the door chimed, and they both looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion of reality. The café was emptying out, the sun setting outside the window in a wash of orange and pink. They’d talked for hours. And they’d be in deep shit. Oh well.

Y/N’s eyes searched his, something unspoken passing between them. "Thank you," she murmured, voice low. "For not making me feel like a freak." Bucky’s smirk grew into a small smile. "You’re not a freak," he said softly. "You’re a survivor."

They stood, gathering their things. As they made their way back to the clinic, Bucky realized that maybe, just maybe, this therapy buddy thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all. It wasn’t fixing his life - not by a long shot. But it was a start.

They re-entered the building, the sterile air hitting them like a slap in the face after the brief taste of freedom. Y/N’s shoulders squared up again, the wall sliding back into place.

"You know, Bucky," she said as they approached the elevator. "I didn’t hate that." He chuckled. "Me neither, kid." The elevator doors dinged open, revealing the all-too-familiar corridor. Y/N stepped in, punching the button for their floor with a little too much force.

"So, what now?" Bucky asked, leaning against the railing. "We just go back to her office and pretend we talked about our feelings?" Y/N rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "If that’s what it takes to keep them off our asses." The elevator lurched to a stop, and they stepped out into the hallway. As they approached the room they were supposed to be in, they could hear the muffled sounds of a conversation - Raynor’s voice, and another therapist, discussing their patients.

"Looks like we’ve got company," Bucky murmured, glancing at the clock. They were cutting it close. Y/N nodded. "Let’s make it look good." They both took a deep breath and stepped into the room, trying to look like they hadn’t just blown off their session.

Raynor looked up from her notes, raising an eyebrow. "You two look… enlightened." Bucky and Y/N shared a look, the unspoken challenge passing between them.

"We had a breakthrough," Y/N said, deadpan. "A real emotional rollercoaster." Raynor’s gaze flicked between them, trying to gauge their sincerity. "Well," she said, after a beat. "I’m happy to hear that. Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?" Her voice was skeptical.

They sat, and Bucky launched into a half-true, half-exaggerated story about their heart-to-heart. Y/N filled in the blanks with sighs and eye-rolls, and somehow, it was convincing. They had a rhythm, a way of finishing each other's sentences that made it seem like they'd been friends for years instead of minutes.

"So, you've discovered the importance of sharing your feelings," Raynor said, scribbling on her clipboard.

"It's life-changing," Bucky deadpanned, and Y/N snorted. This might not be so bad…

——————————————————————————————————

Here you go, My Lovelies! I just love the thought of someone matching Bucky’s energy in total contrast to the usual grumpy/sunshine trope 🫶

[buckyschair]

Mission: Submission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Your sweet, only slightly haunted boyfriend returns home from a mission and lets you take the lead for the first time. 

Content warnings: 18+ only, soft sub!Bucky smut, handjob, fluff, swearing, low key trauma flashbacks but not graphic, female reader, no use of Y/N 

Word count: 5k

Masterlist

☆☆☆

You were so absorbed in your novel, you hardly noticed the door opening softly. Only when it clicked shut did you startle from your reverie.

“Bucky?”

No response, only the heavy thunk of boots being kicked off.   

You carefully tucked a marker between the pages before turning to look towards the front door over the back of the couch. The room’s lamplight didn't quite reach the entryway, so his form was cast in darkness. But it was unmistakably Bucky’s sigh that you heard as he freed himself of his shoes and coat. Unburdened, his gaze turned to you.

You were curled up on his couch, camped out for the evening with a book and a long empty cup of tea. The soft glow of the lamp limned your features with tenderness. His heart went sore under his tired chest at the sight. 

“Welcome home.”

“Hey, doll,” he said. His voice sounded tired, but his eyes glimmered with contentment. 

“How was the mission?” 

You expected him to make his usual beeline towards you, but he headed into the kitchen. 

“Successful,” he replied shortly as he filled a cup with water. You watched him as he gulped it down. There was no sign of a struggle on his body, no visible blood or bruises this time. Only his shoulders betrayed his lingering tension.  

You waited patiently, appreciating him as he decompressed. He’d only been gone for one night, but you drank him in just as thirstily. Even dead on his feet, he looked good. 

It was a strange image, the imposing soldier in such a domestic setting. His tactical gear hugged his sculpted form in a way that had you biting your lip. It was no secret that you liked him in his dark fatigues.   

His hair hung limply in his eyes, and you made a mental note to ask him if he wanted a haircut soon. You’d wait a couple days though. You liked his hair a little longer like this, when it brushed behind his ears and fell on his neck in a gentle wave. Maybe you should have offered to trim it before he left for his mission. 

Bucky came to stand behind the couch, as if lured to you by your quiet admiration. A small smile crept onto his tired face, crinkling his eyes. 

“Hi,” he said simply as he drank you in, absorbing the soft image of you relaxed on his couch. His sharp eyes catalogued your form, ensuring that you were healthy and safe. 

“Hi,” you smiled up at him.  

He dove to kiss you deeply, and you hummed at his sudden affection. He tasted a little bitter from the long travel, but you leaned into him all the same. The warmth of your mouth stoked something in him, embers flaring to life at the brief contact. 

Like a moth to a flame, he casually hopped the back of the cushions and lowered himself to lay on top of you. He tugged you down impatiently so that he could bury his head in your chest, humming as he felt your skin against his. He melted wordlessly into your comfort. 

It was good to be reunited with your man. It had been late when you sat down for the evening, and it was even later now when he’d finally made it home. Reclining with him now though, you felt awake. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you offered. 

He hummed in appreciation, but shook his head against you, “This is good.”

His arms around your midsection pulled you a little more securely to him until he was content. After a beat he added in muffled words, “Tell me about your day, didn’t you have that thing? With your coworkers?”

You launched into the whole story for him. Despite the absence of your favorite person, it had actually shaped up to be an entertaining few days. You’d learned to distract yourself with plans when he was gone for more than a day trip.

As you spoke, he nodded along amiably, but his eyes were glazed over, as if his mind was in two places at once. You recalled many nights like this, where he would come home a little more machine than man. 

In the aftermath of a rough assignment, he would sit with you and listen to you chatter on and on. You’d talk about all the small nothings that amounted to your life, and to his, until he came back to himself. He would sit quietly all night listening to your chatter, or anything, as long as you were in his arms. And you would prattle on for as long as it took for his irises to return to their usual fullness. 

Bucky, for his part, was so grateful to have you to come home to. He recalled when he would come home to an empty apartment, battered and bruised, to the cold comfort of his solitary, lumpy chair and microwave meals. 

Sometimes this was overwhelming still; shifting from one arena of his life to another. One so bloody, one so blissful. 

Once, when your love was new, he’d described it to you as an out of body experience. “Like, I know this is my life,” he had explained haltingly. “I can rationalize the facts. But I'm not really there. It’s like too much of me got left back in the 40s, or 80s, or whatever decades they’d pull me off the ice.” 

Your heart had broken at the words. He had concluded, “Sometimes it's hard to pull enough of myself back together to feel like a person, in a way where I can be present, y'know?”

It had come up when he’d been struggling to feel present in the moment with you, especially in tender moments like this one tonight. 

Pride flared between your lungs as you held him now. He had made so much progress since then. Even now, as he decompressed, his eyes were a recognizable blue. The haunted darkness that blew out his irises was practically a thing of the past. Still, you felt the rapid beat of his heart, the way his eyes darted around his apartment, the tension in his hard body.

As your story drew to a close, your coworkers’ drama painted colorfully in a long winded and only slightly exaggerated tale, you asked, 

“What do you need?” 

“I’m okay,” came his gruff response. His eyes remained distant as you stroked his face. Several days of stubble scratched you back. 

“I know you are. What do you want?”

He hummed, and nudged his head into your warm hand, subconsciously seeking your reassuring touch. As much as he could deny his needs, you knew he wouldn’t lie to you about what he wanted. 

That was one rule he’d come up with with his therapist. 

She’d helped him work on intimacy, first helping him identify when he felt safe or unsafe in his body so that he knew when he was or wasn’t getting what he needed. Unfortunately for the reserved supersoldier, it required him to be honest about his own needs and desires. Initially, he had scoffed at the practice, but now, in the depth and comfort of your relationship, he couldn’t deny it had worked.

He whined as your hands found their way to his scalp, your fingernails scratching at the base of his neck as you stroked his hair. His hips pressed subtly into the couch, but you clocked the motion. It sent a shiver down your spine. 

His head was buried in your stomach, his strong arms around you. 

“I want you,” he spoke lowly, his voice rough. He nipped at your stomach through the thin material of your shirt, his teeth scraping your skin mischievously. His usual dominance was bubbling up, but you had other plans.

“You can have me,” you promised. “How would you feel about trying something new?”

His face popped up abruptly, a suggestive smile on his rugged features. 

“What did you have in mind, baby?” His hand crawled up your thigh to your hip. His touch set your flesh aflame as his weariness instantly vanished. 

“Well, I've been thinking…”

“Dangerous.” His eyebrows shot up, and a cocky grin relaxed onto his face. 

“What if you let me take control this time?” 

Bucky’s mouth fell open. 

“I- I don’t know about that, doll,” he stammered, and then swallowed thickly. His eyes were set with desire even as his nerves flashed.  

“I wouldn’t do anything we haven’t already done,” you assured him. “I just thought it might be nice for you to relax.”

“Yeah, only it’s sort of hard for me to relax when… when I’m not in control.”

“I know, but think of it as one of your missions.”

He arched his brow at that. 

‘Your missions’ were what you called his therapy homework. The objective was usually to do with adjusting the response of Bucky’s nervous system, opening the world up for him, so he could live alongside his trauma as freely as possible. What happened to him was real, and awful, but it didn’t have to define his future. 

Sometimes it was something as simple as an excursion to a new place, really anything that could affirm his newfound sense of safety. It was an honor any time he invited you to join him.

You’d been toying with this idea for a while now, but you hadn’t run it by him yet. It was a little different than a visit to a history museum or trying a new sort of cuisine. 

“You’re going to top me as part of my therapy regimen?” he deadpanned.

“No! Well…sort of. What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy.”

“Well, technically true. But think about it! It would be giving your body a new experience…” 

He squinted at you, unimpressed. 

“You need to learn that you can be treated nicely,” you lowered your voice seductively. “I could teach you.”

You were just playing, but his breath caught in his throat. Bucky swallowed his arousal at your gravelly tone.

No, he thought. No. The last time he let someone take control, people died.

As seductive as the idea was, he couldn’t afford to give up control. The idea freaked him out, and he didn’t want to end up a freaked out mess mid-fuck.

Even as he thought the words, though, he pictured what you could do to him. Was it fear he was feeling? Or was that something else building in his gut…

He took a steadying breath. One tool he had developed with his therapist, Dr Palmer, was ways to center himself when his nervous system was triggered unnecessarily. Through his work with her, he was learning that he could give his body a new experience, a different experience than the ones the world had given him. 

The proof was in the pudding with you. He would never have been able to be intimate with you, to feel comfortable with that level of vulnerability without a slow, controlled approach; slowly unraveling the old sensory experiences and replacing them with positive ones.

You were being unfair, he thought as you waited on him patiently.

Positive reinforcement was an undeniably useful tool when it came to re-regulating his nervous system. For you to pair your logic with your supremely fuckable appearance and the hunger flaring in your eyes, you were practically abusing his treatment. 

Unbidden, his mind supplied the first time he’d finally let himself touch you with his metal arm. He'd had to take things slow. Real slow. So when he’d gently cupped your face with a cool vibranium palm, you’d only ever kissed twice before. The contact had heat flaring in your face, a blush dusting your cheeks. He had been quick to kiss it away.

That same blush had made another appearance the first time he used those fingers on you. He shifted his growing erection against the couch again as he recalled your breathy moans and whimpers as he’d fucked you on his vibranium hand. After, you’d admitted your fixation with his metal arm. He had practically purred at the confession. 

Even now, in your cozy position, he felt the same attraction. He couldn’t help it, you were so gorgeous, and you were all his.

As you watched him from above, your eyes were heady. Your teeth pulled at your bottom lip in a pleading pout. 

Fuck it. 

Bucky nipped playfully at your fingers stroking his chin. “You wanna show me a good time, huh, baby?”

You lit up at his words.

“You’re up for it?” you confirmed.

He nodded, “Ready as I'll ever be.”

You nodded along, reassuring, “We can stop whenever you want.”

Your hands brushed through his hair, down his neck, and along his shoulders, and melted any remaining tension. He whimpered as your hands worked his sore muscles. He felt a little awkward, not sure what he was supposed to do with himself.

“Just relax.” Your words were a quiet lull. 

He let himself melt under your slow touch. For a while, you just massaged his back. The angle wasn’t ideal since he was laying on your stomach, but you persevered. The feeling was enough to have him falling apart. Slowly, brush by brush, his groans shifted from pain to pleasure. 

Eventually, you coaxed him to flip over so you could reach his shoulders easier. He sat in front of you and nearly choked at the ecstasy of your hot hands on his knots. 

“Fuck,” he groaned out

“That's good?” 

“Yeah.”

Bucky rarely let you massage him, but he seemed to be eating it up now. The poor soldier was regularly plagued by aches and pains given his intensive line of work. He bore it stoically, and you respected his independence. 

However, there was a small part of you that lived for these moments; the ones where he let down his guard and let you support him. It was intoxicating, and the simple truth was that it made you feel like you mattered in his life. 

You revelled in the opportunity to gawk at his wide back and the thick set of his muscular arms. He was still fully dressed, yet his thin shirt did little to hide the expanse of rippling muscle, firm and sculpted, deceptively edible. You trailed the gentle slope of his spine, and he shuddered. The whisper of your fingers on his skin was like a flame, burning away the stress of the day, the week, his life. 

“Lean back baby.”

His head turned, confusion in his eyes. He was sitting between your thighs; if he leaned back he would smother you. 

“Come on,” you urged. You splayed your legs, gently urging him to lay back against your shoulder, his broad back against your chest. Your arms came around his waist, reassuring him. He often held you like this, and he felt a little odd to be in your lap. 

“I’m crushing you.”

“No, you’re not. Shut up you big baby.”

He bristled until you smoothed a kiss into his temple. 

He took a few labored breaths as you stroked his chest, over his heart. Bucky was always so solid; he grounded you. You were determined to provide the same sensation for him tonight. 

With a finger and thumb on his chin, you turned him into your face for a deep kiss. The dominant angle shocked him, as did your tongue dipping into his open mouth almost immediately. The kiss was slow, heated. 

Your hot tongue in his mouth tasted like home. It was his favorite flavor, he would drown in it if he could. A sigh curled out of his nose as you sucked his teeth.

Your hands came around his torso to continue their exploration, soothing over his body. His tough chest was firm under your delicate touch. He was rooted in place, riveted by your attentions. 

You pressed hot kisses to the side of his neck, tonguing over the abused spots. His skin tasted salty and sweet, his musk flooding your senses. Bucky gasped and groaned as you devoured him, starved as you’d been in his absence. 

His heart beat harder as your touches became bolder. Your eagerness excited him, his nerves spiking along with his desire. 

“You like this shirt on me?” Bucky asked suddenly.

You nipped at him in response, your lips occupied on his salty skin. To express your affirmation, you dragged your nails torturously down his stomach, snagging lightly on the thin material. 

His voice rasped as he snapped, “Yeah, I can tell– since you seem determined to leave it on me.” 

Incredulous, you pulled away from his neck. There was a challenge in his stunning blue eyes, his brows set in determination. 

“All you had to do is ask, baby,” you crooned.

He huffed in relief even at your teasing purr, and lifted his arms for you to pull his shirt up before he threw it across the room. His triumph was short lived, as your hands ghosted his skin teasingly. They brushed his nipples lightly, but not enough to provide any real stimulation. 

Bucky’s expression hardened, and he shifted to press into your touches. You pulled your hand away, defiant. 

“Do you really want to piss me off?” you asked darkly. His eyes widened at your tone. You’d never bossed him around like this before– not in a moment like this at least. 

The air was charged as you met his gaze, equally harsh. His breath caught at your gentle caress across his bare abdomen, disarming him. 

Your brow arched when he stayed silent. “Well?”

“No, ma’am,” he coughed. 

“Good boy.” You kissed his ear, hands coming to stroke firmly down his naked chest and clothed thighs in reward. 

He sighed at the stimulation even as his frustration rose. You were avoiding the painfully obvious need tenting his pants. His body felt hot over you, the weight and heat making your own pulse throb.   

Your mouth resumed its sloppy, wet work along his neck and jaw as you brushed along his upper thighs. You traced his hip bones, the sharp vee and coarse hairs that led below his waistband. 

“Is this where you need me?” you asked condescendingly.

He nodded once, a terse gesture.

You clicked your tongue; his curtness just wouldn’t do. Despite his bratty attitude, you relented and unzipped him with a gratuitous drag of your knuckles along his clothed member.

He groaned, and the sound only fanned the flames of your little game. 

Slowly, torturously, you skimmed your hand flat along his hip under his undone fly. His skin burned as you roughly pushed his undershorts out of the way just enough to free him. He hissed at the abrupt intrusion as you pulled out his aching cock. 

“Look at you, baby.” Your voice was mocking. “I haven’t hardly touched you yet and you’re leaking all over.” He was already semi hard, and his tip was an angry, glistening red.

Despite your mocking words, you gave it to him just how you knew he liked it. 

Your pace started slow, your familiar grip firm around his girth. An ache was brewing in your own abdomen at the image of his thick, long cock in your hand. His pants were sloppily undone still, not even shoved down his thighs. Neither of you minded in the moment, swept up in the bliss of your reunion.

For some minutes you stroked him steadily, unhurried as you whispered praises into his ear. 

The imposing man flushed as his moans swelled. You saw his expression gradually lose its edge as bliss washed over him. His eyes were as blue and shining as the ocean of pleasure he was lost to. 

Bucky’s eyes slid closed as he surrendered fully to your touch. One particularly harsh tug had him groaning, and his body shuddered. His sweat drenched spine tingled with the sensation. 

One moment it was bliss– the next it was stabbing panic. 

The sweat covering his body was suddenly unbearable, gone cold in the open air. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the chill was like that of another room, on another continent, decades ago. Deep underground, the chill would spread from the unholy metal appendage, tearing through his ragged scars, until it would seep into his bones. Darkness followed. 

You paused your motions when you saw his expression freeze.

“Bucky?”

His chest heaved. 

He focused on the warmth of you, surrounding him. The softness of your flesh on his. The pitch of your concerned breath in his ear, the steady beat of your heart. 

Slowly, his eyes blinked open, looking bleary. He focused on the warmth of you, your living heartbeat. It was out of sync with his own, but beating nonetheless. 

“Do you want to stop?” 

“No,” he pleaded, gasping. The past was done. He was with you now. He was safe.  

“Are you sure?” you checked tentatively. “I’m not going to make you do anything, okay? How about we just do this, huh? I just take care of you?”

He moaned at that, bucking his hips into your hand impatiently. 

“Good boy. Keep telling me how you like it,” you murmured. 

He was clearly eager, but you were hesitant now that he’d slipped away for a moment. You could only guess where he'd gone.

His eyes focused again on the present, zeroing in on your hand holding him, and your resolve grew along with it. 

“We’re going to go slow okay?”

Bucky nodded distantly. You felt his cock throbbing painfully under your still hand. His voice was broken when he finally spoke, “Please, keep going.” 

You pressed another kiss into his temple, then you began to pump his hard length in earnest. Immediately, it was like he was a whole other person. Your stoic boyfriend was whining and shuddering as you touched him. It was like your touch was pure sex. His usually attentive eyes were blown with lust, focused solely on your connection. 

Now that he had swallowed his panic, he was wracked with the sensation of your hand on him. Rarely did he let you jack him off like this. He was usually a generous lover. Despite the lack of stimulation now, you heated as he continued to harden under your strokes. 

Bucky swore, “Shit, baby. You’re so good at that.” 

Pride surged through your veins in tandem with a fresh lick of arousal. 

In his own mind, Bucky floated back to when he was a pawn in the hands of evil. Now he was putty under your hands. His gut was twisting at the lack of control just as much as it was burning with desire at his submission. 

It wasn’t easy but, god, was it worth it.

Your warm hand pumped his length with the perfect pressure. He felt the pull of it in every inch of his body, even his molars were buzzing with the strength of his pleasure. 

He had no idea he would enjoy it so much. Typically, he plotted out your pleasure mutually and methodically, always determined to achieve the necessary benchmarks to attain the most favorable outcome. It was thrilling to be at your mercy, under the sweet control of his most trusted partner. 

He hadn’t felt this way since Steve, and had never expected to again. 

The anticipation of the unknown set him on edge, but not in a way that sent his mind spiraling. Instead, it sent his pleasure to a higher pitch, one of feverish desperation. It amplified every sensation tenfold. He only realized he was shaking when you paused your hand and kissed his skull again. 

“You okay, Buck? We can stop if you–”

“Don’t stop,” he panted, frantic. “Please don’t stop.”

His hips jutted into your fist as if to prove his point. You resumed your strokes with renewed fervor at his breathy begging. His cock strained under your hand, and his hips struggled to stay still as you worked him towards his release. 

“You’re being so good for me,” you murmured into his ear.

A delicious whimper escaped his parted lips at your praise, his dick pulsing in your hand. His chest was flushed and slick with perspiration. His head had fallen back against your shoulder, his body gone limp. He was wholly exposed to your view, and totally vulnerable to your actions.  

The sight was almost absurd. You still had moments like these, where it was a shock to see how open the calculating soldier could be. 

After this last job, you could tell he was spent.

What you couldn’t feel was how every ache in his body was turned sweet under your merciful touch. The man was lost in the all encompassing rhythm of your ministrations, every stroke and squeeze transporting him further into a state of bliss. 

His overgrown hair had fallen into his face, and his perfect pink lips were parted in ecstasy. The stubble that dusted his jawline was thicker than usual, a handsomely dark accent to his pretty features. 

The menacing supersoldier was reduced to a whimpering mess under your tender hand. 

As you felt his orgasm approach, you had the twisted urge to pull your hand away. The desperate sobs he heaved tipped you to put the off idea for later. 

“Please,” he begged. He was gripping the side of the couch with such force you were worried it would snap. His eyes were heavy lidded, focused on the rasp of your hand over his weeping cock. 

Your lips anchored to his neck, teething at his pulse as he barely contained his trembling sighs. 

“Let go baby, make a mess for me.”

He moaned loudly as you whispered encouragement in his ear. With a stuttering gasp, his release struck. His back arched as pleasure wracked him, and your hand continued to pump as his hips stilled. 

Bliss slackened his whole body, the powerful man slipping into a different dimension. His expression was gorgeous and unguarded as he came all over his chest. The slick mixed with his sweat in an intoxicating concoction; the sight was as exquisite as it was addicting. Bucky was a dangerous man, in more ways than one. 

His chest heaved as he came down from his high. He whined at the feeling of your hand still on his oversensitive cock. You released him with a final swipe over his tip, earning a hiss. 

“You’re mean,” Bucky whined. 

“Is that what you’d call it?”

His head lolled back against your shoulder. He kissed you sloppily on the jaw from the odd angle. Your heart soared at the messy contact. 

“You’re a saint," he amended. 

“For your eyes only,” you conceded. 

His agreement was a deep rumble. “That was so hot, baby.”

“Did you like it?”

Bucky choked on a laugh. “Did I like it? Did you hear me screaming? That was amazing, doll. How did you know that would be so good?”

You shrugged, breathless. He shook his head, glowing in the aftershock. 

“I didn't even know I’d like it that much!” he exclaimed. 

“We can do it again whenever you want.”

He growled suggestively, and you slapped his shoulder. You tried to swallow the hot tang of arousal filling your mouth. 

“How did it feel?” you changed the topic. “You went somewhere for a second there, at first.”

There was a pause as he weighed his response. “For a second… just being shirtless and feeling exposed, it felt like too much. And then the sweat… It just reminded me too much of another time.” His eyes met yours, clear and bright. “But then I focused on you. It’s just you and me, you know? I thought ‘I can do this.’ I trust you.” 

Your heart sparkled in the light of his admission. You caught his hand in yours, and he laced your fingers together. 

“You can trust me,” you agreed, “and thank you for sharing that with me.”

Bucky brought your hands to his lips, pressing a tender and chivalrous kiss to your knuckles before bringing them to rest against his heart. 

”Speaking of trust,” His eyes lit with mischief as he shifted to skim his other hand along your side, “can I return the favor?” 

His rogue hand slipped under your shirt, and his thumb came to a torturous rest just under your breast. He stroked the soft skin gently with his metal digit. 

With effort, you shook your head. “Tonight was about you.”

You kissed him once, chastely, as he sighed. 

“Tomorrow?” he begged. 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. You wrinkled your nose, glancing over his spent form, “Besides, you need a shower.”

His brow arched suggestively as he watched your eyes trail his body.

“Alone!” you clarified. 

His thumb moved up imperceptible, his touch feather light as he teased your nipple. You sighed into his touch, his rough hands familiar and enticing. 

“Join me,” he pleaded. 

“Fine!” you caved. “Only ‘cause you did so well on your mission.”

Bucky smiled in victory, and grabbed your neck for a long kiss. His tongue swiped at your lower lip, asking for permission, and it was almost humorously innocent after what you’d just done. 

But he was plotting. If he could only get you to settle in for a nice long necking session, then maybe you’d be needy enough in the shower to let him–

You broke away from the kiss abruptly, holding up a finger to his face.

“Don’t tell your therapist about this.” 

Your look was accusatory, like he had a habit of spilling your dirty little secrets to her. Which to be fair, he did.  

“I think I have to, doll.”

He chuckled at your groan, your embarrassment endearing. 

“I’m just pullin’ your leg, sweetheart,” he amended, sealing his promise with a kiss to your jaw. 

He wasn’t kidding though. 

Much to Dr. Raynor’s surprise, as well as his own, he indeed spent his next session unpacking his newfound affinity for being bossed around in the bedroom. Next time, he resolved, he would not be caught so unprepared. 

_

A/N: And WHAT IF I just made Bucky a soft sub to help him heal from trauma?? Let me know what y'all think!! I love Buck so so much, he's been my #1 since 2011 I fear lol

[taylamaximoffstark]

[scottishaccentsareawesome]

His beard has grown in more.

His hair is longer.

He's carrying a big gun and he looks extremely pissed.

I'm not saying this is a guy in his Divorce Era, but the last time we saw him he looked like this...

....So yeah, this might be the SamBucky Divorce Era.

[deafening-radio-silence]

I think that Dr. Christina "I was an excellent soldier" Raynor needs to deal with some personal things before she's anyone's therapist, because she strong-armed more of Bucky's autonomy away from him than Zemo did within the series.

[ineffablejaymee]

nothing marvel does can ever top the falcon amd the winter soldier im afraid

[ghostie-cola]

ive never seen the falcon and the winter soldier show, but i watched clips of it tonight and i feel like i just watched an episode of queer eye?? wtf is this show 😭😭 how was it real and why isn’t there a second season????

[legalandnotease]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NcTBjZ_za_M

Here's a very disappointing of a therapist talking about Bucky and agreeing with what TFATWS said about him. Apparently, even though Bucky had no choice with the killings, he still needs to take responsibility for them.

Also Bucky's therapist was good because she 'didn't put up with his bullshit'. His 'bullshit' was not trusting or opening up to her, but why would he do that when she insults him and deliberately triggers him. They say 'she's exactly the kind of therapist he needs' even though earlier they said in a situation like his, it's important to have people who love you unconditionally.

They also liked the scene with Sam's advice. They agreed with Sam telling Bucky that it's his job to make the other victims of Hydra feel better and get closure. It's really sad that only two people ever acknowledged Bucky as a victim: Steve and T'challa.

At least they also agreed that Sebastian is a phenomenal actor.

Thanks so much for sending me this!

I clicked and I saw it was Cinema Therapy. They *finally* made a video about Bucky.

We've literally been asking them for one for 3 years or more. Funny how he only got half an hour though, when Tonky got more than double that. (Although I understand there's a 45-minute version on their Patreon page...)

Also, I am glad they put him in the "hero" category not "villian" or antihero.

I am about halfway through it at the moment and I am starting to see what you mean, though. What really bothered me was the intro sequence where they said Bucky was "partly to blame" for the actions of HYDRA- and yet still compared him to an abuse survivor. So abuse survivors are "partly to blame" for the actions of their abusers? Its weirdly contradictory for them to talk about Bucky needing unconditional love and compassion- and yet be fine with his therapist's horribly insensitive treatment of his trauma. Also Sam's whole "tough love" thing. Isn't that the opposite of compasssion? Others have gone into how it could potentially be not only traumatizing but even dangerous for Bucky to approach family members those he killed without professional supervision or mediation.

I personally suspect that maybe the somewhat contradictory statements arise from people's reluctance to criticize The Falcon and the Winter Soldier show in any capacity. You know what happens if you do.

The other possibility is the attitude to male victims in general. Natahsa was never forced to make amends, or blamed for the actions of The Red Room. Bucky is. Why?

Mostly I suspect its because society has brainwashed men into thinking they can't be victims. They must have *wanted* what happened to them, and if they are vulnerable or struggling then that amounts to "weakness".

Look at the attitude of many fans towards Bucky overall, and how they equate basic compassion with "coddling" or say he needs to stop feeling sorry for himself and "get his shit together".

This is absolutely typical of the rhetoric that male victims are subjected to in real life. And the rhetoric surrounding male mental health as a whole. Men aren't allowed to be struggling, men aren't allowed to need help. Men aren't allowed to be be in pain or emotional and above all men aren't allowed to be victims.

Except they 100% are.

[thwackk]

REAAAGHHHHHH‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[xianjaneway]

This is weird, but after reading so many Marvel fics, I'm surprised that most of them show Tony (& less often, Wanda) being the ones who worked to remove Bucky's trigger words.

Friends, in canon, that was Wakanda.

As white creators, why do we shy away from this in our fics?

I can at least make a couple of guesses. We don't want to appropriate black culture. We don't want to *get it wrong*, or do something that would dishonor the original creators.

We don't want to colonize it.

We don't want to fuck it up.

The thing is, I've read over 1200 Marvel fics since June of 2024. (Yay for hyperlexia, an audio reader, & a lot of boring repetitive work that compels me to find new fics to listen to every day!). I select them by kudos, completion status, & date. My primary ships are Stucky, Stony, Stuckony, & I would read almost anything interesting involving Bucky Barnes.

Guess how many have explored Bucky's time in Wakanda, beyond a passing reference, or a longing for his huts & his goats?

Zero.

Seriously.

Folks, I understand not-wanting to fuck it up. However, as white creators, there ARE a few things we can do that don't involve any appropriation, & drastically reduce our chances of fucking it up.

For starters? We could talk to black creators. Invite them for a collaboration. Ask them questions.

We could re-watch the Panther movies, & the Falcon/Winter Soldier series, with an eye towards, "If I were Bucky Barnes, how would I react to this environment?"

The gender questions ALONE are fascinating AF! A WWII vet being healed in part by a Dora Milaje? How would he respond? How would he interact with an elite group of female warriors, who are in every way better fighters than he is? What would he have to overcome to exist alongside them?

And remember, in Wakanda, Bucky is NOT the main character.

We could argue that he never wanted to be, but if we know men from this era, we know that they lived & moved in a world that *expected* them to be. There's muscle memory & manners & a lifetime of reflexes involved here.

How would Ayo or Xoliswa react to Bucky opening doors, or pulling out their chairs? That ALONE is worth a few one-shots.

And fellow white people, we aren't even asking that question.

I genuinely think we're missing out.

I KNOW, fics are supposed to be for joy & escapism.

However, all of us know that fics can be a form of education, & a form of therapy. If we're serious about decolonizing our minds, our habits, & our viewpoints, this is a REALLY GOOD sandbox for us to practice in.

Just imagine how your version of Bucky Barnes would react here, & give this idea some thought:

[hello-idk-what]

Why do they only focus on Tony Stark’s ptsd, trauma and mental health in general

—————————————

Steve Rogers - World War II veteran, was frozen for 70 years, lived through the Great Depression, best friend fell to death in front of him, proberly feels tremendous guilt for not searching for Bucky’s body, had abusive father in comics (you’d have to guess it was MCU cannon due to how they had no mention of his dad being otherwise)

Thor Odinson - has fought in many battles, mom was killed, dad died in front of him, had to kill his sister, lost his home, watched his brother die several times, had to fight his brother many times, was forced to rule when he didn’t wish to (“And believe me I would love for someone else to rule but is can’t be you. You’re just… the worst”)

Bruce Banner - turns into a homicidal, destructive monster

Clint Barton - was a shield agent, not much is known about him

Natasha Romanoff - Red Room, ex shield agent, the Ohio mission, never knew her family, Antonia Dreykov, guilt

Sam Wilson - ex pararescue, watched best friend fall to death

Wanda Maximoff - bombing survivor, two days stuck under rubble, human experimentation, forced to kill boyfriend, lost children, was left so horribly traumatised by killing vision that she accidentally mind controlled a small town to create a reality where everything was fine, was corrupted by the dark hold into trying to kill a child, was left hated for a accident that happens while trying to save people (Lagos), dead brother

Bucky Barnes - was kidnapped and experimented on, fell to ‘death’, was taken, had memories wiped, tortured, brainwashed, forced to kill, nearly killed best friend twice

Peter Parker - Uncle died in front of him, parents died when he was young, bullied, nearly crushed by falling building, blackmailed into fighting superheroes he was to inexperienced to fight, mentor died in front of him, aunt died in front of him, pressured into for filling a role he can’t, was forced to wipe everyone’s memories of him, lost everything

Carol Danvers - was kidnapped, had her memories wiped, was betrayed by her friend, still is recovering her memories in her second movie

Scott Lang - was kept out of his daughters life, lost years of her life to prison/thanos

Black Panther - saw his father die, almost kills a innocent man out vengeance, was nearly killed by his cousin

—————————————————

I could keep going on but I think you get the point

So many other mcu characters have trauma, many show signs of ptsd and I am a strong believer is Steve Rogers having really bad depression. My point is that there are so many other characters whose mental health the mcu could unpack but they continuously chose to not acknowledge it. Instead of fleshing out other characters via there mental health they keep choosing to shove Tony Starks daddy issues and the one time he flew into a wormhole in our face, which in my opinion was good the first time round but is now overused.

[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)

____________

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

[renif]

Oh ashes, ashes, dust to dust The devil's after both of us Ooh, lay my curses out to rest Make a mercy out of me

curses - the crane wives

a wip i'm working on, the love i have for both of them is ugh

[manspreadercallumturner]

Dunno what’s wrong with me but I like my fics sweet and sappy and fluffy and tooth rotting and pet names everywhere for no reason and no angst and so loveydovey and codependence and separation anxiety and no angst and no fights unless they’re resolved VERY quickly and no angst

Can you tell my parents fucked me up

[keyboardsmashess]

The Siren, or The Heart of the Matter

Chapter Twenty Three: The Appointment, or Therapy is One Hell of a Drug

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: language, eventual smut, fluff, angst, canon-typical violence, implied abuse MINORS DNI. A/N: Hiiiii I stayed up way too late last night outlining the remainder of this fic and I am so excited for where we're going! CW for implied abuse and therapy chats. P.S. I made Cleo's playlist for bonus content (also posted separately) - listener beware, these jams are explicit

Summary: Bucky and Cleo try to learn how to be better at feelings. They have mixed results.

Chapter Directory

“So, are we going to talk about the haircut?”

Bucky shrugs noncommittally, studiously avoiding his therapist’s intense gaze.

Dr. Raynor sighs. “Let me rephrase that - talk to me about the haircut, James.”

Bucky folds his arms across his chest and slouches back in his seat. “Well, doc, sometimes people take these things called scissors and they -”

She cuts him off with a stern look. “James. You hate change, you hate strangers, and you hate people in your space. That makes this a pretty big deal, and I’d like to hear about it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “There was… an incident. Someone called me… that name.”

“Do you seek to protect her, Zimniy Soldat?” The Philosopher’s words jolted through Bucky as if he’d been shocked by a current of the man’s red electricity. He hadn’t heard that name - The Winter Soldier - since coming to live at the Avengers Tower. At least, he hadn’t heard it outside of his nightmares.

“Before you ask, I was completely fine. It was just surprising to hear, that’s all.”

Alone in his bathroom, Bucky braced himself with a hand on either side of the sink. Slowly, an inch at a time, he raised his gaze to the mirror. When he met the eyes of his reflection, he didn’t even hear the crack of porcelain as his metal hand squeezed tighter. 

He shrugs. “I just realized, y’know, it was time for a change.”

On autopilot, Bucky stalked into the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets at random. Whatever got in his way was tossed to the floor without another thought - cutlery and tupperware and takeout menus all forming a haphazard pile in the center of the kitchen. Finally, he spotted them. Right there at the kitchen sink, he made the first cut. Bucky didn’t need to look in a mirror - didn’t need to see the Soldier staring back at him - he just needed to fix this. Now.

“One of the Avengers knows how to cut hair, so I asked if she’d do me a quick favor. Not that I would’ve minded getting a stranger to do it - this was just more convenient.”

Bucky stared down at the pile of hair on his kitchen counter, feeling the uneven lengths with his right hand. He wiped at his face, realizing as wet pieces of hair came away on his fingers that he’d been crying. He dropped the scissors, not registering the clattering sound as they fell to the ground alongside all the other odds and ends he’d thrown to the floor.

He wiped at his face again, this time getting a bit of hair in his eye, and he screamed in frustration. It sounded like an injured animal, and he was grateful to Stark for having the good sense to soundproof these apartments. Bucky stalked back into the bathroom with half-closed eyes, banging into walls and furniture on the way, and rinsed his face at the sink. When he straightened and saw his reflection, a strangled sob escaped from the back of his throat.

“God, what am I doing?” he choked out, but his reflection gave him nothing in response. Knees buckling, he sank to the tiled floor of the bathroom and clutched his head in his hands. “JARVIS,” he called out. “Call Steve. Please, I need Steve.”

Dr. Raynor gives Bucky an appraising look that lets him know she doesn’t believe a speck of what he’s just said. “Okay, sure. We’ll pretend that’s how it happened. How did it feel letting this woman -”

“Cleo,” Bucky interjects before he can stop himself, and he hates the glimmer that appears in his therapist’s eye at the correction.

“Okay, how did it feel letting Cleo get close to you like that?”

“It was… fine.”

Bucky shivered as Cleo ran her delicate fingers through his hair - it had been so, so long since someone had touched him with this kind of gentleness, and he was almost angry with confusion at the unfamiliar sensation. 

“Sorry if that tickles,” she said.

“It’s fine,” he responded, knowing he couldn’t tell her what was really going through his head. It’s perfect. It’s horrible. It’s ecstasy. It’s torture. 

She cut his hair the way she moved through the world - quickly, confidently, and yet surprisingly gently. 

“Fine?”

“Yep. Fine.”

Bucky hated how Cleo saw right through him - how she innately understood what set him off. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but when she asked him to talk about that name, he couldn’t help it - he lashed out, landing on the one thing he knew she wanted to talk about as little as he wanted to talk about the Soldier. And goddammit, she talked about it anyway.

He knew Cleo was holding things back when she talked about her stepfather - he knew it the way he recognized another soldier out in the world. He saw the haunted look in her eyes. He saw it, because he had it, too. Bucky wanted to push her - wanted to demand she tell him every detail so that he’d have a plethora of deeds to choose from when he tracked the man down and made him pay for whatever he’d done to give Cleo the countenance of someone who’d survived a war.

He wanted to push her, but when she stood firm, he found himself spilling his own guts instead.

“What did it feel like to trust another person to be that close to you?”

Bucky shrugs again - he shrugs a lot in Dr. Raynor’s office, mainly because he can tell it drives her nuts. 

She sighs deeply. “James, you’re going to have to give me something here.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Maybe he’ll ask her, if only to get her off his back for the rest of the session… Yeah - he plans to ask Steve anyway, eventually. There’s no harm in one little question, right?

“Doc, how do I… Is there a way for me… Dammit, I don’t know how to say this.”

Dr. Raynor gives him a rare, patient smile. “Take your time, James. I’m not going anywhere.”

“D’you think, after everything I’ve done, I could, y’know… have someone? Does it make me horrible for wanting that, when everyone I- I’ve hurt doesn’t get to have it?”

She considers this for a moment, and Bucky appreciates that she doesn’t act smug about him cracking a little bit. “Do you think punishing yourself will bring anyone back, James?”

He shakes his head somberly. “Nothing will.”

Dr. Raynor nods. “Right. So, aside from making your amends.” She gestures at the book in Bucky’s lap. “There isn’t anything you can do to change the past.”

He scratches the back of his neck, unsure if he’s going to like where she’s going with this. “Right, so…”

“So why would you allow the past to ruin your future? Why keep making the same mistakes when you have an opportunity to do things differently?”

Bucky shakes his head and fiddles with the pages of his little notebook.

“If you aren’t careful, James, you’re going to take over for HYDRA,” Dr. Raynor says quietly.

He whips his head up, glaring at the therapist he never wanted to see in the first damn place. “What the hell does that mean?”

Her mouth is a firm line, but there’s kindness in her eyes. “You’re going to become your own abuser.”

******

I’m wailing on a heavy bag, my workout playlist blasting through the speakers, when I feel the door to the gym open behind me. I’ve been working on using my abilities to maintain an open channel for the frequencies of any given room, allowing me to sense if someone comes into my space without seeing them, and I’m delighted to know it’s effective.

“JARVIS, pause, please.”

“Pausing ‘Angry Feminist Killjoy Playlist.’”

Without turning, I flex my fingers to feel the energy of the person. “Hey, Bucky.”

“Sorry, I was just… I’ll leave you to it.” His voice is gruff, none of the humor I’ve come to enjoy hearing present in it.

I turn and face him, noticing the tension in his shoulders, the way his metal hand is clenched in a fist, the ticking of his jaw. “I was just fucking around,” I say. “You’re welcome to join me, or I can get out of here. Either way, it looks like you need it more than I do right now.”

I think the grimace he gives me is an attempt at a smile, so I smile back. “It’s fine, stay,” he says. “I just need to blow off some steam.”

I nod, gesturing to the heavy bags. “Be my guest. I hope you like Bikini Kill.”

His eyebrows knit together and his head cocks to the side like a puppy. “What are you doing with a bikini?”

I laugh as he walks over. “Oh, my sweet frozen friend. You’re about to get a lesson in 90’s punk and the Riot Grrrl movement.”

He looks slightly nervous as he starts warming up with light punches to a bag a few paces away from me. “I don’t know what most of those words mean.”

“Don’t worry, you will. JARVIS, please play the music again.”

“Resuming ‘Dead Men Don’t Rape’ by 7 Year Bitch.”

Bucky blanches at the title, but from the way his hits start to come faster and stronger, I think he secretly likes it.

******

Avengers minus Thor (only use when 🔨 off-planet or to talk shit about Loki)

Iron Man: Any progress on Operation Turtleneck?

Legolas: I told you guys to stop highlighting the turtleneck thing. It’s weird.

Heartless by Kanye West: I’m working on it. 

Heartless by Kanye West: I’ve been talking to one of the librarians from the NYPL about the books that were burned and I have some ideas.

Heartless by Kanye West: Also, Tony. 

Heartless by Kanye West: Change my name back right now.

Manchurian Candidate: Do we really need to involve the librarians? They’ve been through enough.

Iron Man: If the nerd squad wants to help, let em 🤷

Heartless by Kanye West: STARK, CHANGE MY NAME BACK RIGHT NOW

Iron Man: Jeez, what do you have against Kanye?

Heartless by Kanye West: I’m Team Taylor, if you must know.

Iron Man: 🙄

Legolas: Me too, tbh

Captain Grandpa: Are we talking about Taylor Swift, the American musician? Sincerely, Steve Rogers

Heartless by Kanye West: Yes, Steven.

Captain Grandpa: Oh! Well I like her music a lot, so I’ll be on her team as well. Sincerely, Steve Rogers

Nat TonyifyouchangemynameagainIsweartogod Romanov: Same

Iron Man: Et tu, Natasha?

Nat TonyifyouchangemynameagainIsweartogod Romanov: She makes me feel things

Legolas: She makes ALL of us feel things 😾😿😻

Jolly Green: So we’re just not talking about the mission anymore, then?

******

Dr. Benally calls me at ten on the dot, perfectly on time as always. 

“Hey, Dr. B.”

“Cleo, I was surprised to see you pop up on my schedule again.”

I close my eyes for a moment, steeling myself. “Yeah, I guess I just needed a tuneup.”

She laughs. “Alright then, let’s take a look under the hood. What’s been going on?”

“Dr. B,” I say flatly. “Come on. I know you watch the news.”

“I still want to hear about it in your own words.”

“Okay. My own words. Well, in my own words, my life has become a fucking circus. I read a weird book in the library that took my heart out of my body and replaced it with magic crystal powers, which prompted the Avengers to come looking for me. They brought me back to their Tower in New York City to run tests on me, and then they offered me a spot on the team. My next door neighbor is a formerly brainwashed HYDRA assassin who I might be falling in love with, Iron Man signs my paychecks, Captain America goes running with me every morning, I’m learning mixed martial arts from a superspy, and a villain with a penchant for turtlenecks is out to get me.” I blurt it all out in one long stream of consciousness, not even really processing what I’m saying as I vent out several months’ worth of frustration.

Dr. B hums. “Lots to unpack here. Do you have a starting point in mind, or do you want me to decide?”

Lots to unpack here. That’s Dr. B code for ‘Jesus Christ, Cleo, take a breath and focus.’ Or something like that, anyway. “Dealer’s choice.”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “Why don’t we start with the reformed assassin who you said you might be falling in love with.”

“Fuck,” I say. “I was kinda hoping you’d missed that little tidbit.”

“Well I didn’t, and the fact that you shared it means that you want to talk about it. Would you like to tell me more about those feelings of love?”

“Love might not be the right word.” She waits, allowing the silence to stretch. I sigh. “His name is Bucky. Or James. But I sort of reserve James for when we’re alone and I’m in my feelings. I’m sure you know all about the Winter Soldier, so I’m not going to get into his tragic backstory, but we’ve been… spending some time together. He drives me absolutely fucking crazy sometimes - like leap across the room and strangle him crazy. But then other times, I don’t know. There’s this side of him that’s unbelievably gentle, and kind, and a little bit lost. I don’t know if it’s love, but I’ve definitely been feeling… feelings. About him.”

“Why are those feelings so distressing for you?”

“You know why.”

She sighs, and I can practically see her steepling her fingers together in her office. “Cleo, I don’t know anything until you tell me.”

“Because, Dr. B, I don’t do that. I don’t have those kinds of feelings.”

“What are you afraid of happening if you do have those kinds of feelings?”

“I’m going to hang up on you,” I say, and Dr. Benally laughs because she knows me, as frightening as that might be. She waits me out, so I continue. “With everything that happened, I’m not a person who gets to have a normal relationship. And it isn’t fair to James - especially because of what he’s gone through - to make him deal with all my bullshit.”

Dr. B hums thoughtfully. “Two things - one, as we’ve talked about before, there’s no such thing as ‘normal’ and you need to stop aspiring to something that doesn’t exist. Two, do you really think it’s fair of you to make that kind of decision for someone else? Maybe he would want to deal with your bullshit. Maybe he wouldn’t think of it as bullshit at all.”

I frown. “I thought therapists were supposed to just listen quietly and write shit down in their little notepads.”

She chuckles. “We made a deal, Cleo - when you’re stuck on one of these foundational, maladaptive ideas, I get to call you on it.”

“What’s so maladaptive about avoiding relationships? Plenty of people never date. I’ll just fight crime and get a bunch of cats and eventually be Meg’s kids’ weird, cool aunt.”

“The maladaptive idea here is that your childhood trauma makes you unworthy of adult happiness. And while I understand you might have formed that idea to protect yourself, you and I both know that it is simply untrue.”

My voice is quiet when I finally speak. “I really fucking hate you sometimes, you know that?”

Dr. B laughs, and I can hear the sound of her typing. “I know. Let’s start meeting regularly again, biweekly unless you think you need weekly. You can have Mr. Stark email me whatever confidentiality forms he deems necessary.”

I roll my eyes. “Biweekly is fine, but never is even better.”

“Great,” she says, ignoring me completely. “I’ll talk to you the week after next. Your homework in the meantime is to do one thing a day that makes you happy.”

“Fantastic, I’ll start right this second,” I say, and I hang up the phone.

[reallifedashie]

I think Bucky is the type of a guy who would paint his metal arm depending on his mood.

No, he won't say it directly, it would be very clear and obvious.

He is missing Natasha? Instead of going and talking to her and telling her the truth, he'll paint the star on his arm black.

And most likely he asked Steve to draw Natasha on his arm after Natasha kissed him on the moon.