#stucky hurt comfort

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

11. Palmiers

Bucky

Because he’s on the far end of the spectrum, Bucky’s sex drive is affected by his condition. He wakes up hard almost every morning of his life, and Steve doesn’t need much encouragement to get himself worked up into the same state very quickly. Mutual morning jerk offs were always bound to become part of their routine.

They take a shower and stand toe to toe, hands sliding and groping all over each others’ slick bodies, pulling on their cocks until both of them are shooting off against each other’s bellies. The water washes it away, and Steve gives him a deep, happy kiss. “Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Blegch. Go brush your teeth, you heathen.”

Steve laughs and gets out of the shower. Bucky stays in for a few minutes longer, adjusting the spray to its hardest setting and letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders. He sighs and stretches his neck this way and that, trying to get his vertebrae to pop, but his muscles are all too tight, and the stretching just seems to make it worse. Bucky drops his head in defeat. In all honesty, his shoulders and neck and back are all pretty fucked after months of near-constant use of his prosthetic.

Steve’s right: he doesn’t usually wear it this much. And he’s also right that Bucky’s been wearing it all day every day because he wants to feel powerful and able bodied in front of Mary. As per usual, Steve is the first one to have noticed what maladaptive behavior pattern he’s doing and why, and pointed it out to him. It really is for the best, Bucky knows. Because he can’t sustain wearing the arm all the time anymore. The thing is just too damn heavy.

The engineers who designed it have made tweaks and adjustments over the years. They’ve done all they can to lighten the load as much as possible, but the thing still weighs over twenty pounds. Twenty pounds doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s pulling on the same muscle groups day in and day out, everything in Bucky’s body winds up getting strained and unbalanced. He understands better now, how women fuck up their necks so badly from shouldering their purses (or their tits) around. A little bit of weight makes a big difference.

As a Dom, Bucky may have a tiny problem admitting when he needs help. He has to be in quite a bit of pain, trouble, or both, before he’ll ever speak up and allow himself to be vulnerable like that. It’s an inherent behavior that shrinks have been trying to therapize and medicate out of him since he was a kid, but nothing ever changed it much. Falling in love with Steve helped; Bucky can let himself be more vulnerable around him. But even still, it’s no small thing that he regularly approaches his husband to ask for help in getting his arm back on correctly (Bucky can do it, but it’s a pain in the ass, getting the mechanism lined up just right before it’ll take). 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, then approaches Steve with the prosthesis. “Gimme a hand?” 

Steve makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement around his mouthful of toothpaste, spits and rinses, then takes the arm from Bucky. He lines it up just so, and then Bucky feels the deep shudder of the arm’s inner workings coming to life as they recognize their mate. The arm attaches and Steve lets go. 

“Thanks babe.”

“Uh huh.” 

It’s as Bucky’s bending over and pulling up his underwear and joggers that a spasm runs through his back and he cries out in a pained, “Ah!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky slowly stands back up. He’s able to get his pants up, but when he tests the movement of his neck and shoulders, the pain flares again. It feels like everything between the base of his skull and his mid back is seizing up. “Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated. It’s his day off. He’d been planning to go to the gym for his long workout. 

Steve steps up and puts a worried hand on his left shoulder. “Babe? Do you need it off?” 

“No. I need some painkillers and a magnesium tablet,” he grunts, already turning around (full body, because turning his head is a bad idea right now). “Fuck.” He starts off for the kitchen. 

Steve follows along with worried protests, telling him to lay his “stubborn ass” down and he’ll get it for him. Bucky ignores him and goes to the kitchen cabinet where they keep their supplement stuff. He winds up yelling again when he tries to reach up and grab the ibuprofen. “Fuck!” he says angrily.

“Babe, I said to let me do it,” Steve scolds, his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And let me take this off. It’s hurting you.”

“Steve, back off,” he snaps, angry and waspish from being in pain, and from being frustrated with his own goddamn body. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky turns his head without thinking, hisses in pain, and then turns himself full-body to face in Mary’s direction. She’s standing there looking at the two of them in concern, one hand holding one of those swirly, flaky, crack-cookies that she makes, and the other holding a cup of tea. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bucky’s arm and body, reminding him that this is the first time she’s seen him without a shirt on. “Nothin’,” Bucky grunts.

“Shit,” she says. “Are you guys fighting? Is this a couples’ fight? I’ll just …” She turns to leave back towards her room.

“We’re not fighting,” Steve says. “Buck’s just being an ass. He gets that way when he’s in pain.”

Bucky would turn his head to glare at him, but it isn’t worth another flair of agony in his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says, when Mary comes back over. “It’s fine,” he stresses. He opens the pill bottle and dumps three capsules into his palm. “Jeez, will everybody stop babying me? I just need a glass of water.” 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, causing Bucky to huff once again. “Don’t be a jerk, babe.”

“Why are you in pain?” Mary asks, her eyes tracing all over the left side of Bucky’s scarred up body. “Is it … does your arm hurt?” 

“No. It just fucks up my muscles, sometimes.”

“Your muscles?”

Bucky sighs impatiently. “Steve, do you know where the heating pad is?”

“I’ll have to look.” Steve has returned with a glass of water, and Bucky tosses back the handful of pills, wincing at how even the slight motion of raising his arm up makes his trap twinge in protest. “Ugh.” 

“You should get a massage,” Mary suggests, and Bucky fights not to lash out at her. She doesn’t know that one of his biggest pet peeves in life is having other people tell him what he “should” do.

“My PT maxed out back in October,” he tells her. “Doesn’t renew again till January.”

Steve takes the water glass from him once he’s done. “Go lie face down on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll find the heating pad.”

“Well I could do it,” Mary blurts out. Both Bucky and Steve pause and look at her. She looks surprised, too, as though she hadn’t been planning to say the words until they were out of her mouth, and now doesn’t know how to continue  “Um, that is ..." she gestures weakly with her cookie. “I just meant I know how to, if you wanted.” Eventually her cheeks color and she looks away. “Erm, Nevermind.”

“Wait,” Steve says. When Mary turns back, he’s looking at her earnestly, and Bucky thinks, Oh no. “You know how to give a back massage? Like a real one?”

“Yeah. My, ah, my ex always had neck problems, so.” She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I took a class at the community college, learned the basics.”

Bucky blinks. That’s the subbiest fucking thing he’s ever heard. “You did this for the husband that beat you?” he drawls, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding way more derogatory than he intends it to. “Sorry. I just … actually would pay good money for a massage right now. If you know how to do it.” 

Mary bites her lip, looking deliciously shy and sweet. Bucky’s mood sours as he realizes that she doesn’t really want to. He’s about to let her off the hook, but then some unconscious movement he makes without meaning to has him flinching in pain again. “Sheezus,” he complains. 

“It’s not usually this bad,” Steve worries.

“I must’a slept on it wrong.”

Mary nods, as if this settles it. “Okay. Well, go in the bedroom and tie your hair up so it's out of the way.” She turns to Steve, all but dismissing Bucky now that she’s got a task to complete. Bucky fights back an amused smirk as he heads towards the bedroom, and he hears Mary bossing Steve around, telling him she needs dry oil, the heating pad, towels, and all the seat cushions off the couch. 

The fuck does she need those for? Bucky thinks as he pads back into his and Steve’s room.

He finds out a moment later, when Mary and Steve come in with a couch cushion each, and Steve goes back out to get another. They lay them in a line on the bed, and Mary directs Bucky to lie on top of them, with his body placed just so and his face down just there, and … Oh. He gets it.

She’s left space between the cushion under Bucky’s chest, and the next cushion up, which supports his forehead. The gap creates a drop through for his face—like a massage table. And when she shapes the towel into a donut shape and sticks it there, it's pretty much perfect.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as he’s settling into place. “Oh, that’s actually really smart.” He can’t see Mary from his position, but somehow he senses her preening over the praise anyway. Steve returns from the bathroom with the heating pad and oil. “Found this stuffed in the back of the linen closet. I don’t know what ‘jojoba’ is, but, um … it’s either that or the virgin olive out in the pantry.”

“Do not use that,” Bucky grumbles. “Shit’s expensive, and I don’t wanna smell like garlic truffle for the next three days.”

“That’ll work fine.” Mary is totally task focused, ignoring Bucky’s surliness and telling Steve to apply the heating pad across Bucky’s shoulders and neck for thirty minutes before they get started.

“Thirty minutes?!” Bucky complains, unable to see anything but the top of the bedcovers as the two of them go out into the hallway. 

“Just relax, Babe,” Steve says (and if Bucky isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused). “Take a nap.”

“I just woke up!” He scoffs at the bedspread when the door quietly ‘snicks’ shut and he realizes that he’s been abandoned. “Well okay then,” he mutters petulantly. Steve is right: he does turn into an ass when he’s in pain. Hmm. Maybe he should work on that.

Steve

Steve turns the tv onto a low volume so they can talk without Bucky hearing. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s a humongous jerk whenever he’s feeling crummy.”

“You mean it’s not just all the time?” Mary drawls.

“He’s … just one of those people you have to learn to love before you like them.” Mary raises an eyebrow, and Steve winces. “Er, that sounded harsh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

She twists her lips and looks down. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Thanks, Hon. You want more tea?” 

“Yes please. There’s more of the palmiers in a baggie next to the coffee pot, if you want any.” 

“Heck yeah, I love those things.” Steve had thought the prepackaged ones at Starbucks were good, hadn’t even realized that they weren’t supposed to be all stale and hard like that. Just another commercialized pastry that Mary’s gone and ruined him for. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee and Mary tea, knowing by now how she takes it.

She thanks him silently as he returns and joins her on the couch, both of them sitting close to one another on the chaise, since it’s the only part of the couch that still has its cushion.

"Palmier is French. Know what else they call these?" Mary asks.

Steve's lips quirk. Mary's always got these little facts she knows about the origins of this pastry or that. It's cute. Endearing. "No," he plays along. "What?"

"Elephant ears, because of the shape, see?"

"Oh yeah. Huh. That's neat."

She goes back to eating and sipping at her teacup, and after a moment of unrequited, affectionate staring, Steve looks away. "Elephant ears," he murmurs, trying not to be mopey. "That's funny."

They split the palmiers between them, and aside from the sounds of them munching cookies and sipping their drinks, it’s quiet for a long time. Steve made both the tea and the coffee very hot, so they at least have the excuse of cradling and blowing on their steaming mugs to keep the silence from being too awkward. Mary keeps her eyes trained forward, but Steve gets the sense that she isn’t really paying attention to the home renovation program that’s playing on the tv. His suspicions are confirmed when she eventually asks,

“So: His arm.”

Steve inhales slowly. “Yeah. His arm.”

“What happened?”

Steve frowns. He can tell by her inflection that she’s asking not just about the arm, but about the state of Bucky’s entire left side from shoulder to hip. “We were in the army,” he confides. “Deployed overseas. I made captain young, but he was a specialist in the field: a sniper. So I wasn’t put into the same types of situations as he was. His convoy got blown up by an IED. And when the dust settled …” He shrugs. “No more arm.”

“Oh.” Mary sits there and absorbs that information. “I guess I kind of figured it was something like that. I mean what else is there, besides like, a shark attack or something?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. Shark attack, ha. He’ll have to suggest that one to Buck. Might be fun to lie about, the next time a stranger asks. “Naw, just a boring old bomb. And afterwards, well. It was a long road for him, after. He didn’t have the arm when I met him.”

Mary turns her head, surprised. “Oh. You two didn’t meet in the army?”

“No, after. I met him at the V.A., when he was already angry, hurt, and didn’t want to be where he was.” Steve looks over and gives her a meaningful look. “Kind of like when I first met you.” 

Her eyes widen, and then her face colors and she looks away again, pulling her knees up and hunkering over her mug. “Was I really that bad?” she mumbles.

“... You were pretty bad, Honey.”

She frowns and doesn’t say anything, and Steve decides to leave it alone. “So yeah, his arm. He got into a program for experimental cybernetics. It was a big gamble. Back then, he still had his arm down to nearly the elbow, which meant he could use a lot of the different types of prostheses they had on the market. The less arm you have, the less they can do for you. The surgeries for the implant required removal all the way up to and including his left shoulder blade. So if he went through with it and the procedures didn’t work out, he’d be left with less function than he started with.”

“Jeez.”

“Hm, yeah. It was a risk.” Steve stares across the living room as he remembers all of the hospital stays and surgeries and revisions and therapy appointments. “Luckily it worked out. They replaced some bones with metal supports, some of his natural muscle with enhanced synthetic tissue. His body didn’t reject any of the junk they were putting in him, which was the biggest worry. All in all, it took five surgeries over the course of three years, and then a shit ton of physiotherapy. Buck says it was worth it, now, but it wasn’t a walk in the park when it was happening, I’ll tell you that.”

Beside him, Mary makes a sad little noise in her throat. “But … all that and it still gives him pain?”

“Yeah. He gets PT for it, but like he said; it never winds up lasting the full year. I force him to my veterans' support group when I can, but he’s gotta be in a really charitable mood for that.” Steve snorts humorlessly. “He’s always hated being disabled. It doesn’t jive with his DPD. You know that stereotype about men: never wanting to stop and ask for directions?” 

“Yeah.”

"Well it's true. And then you take a guy who’s as far on the spectrum as Bucky is, and it’s ten times worse.” He widens his eyes in emphasis and gets a little giggle out of Mary for it, which makes him warm with pride. He pulls his feet up onto the couch next to Mary’s and nudges her knee with his. “Just fair warning: He’s the worst patient I’ve ever seen. So don’t take it personally if he’s grumpy at you in there.”

Mary frowns and looks away. “Well, I mean I don’t have to do this. If he doesn’t want to.”

“Pretty sure he wants to. And he needs help with it, whether his stubborn ass wants to admit it or not.”

She nods, though she still doesn’t look confident. “It’s been over a year since I worked on anybody …”

“Well then this’ll be good practice for you, won’t it?” Steve nudges her again in encouragement and tells her to finish up her tea: He doesn’t expect Bucky’ll lie around patiently for much longer.

(“Oh, and Hon, maybe don’t tell him we were out here talking about him this whole time.”)

(“Duh.”)

In the bedroom, Mary climbs onto the bed next to where Bucky is laid out on the couch cushions. She takes the heating pad off his neck and puts it aside, looking nervously over the broad expanse of his back. “Um …” She reaches for the oil bottle and pumps some into her hands. She spends a long, long time just spreading it between her hands and staring at Bucky, until finally he snaps,

“What’s the holdup?” 

“Babe, be nice,” Steve warns. “Mary? You need anything?”

“Um, no. It’s just … usually I'd ..." She makes an aborted move, like she's thinking about repositioning herself, but winds up staying where she is. "Right," she mutters to herself. "This'll work fine." She reaches forward like she’ll start rubbing Bucky’s back, hesitates, shuffles closer to his side, then sets her hands on his shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, but he’s not used to new people touching him, and Steve would bet money that his eyes are clenched shut right now.

“Okay,” Mary warns. “I haven’t done this in awhile, so don’t get your hopes up for a miracle or anything.”

“Anything’ll be better than what I can do myself,” Bucky says gruffly, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. “Just go to town. You can’t hurt me any worse.”

Steve can see Mary’s face, and he knows by now what she looks like when she’s flustered. Awkwardly, he steps to the side, heading for the door. “I’ll just go watch some—”

“No!” Mary squeaks, and when Steve turns back around she’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t leave,” she says, like being left alone touching Bucky is the worst possible thing that could happen. Steve doesn’t miss how the muscles in Bucky’s arms do tense at hearing her plead for Steve to stay. 

“Uhm, okay. I’ll just … be over here.” He leans back against the dresser, feeling almost painfully awkward. Once again, he’s reminded how Mary has shown absolutely no desire to engage in sexual contact with them. He hopes she doesn’t think this is a ploy to force physical contact. She was the one who suggested it, after all.

She starts at the base of Bucky’s skull, rubbing her thumbs in small circles. “As I go along, try to tell me which areas feel the worst,” she murmurs, and Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Steve watches as she pushes and circles and kneads Bucky’s neck, working down on into his shoulders. He’s struck by how feminine and tiny her hands look against Bucky’s body … and then has to steer his mind away from the thought of how tiny they might look in other places.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky gasps, when she reaches a certain spot on the left side of his neck.

She freezes. “Bad?” 

“Nngh. Good,” he slurs. “That whole area from there goin’ down into my back ‘n all around my shoulder blade is where it’s worst.”

“Okay.” She tentatively presses around in and around the left side of his neck and shoulder. “Oh, yeah. It starts right here and goes down.” She slides her hand down the muscle and hums. “Oh, I can feel it.”

(Steve tries really hard not to think sexual thoughts.)

“Riiight here? and … here?"

Between the cushions, Bucky’s voice comes out in a series of garbled moans.

“That’d be a yes,” Steve interprets, and Mary actually shoots him a grin at that. Glad to have cut the tension a bit, he dares to take a few steps closer to the bed. He peers down at what Mary’s doing, the way her fingers dig in at sharp, focused points in some places and rub more gently in others. “It’s your trap that’s the worst,” she mutters distractedly, feeling around with her hands and staring off into space with the tip of her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Mmm, but probably your levator scapulae, too. Those tend to get fucked up hand in hand.”

“Mmrr.”

“And here: your rhomboid.”

“Ooh!”

“Tender?” 

“Shuyeahhh,” Bucky grunts, then his breath hitches when she digs into another spot. “Oh, yep yep right there. Was’that?”

Steve can’t help but grin. Bucky sounds like he’s drooling at this point.

“Your trapezius muscle. It's big. Does a lot of work, covers a large area. Probably the main offender.” Mary hums and feels around a little more. “Oof, yeah. You’ve got a whole bunch of tension right here.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks, fascinated. He can't see anything.

“Yeah. Here, gimme your hand.” Steve is taken aback when she grabs his hand and guides his fingers into place, her own smaller hand pressing down. “Riiight there. You feel it?”

Steve swallows thickly. “Ah, yeah.” His eyes flick from her hand on his hand on Bucky’s back, up to her face, and back again before she can catch him looking. “Y-yeah it’s hard.” He grimaces at his choice of words (If he's not careful, "it" soon will be).

“I’m gonna focus on this one for a few minutes,” Mary tells Bucky. Then you can guide me around to the other bad spots.”

“Sounds good,” he slurs. Steve is about to take a step back again, but then Bucky calls out, “Hey Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Pay attention to what she’s doin’. It feels really fuckin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You can learn n' do it next time,” he says dreamily. On his back, Mary’s hands still for the briefest of seconds. “S’goood.”

Steve nods and comes back to sit on the bed. “Okay,” he agrees, scooting in close and glancing at Mary. Her face looks pinched all of a sudden, her expression stiffened as if in annoyance. “I promise I’m not as dumb as I look,” he jokes, and watches as her face smooths out and she smiles a little.

“Oh! Oh no it’s … it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll teach you how.”

“Don’t mind me, m’just a teaching tool,” Bucky drawls, and Steve laughs and pats his shoulder. 

“Yeah you are. So shut up and let her teach.”

Bucky grunts and shuts up. Steve looks to Mary for instruction. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but she manages to hide it well and keep herself on track. The more he pays attention, the sooner she can get herself out of this and never have to do it again. “Ready to learn,” he tells her.

“Now when you’re doing this, you can get more leverage if you straddle his waist.” She says this like it’s a foregone assumption that she would never dare to sit on Bucky’s waist, and Steve is sure she doesn’t notice the grumpy huff of breath Bucky gives.

“Right,” Steve says, pained. “Okay, so where are the bad spots again?”

“Put your hand here.” She takes his hand again and places it just to the left of Bucky’s spine at the level of his shoulder blade. “Slide your fingers out. There. Feel that difference? Feel how it changes when you move out to just … there?” She guides his fingers, and Steve nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Mostly, he’s just thinking about how nice Mary’s warm, oiled, tiny hand feels guiding his hand around. “Yeah.”

“The trap’s on top, but there are other muscles underneath of this one, and that differentiation you feel is where the rhomboid is ending and the—”

She keeps talking, and Steve tries to pay attention and learn, he really does. But his mind is a veritable sieve, for how well he retains the information. It’s all in one ear and out the other, ninety percent of his attention stuck on Mary’s hands on him, guiding him, pressing on his fingers and gliding his touch over Bucky’s skin. Fuck, how did they wind up here? 

Eventually, having taught Steve the basics, Mary lets him go and works on Bucky’s shoulders for a little while more. For the most part it’s quiet, with Bucky making soft grunts of pain whenever she finds a new cluster of knotted muscle, and sighs of relief once she works them out. 

Her hands linger on Bucky’s mid back when she’s done. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Erm. Okay. I think … I think that’s it.”

When neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, she retreats on her own, getting off the bed and looking between Bucky’s prone form and Steve’s sorrowful expression. “So, kay. You can get up, if you want. Just move slowly.”

Bucky’s right hand gives her the thumbs up symbol, but the entire rest of his body doesn’t move. “Thanks Mare. Just give us a second. That was really good. Thank you. Thanks for teaching Steve.”

It’s the “Thanks for teaching Steve” that seems to do it. Mary’s expression firms up and she nods curtly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her. Steve stays sitting on the bed next to Bucky in silence for a long minute, then says knowingly, “Got a boner?”

“Yep.”

*To anyone who's only ever had store bought, pre-packaged palmiers: I'm so sorry. Along with Madeleines, those should never be eaten more than a few hours max after they've been baked.

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[fandomfluffandfuck]

Hiya, S! Not sure if you're still taking requests but, I had a little idea-

Steve has been working himself too hard, both physically and mentally for weeks now and Bucky has finally had enough and has to go pry him from the gym and sort of force him to relax.. the method he uses exactly is completely up to you.. fluffy or smutty, It doesn't matter. But Steve is kind of denying it all, I haven't been overworking, I haven't been tired at all yada yada, his whole 'I don't need help' shtick so Bucky has to be a little more assertive.

Luv ya! Stay awesome <3

I am still taking requests for right now! And I've been doing a lot, lot of smut recently so I'll take the opportunity to go in the other direction for this if you don't mind.

And thanks!!

So... this is basically the angsty, then fluffy version of this scene 👇🏻 that I wish we got

Warning for Steve being self-destructive, actively self-harming, and, just, in a downward spiral that Bucky helps coax him out of. This sounds super angsty but it ends with fluff, I promise!

Bucky knows when he wakes up alone, just a scant few hours after the post-mission crash dropped them at home, finally back in their very own bed, that he will be able to find Steve down the Tower's gym. Bucky knows this, feeling it down to his bones. Sometimes, he thinks he knows Steve better than he knows himself, and he isn't sure if he should be prideful of knowing his best guy so well, or, if he should be concerned with his knowledge and memory of himself. Either way, even though he knows Steve is down in the gym--beating the shit out of his knuckles with an unrested, already battered body, beating that body in favorite of lying still and letting his mind run in exhausted circles like a snake looping back on itself to swallow it's own tail--Bucky makes sure to check everywhere else first.

He doesn't feel like riding the elevator all the way to the roof, so he asks JARVIS to assure him Steve isn't up there. JARVIS would've waken Bucky to let him know of Steve's whereabouts if he ended up there, regardless, but it can't hurt to double-check. Next, Bucky lifts his weary body from bed to dip his head into the bathroom. No Steve there. Then, he pads, as light on his feet as a cat, to their dark kitchen. No Steve there, either. Bucky sets his hands on the kitchen counter, looking into their open-plan living room. Steve also isn't there, sheltering on the couch, wrapped in blankets, quivering and pretending he isn't, thinking he can "protect" Bucky from witnessing another nightmare (really hiding away from Bucky because he, sometimes, somehow, still gets embarrassed even though Bucky has seen him in every state and never finds him lacking). No Steve anywhere in the apartment.

So, the gym it is.

Without stopping to dress himself any further or do anything at all, Bucky walks out of their apartment on their floor of the Tower into the elevator. He doesn't need to softly request the gym floor. JARVIS already knows. He always does.

"Thanks, J," Bucky murmurs tiredly, standing idle as the doors shut in front of him.

In no time whatsoever, Bucky can hear Steve--thank you Nazi fucks, you absolute monsters, for the super hearing--before he's even left the elevator. It's still descending. Barefoot and in nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs, Bucky leans his forehead against the mirrored wall of the lift, sighing to himself at its cool touch. He prepares himself, tapping his metal fingers against the glass, thinking.

Planning.

What, oh, what am I gonna do with you, Stevie?

He's not upset with Steve. Not really. He's upset with the part of Steve that can't stop. The part that insists he grit his teeth and bare the world's pain and injustice and suffer it all himself as if he has no choice but to do it alone. There's more to Steve than that part, but also, if he didn't have that part of himself, he wouldn't be himself, would he? And so... it's a twisted game. The lynx and rabbit. Chasing.

Forever and ever.

Bucky doesn't know if he's the rabbit or the lynx. He doesn't know if he's either at all. He may be the hunter observing from the outside, not yet sure if he wants to intervene, and certainly not sure who he's going to point his shotgun at. Maybe neither. It hurts to see nature run her cruel course. But what is the alternative? Disrupt? Distract? Should he shout and scare both creatures, leaving them to scurry off with racing hearts? What can he do? What should he do?

The sound of thin flesh and ill-protected bone--just knuckles--against firm, unforgiving leather--a heavy boxing bag--rings in his ears. Ding! A new sound enters his mind. He's here.

Bucky takes one last fortifying breath, not because he's exhausted, not because he doesn't want to deal with Steve, and not for any reason but the scene he knows he's about to walk in on--his best friend, his lover, his everything hurting himself.

Beating himself up. Literally.

Still, Bucky goes.

The pain of seeing it can not be worse than the pain of knowing it's happening and doing nothing to intervene. This is not how it has to be. This is not the natural order. Cruel and sacrificial. Bucky will do something to stop it.

And that something is interrupting Steve in the middle of a particularly brutal assault--on himself and the bag hanging from the ceiling. There's a pile of them waiting to be hung, a grim fate; there's a pile of already strangled bags punched across the gym, spreading deserts of sand between Steve and his own worst thoughts, represented by those bags he brutalized. Steve is slick with sweat like an oil spill, and the smell of grief is coming off of him in feet-sweeping waves. His bangs hang over his forehead, sticking to his skin, gritty and darkened by moisture.

And, God, beneath that bent halo of hair, despite the healthy pink flush covering his face from sweat-beaded hairline to the hem of his shirt, he looks... there is no kind way to say it, Bucky must just say it: Steve looks gaunt. His cheeks are sunken, as are his eyes. With all the sweat coating his weary skin, soaking into his clothes that shroud him, it's no wonder why. He's dehydrated as fuck. Running himself ragged from beyond the blood soaked into his boxing wraps.

And those wraps, Jesus, they're sloppy. Careless. Obviously hurried and barely to be bothered with. They might've started tighter, but Bucky knows at no point were they neat and proper. Steve wouldn't've had the patience. It's a miracle, really, that he's got any on at all. Bucky's seen him go at it bare knuckle until he's ground down to his bones.

Loudly, Bucky clears his throat. But he doesn't make a noise until he's circled Steve so he's in his line of sight. Standing in front of him but just out of the possible path of another exploding punching bag. He doesn't want to stand in his blindspot at a time like this.

The sound of another person joining him jerks Steve into awareness rather than boiling rage and a million other nameless emotions. He comes up from the tempest that was fueling his flurry of devasting, full-weight-and-strength punches that may be enough to wrench his own arms out from their sockets. He freezes so suddenly, caught red-handed, metaphorically and literally, that it looks painful. Such explosive motion to none whatsoever. His chest won't even heave.

He is a grievous statue.

And, his audience, Bucky chooses to say nothing about what he's been caught doing. He won't demand that Steve stop. He won't try to sweet talk him and coax him out of it and back to bed. He won't plead with Steve to stop, hanging off of his shaking, lactic-acid-burning arms. None of those will work when he's so fucking worked up. Bucky can sense it even while he holds himself so perfectly still. He is not moving but he is still vibrating--trembling without trembling, poised to come crashing down sooner or later. The best Bucky knows, is to let him do this, and then be here to catch him.

So, the words that come are sleep-rusty and short, jerking his head to the pile of supplies next to Steve--he's going to wrap his own hands and Steve better re-wrap his while he does.

His bloody knuckles won't stop bleeding if they're going to go toe to toe, and it's not like his dirty bandages are going to do much, it'd take a hell of a lot more than that to penetrate the serum's defenced and give him an infection, but that isn't the point. The point is to hammer home that Steve's body needs to be protected. Still. Even like this. Big, broad, and strong. Especially like this. So fucking tense that he can only relinquish himself to brutal strength or no movement whatsoever. There is no in between. If he tries, he'll break. There can be no weakness.

Bucky will give him the space to find his weakness and then will welcome it with open arms.

So, they box. Knuckles to knuckles. Punch after punch is thrown. Each hit from Steve gets stronger until he's back to nearly damaging himself with the brutality of his own strength, his spirit more than his flesh and blood can take--the way it always has been.

At some point, sinking back into the raging sea of his mind, dropping out of reality itself, Steve's upper lip curls into an ugly snarl and he throws in a kick. Bucky dodges and fakes him out to lure him from the hardwood flooring of the gym where he was wailing on heavyweight bags to the squishy mats in the corner meant for partner sparring.

Once there, he can work through tiring Steve out. Grappling. Kicking. Sweeping his feet out from under him. Taking him to the floor. Pinning him. Punching him. Letting him squirm out of a headlock just to throw him back down. Twisting. Punching. Using everything he's got.

Knuckles to knuckles well past the point of Steve's blood soaking his fresh wraps. Steve's scarlet blood seeps into the white of his own wraps bit also Bucky's. Painting them both with his pain. Bucky will gladly shoulder some of it for him. Always. Forever.

Punch. Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick. Knock down. Grapple. Get up. Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch. Punch. Kick. Knock down. Grapple. Get up. Punch.Punch.KickPunchPunchKickKnockdowngrapplegetuppunchpunchkickpunchpunchkickgrapplepunchpunchkickpunchpunchkickgrapplepunch--

On and on, Steve goes like a wind up toy.

All action until he can't be anymore. It's sudden. And it's right fucking then when he has no more energy, no more effort left inside him, that he withers and wilts. No matter, Bucky can see it coming a mile away from how his combos get sloppy, slower and less offensive, more drawn in and defensive, to how his breathing stutters, going from disciplined and practiced to something of sobs barely reined in with a lash ditch bit of effort to hide how hard he's about to crash. He can't stay on edge forever, though. And when he crashes and burns, Bucky swoops in, not to bunny punch him, popping him with a flurry of hits, but to catch him before he can fall flat on his face.

Bucky won't even let his knees touch the ground, gathering him up with ease. Bucky is so fucking grateful for the few couple of hours he has on Steve, keeping him from being just as exhausted and muddy-headed.

Still, not just because he can think but because he knows this dance so well, it's awful. Awfully hard and heart-wrenching, the way Steve curls into him after collapsing to the floor without a sound of warning. No pleading for mercy. No bloody scream of never being able to do it all--to save them all. Nothing. Just a tight little ball of agony willing to go to the grave suffering before he admits he's struggling. A martyr like no other.

In his hold, Steve clenches his body so tight just the same way he had when he was first caught. Now, he's caught in a different way--caught between trying to fight back the shakes and wanting to shake so violently that he becomes nothing but dust. He's so fucking close to breaking entirely. Barely out of reach of giving way to body-wracking sobs, gasping for breath, tears pouring down his face, snot leaking from his body, and choking on guilt he doesn't deserve to harbor.

Oh, Steve.

Slowly, carefully, Bucky lowers his precious cargo of Steve to the floor, sinking them both into the squishy mats where he can wrap Steve up in his arms more fully and hold him together while he cries it out. Frustration. Rage. Sadness. Depression. Confusion as to why him. Why this? Liability. Bloodstained guilt. Every negative emotion, simple to overpowering and all of it bleeding out of him until he's limp and impossibly more dehydrated than he already was.

He is a husk, empty and thin, and Bucky still loves him. Overwhelmingly so, he loves him. He loves him bad.

Bucky pats and rubs and soothes his hand over his back, the other arm still slung tightly around him to keep him held, until his muscles actually start to get sore. Bucky doesn't care, it's a small thing to weather. There is worse. There will be worse. He will be there for him then, too.

He's stopped counting Steve's heaving, stuttering breaths, but after a handful more, he aches to yawn. He won't. Instead, he swallows the involuntary, nonverbal language of his body down, taking it deep into his chest and tucking it away for later. He'll never be too tired to take care of Steve.

Steve.

Steve with his head is in his lap, his face pressed tightly up against his stomach. He's out of tears. Bled dry. His lungs don't even have it in them to suck in huge, unsteady breaths. His whiffling breaths feel like they're painting Bucky's skin with condensation, humid and heavy with emotion.

"Ready for bed?" Bucky whispers when Steve's hands go limp around his waist, so drained not only can he not cry, not hyperventilate, but he also can't cling on. He combs a hand through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. They both smell like shit; they look like shit, too.

Steve tries to answer him, but his voice is shot to shit from all the crying, and all that will some out is a creaky little rasp that doesn't sound like anything. So, he nods, the motion tiny and admitting of how exhaustion tugs at his bones. There is no fight left in him.

"Okay, then, honey bee, let's get you to bed," Bucky murmurs, not thinking about anything but getting Steve home. He doesn't let the ache in his muscles mean anything as he lifts him up bridal style and starts determinedly toward the elevator. He's careful with him. He's still made of muscle and bone, but Bucky knows he's eggshell fragile beneath thick, unblemished skin. He's an illusion and everyone else is fooled, but Bucky refuses to be. "Bet you're tired, huh? Long day." Bucky is saying it to say it. He's talking. He knows Steve finds comfort in his voice. Sometimes, that's the only thing he can do for Steve, not chase him around and tire him out, but talk to him until he comes down.

So, really, he's not expecting Steve to nod again, but, Lord in heaven above, he does.

Small victories in a war, or, really, a miracle.

Bucky smiles as they step into the elevator, "yeah, baby, I know, I know. You gotta be tired. Anyone would be. I don't really know how you were still on your feet, dollface. You were running on fumes. You deserve a good, long sleep with sweet dreams, Stevie."

"Yeah?" Steve's voice is rust and nails, painful to hear but risking talking because he has to. He sounds so urgently in need of reassurance that Bucky can't take it.

"'Course, honey," he warms, squeezing him tighter in his arms, "and if the dreams don't come, I'll sing to you until they do, 'kay? Like I used to."

"M'kay," Steve says, somewhere between miserably and totally relieved, wrapped around him with both fists curled over his shoulders and that blonde head buried in his chest.

Bucky will hold him; Bucky will sing to him; Bucky will be his--Steve Rogers, not Captain America's--shield.

[bamboobooshark]

ssstttuuuuckyyyyyyuuuuyyyy.............. 🥰

BUCKY BARNES X STEVE ROGERS

⊹₊⟡⋆🌀 STUCKY HEADCANONS : 550 WRDS

<RATING: PG, KISSING DESCRIPTIONS>

A/N: HIIII I know who you are and you do too. I hope you like these headcanons MUCH LOVE!! <3 ALSO Please take into consideration that this is my first time writing two canon characters together so this might be ass; so sorry 💔

SLEEPING .

Steve has nightmares. Bucky has nightmares. There is not a single night that goes by where one of them doesn’t have some horrid nightmare about the other.

When Steve wakes up from a nightmare about Bucky, usually one of him being taken back by Hydra, he will try his best to gently wake Bucky up. “Bucky? Could you please wake up? I had another,” he mumbles to him. Bucky tries his best to wake up before proceeding to hold Steve to his chest. He lets him know that he’s not going anywhere and that no one is ever going to separate them again.

Bucky, on the other hand, is more discreet about his night terrors. When he wakes up from them, he’ll gently trace his fingers along Steve no matter how they’re cuddling. He’ll tighten his hold on him while being careful not to grab him too tight. If he’s facing Steve, he’ll press a few kisses to his cheek or forehead.

WORKING OUT.

You can’t tell me these two wouldn’t love working out together. C’mon. They’re super humans that are together. They are the only two they can equally compete with each other.

They have their own little tournaments for different exercises and such—their personalized olympics in a way. They love to go out running together too, obviously. Considering their equal power, they keep up normal conversation while working out with each other.

CLOTHES .

When Steve and Bucky started dating, they’d occasionally steal clothes from each other. The longer they’ve been together, the more they steal from each other. At this point they just buy clothes for each other, wear them a couple of times, then just toss them into the other’s side of the closet.

Even when they’re out shopping, one of them will point out something they like; it’ll be bought and worn. “Steve, you see that tank top?” Bucky asks while pointing at the most generic-looking tank ever. Steve smiles softly and nods his head. “Yeah, but you’ve already got a whole collection of them. Same size, same color—some of them are even the same brand. You don’t need more,” he rants to Bucky. In response, he smirks and shrugs. “You might be right, but none of them have been yours yet. I need one of yours,” he says. Of course it ends up being bought.

AFFECTION .

They’re so affectionate with each other. Those two do not play when it comes to affection. Praises, physical affection, the whole package.

Bucky is more intimate in a way with his affection. When he kisses Steve, he likes to rest his hands on the small of his back, arms around his waist. Other times he’ll grab Steve’s biceps tightly and dig his fingers into his arms. When they cuddle, Bucky prefers to be facing Steve or have him pressed against his chest. His favorite forms of affection have to be skin caressing and back rubs.

Steve is a little less intimate but still enjoys being close with Bucky. When he kisses Bucky, he prefers to have their fingers intertwined or hold each other’s faces. As for cuddles, he likes to have Bucky’s head in his lap or on his stomach, or have Bucky lay directly on top of him. His favorite forms of affection are handholding and playing with each other's hair.

[heli0s-writes]

kiss each other clean

a/n: Another Pacific Rim crossover because it truly is the best. Reader/Steve/Bucky with a side of Clint/Nat. I am writing comic Clint bc I love him most. Everyone is hot and sad and potentially poly. I am assuming this because of Reasons. Prompt is panic attack, "if only we could hold on" 1.8k words.

moonchild masterlist

Circumventing the Apocalypse makes Atlases.

Clint jokes that your Jaeger—Atlas Ronin—must have sired every Ranger in the Dome. Her namesake, after all, is both a reminder of the weight you carry and the outcome if you’re too weak to lift. The world splitting in half. Monsters streaming out.

Many Rangers lift their weight with so much grace and poise they could be trying out for pageants.

Not you, though. You’re a real crapbag when it comes to keeping your cool. You say that if you’re ever graceful about someone’s knife to your throat, you might as well be eating it. You’ve never tried to be any other way because it keeps you fighting, keeps you alive.

So when Ronin touches back down in the hangar with so much damage that you can hear her joints screech, hear Clint gurgling blood in your head, you’re worse than ever.

The medical staff refuse it when you limp alongside the gurney. They want you in a bed, hooked up to an IV and not plodding after Clint—not threatening to amputate a doctor if they touch him wrong.

But you tell them to fuck off, bursting through the swinging doors of the ICU unit, barely another word out before Barnes is wrestling you back, Rogers on his other side with his brow scrunched.

“Quit it,” Barnes hisses. “You’re making a goddamn scene.”

“Did you see him?” You jerk against them, your shoulder threatening to dislocate. “He’s got brain damage— he seized!” You swipe at Barnes, knee Rogers the side, but they’ve had enough experience handling you that they just take it in silence.

You’re a terror, according to Bucky, but you’re the only one who can make any sense of Clint when he’s drifting. And when Atlas is in play, she’s so close to unstoppable, Pentecost would personally punch out a senator before they shut your Jaeger down.

They need you. And maybe you abuse that power too much as you thrash around again, take your teeth to Bucky’s shoulder. Sometimes when you return to the hangar you’re still too worked up, can’t quite figure out how to leave the fight behind.

It’s much worse when Clint’s been hurt because you defend him how Steve defends Bucky— but Steve’s got some sense out of the field and you can only see red after drops.

They’ve never tried to make you be otherwise, though. It’s easy to see that 6’4” Clint Barton—who can shoot with immaculate precision, who’s more clever than anyone gives him credit for—has been beaten down so badly by something that he walks with a perpetual slump, makes jokes at his own expense like it’s the only way people will find him deserving of their effort. If they can punch him, at least he’s useful.

Steve had to coach that out of Bucky. After the war, he was always shrinking himself, and it killed Steve to witness.

Clint’s harder to reach. You’re soft on him, hard on him, begged and pleaded and threatened him, but he’s mulish and self-loathing. And in the end, all you could do was hold on, drift alongside him, keep him going one step into the future at a time.

You slacken, the adrenaline ebbing away and leaving you a boneless mess. Your face is puffy, eyes hot and wet with tears, gasping for air and digging your nails into your fists.

Steve keeps propping you up, holding you tight by the waist and leading you down the hall. “Come on,” he urges, “that’s enough.”

They take you back to your room, give you water and space and stick to the walls. Bucky crosses his arms, frowning. “You got me good.” He touches his chin to his shoulder where the indents of your teeth still remain on the cotton shirt.

You cover your eyes, the light too bright, the room too much, and manage, “You were in my way.”

“What’s not in your way?”

You shoot Bucky a hateful look and he only rolls his eyes.

“Clint Barton’s not the only person in the world. And he’s not a kid, either. Give him more credit.”

Your chin trembles. “If he dies, he’ll get what he wants.” You glare, bitterly disclaiming, “We’re all gonna fucking die, but if he dies—”

“Stop,” Steve says firmly.

You look away.

You’re not a dog, but you’ve been trained to follow commands for longer than you’d like to admit. And for as much honor as carrying the world can get you, you’re still following orders one way or another.

If you’re the only one who can make a lick of sense out of Clint, Steve’s the only one who can pull you in when you’re spinning off course. Bucky’s the only one who can keep Steve grounded when he’s tearing through the Shatterdome on a warpath to dismantle the Corps one dignitary at a time.

And the strings animating all of you are Pentecost, who owns some part of everyone for better or for worse.

“Natasha will be there when he wakes up.” He raises one eyebrow as if asking you to really make him explain the situation anymore. “He’s more than fine.”

You begin to argue, but Steve cuts his eyes to yours and you resign to rest your elbows on your knees, leaned over in a pathetic lump at the edge of the bed.

You feel sick to your stomach, sick to your bones. You love Natasha for being able to complete the facet of Clint you can’t and don’t want to— and yet still— want to.

“If you could be,” you start, swallowing the same lump that forms in your throat every time, “enough—” and the hiccups that threaten—the gasping fit that always takes over, whites out your vision--

“Get rid of that,” Steve says.

You put your face in your hands. You can kill a primordial beast. You can tear it to shreds and this is the thing that takes you apart.

Steve understands your pain. He used to want to be enough. Used to want to be the only person Bucky ever needed because didn’t that just make perfect sense? They were each other’s brains. Past and present and future and why would Steve let anyone else mishandle Buck? Get too close to him, trigger him into self-immolation? Steve knew all of Bucky’s haunted foxholes, all of his deepest secrets. Anytime Bucky wanted or needed, he could excavate or ignore with Steve. Why entrust him to anyone else?

But Steve learned that asking why he wasn’t enough was as helpful as decrypting alien speech. There was no language for it that he understood. He just didn’t know. But others could do it, and others could pick up what he couldn’t. And in the end, if Bucky needed another shitshow to love more than himself because it’s just wired in him or something, Steve wasn’t going to keep him from that.

Steve felt lucky enough that Bucky could love one shitshow in the first place.

Bucky pats his thighs and you grudgingly crawl into him, wilting on his chest. And this is where everything slots into place, all the things Steve can’t do, all the things Bucky is naturally good at. He can be terse and serious, make his impact known in a couple of phrases, but Bucky could just open his arms and handle the rest.

The three of you quiet, settling in.

“Sorry,” you offer.

Bucky gives Steve a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whatd’ya think Tasha’ll do when Barton tries to run outta the med bay? Punch him back down?”

Steve hums, “You got the wrong person.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “Guess that’s you, huh?”

You put your hand over his face in a weak slap.

“She’ll be peeling an apple,” Steve says, “And he’ll start getting squirrely.”

“And she’ll just point it at him.”

“That’s it.”

Bucky taps the top of your head. “Let’s go talk to her. You forget you like someone if you don’t see them for a while. You need to remember that you like Nat.”

“I do remember.” 

“Kissing her on the mouth when you’re drunk doesn’t count.”

Steve sighs from inside of his bones. It truly is astonishing how you and Clint can be the most effective killers inside of a Jaeger but take you out of one and you’re two college fratboys at best.

“Why do you think she chose Banner? I mean, Clint, you know? She could have picked Clint.”

Bucky touches your chin, tilts your face up to his, quiet and serious. “Do you think Natasha wants Clint in her head? Do you think it would be good for him? Would it be good for you to be in mine? Ask yourself honestly if it would be your first choice to be in mine.”

And Steve, more straightforwardly, “Do you want war?”

No, you don’t.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “You’re always right, whatever.”

Bucky wipes a dried tear from the corner of your eye, “Don’t forget it.”

-

Clint’s unconscious when you knock. As predicted, Natasha’s by his bed, reading a book with two apples neatly peeled and sliced.

“Hi,” she says, looking up, smiling sweet and small, and sly.

“Hi,” you reply, staring at your shoes, “Thanks for being here.”

“Mhm. Sit?”

You don’t know why you clam up around her. Clint would cut off his own hands if Natasha needed a new pair, and it’s a funny little thing, the way you’re all connected. Clint can’t seem to do anything but annoy Bucky, yet fixes his collar and starts calling everyone ‘sir’ if he hears Steve down the hall.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” you say dumbly.

“I know.” She smiles again and looks at you, really looks, her eyes big and bright and you get a little lost in them. “He woke up earlier and said he can’t die yet because he didn’t want you to be mad at him. Or you might die out of spite so you can kill him ‘extra dead’. His words.”

And sometimes you're not sure with her—if she says things because they’re true, or if she says them because they’re true enough, and what matters more is you just need to hear them.

She reaches out for your hand, squeezing it, and it takes just about everything for you not to burst into tears again. You can feel her relaxing, ready to let go, but you hold on, and she smiles again. That beautiful, otherworldly smile that almost reads your mind, and suddenly you understand why Clint would cut off his hands for her.

“Thanks,” you say.

Natasha offers you an apple, glancing to the door where Steve and Bucky stand. They're connected, too. In a way you're not, in a way only they know, but you don't seem to mind it anymore.

“Yeah,” she says, and this time you know she means it. “Anytime.”

[steevbuckk]

FAVORITE STUCKY FICS | 58/100

You and a Test of Will by @sergeantscarlett

[Modern AU, 72 489 words, Explicit]

Summary:

Bucky Barnes suffered from depression before he joined the army, and when he came back, he suffered tenfold. Steve Rogers painted his nightmares and didn't talk about how he lost his leg. Natasha believed it was possible -- just maybe -- that broken people could help heal one another.

more fics

[adventures-of-impala]

Fictober Day 4

Prompt:

"Do you resent me?"

"I resent these circumstances. But I don't blame you for them."

*changed resent to hate

Stucky, angst, hurt/comfort

Steve and Bucky had been together a long while, from friends in the 40s to lovers in the 2000s. Steve was used to waking up to Bucky's nightmares. He was used to calming him down and keeping him sane.

But tonight was something new, something strange. He's woken up to a metal hand around his throat, Russian spilling from Bucky's lips.

“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, trying to pry his hand away, unsuccessful. “Baby, look at me. Wake up.”

Bucky stares down at him, blue eyes piercing his, Steve's words awakening familiarity within him, overriding the fear and instinct.

But when he fully wakes up, he stumbles to his feet and gets himself as far away from Steve as possible, soft sobs escaping him when he realizes what had happened.

Steve rushes to his side, only to be met with a flinch and a gentle hand pushing him away.

“Its okay, Buck. Look at me, I'm okay. You didn't hurt me.” He reassures him, sitting a foot away from Bucky, hand outstretched, patiently waiting for Bucky to take it. “Its not your fault.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling his legs to his chest and burying his face in his knees. “I coulda hurt you, Steve.” He sniffs, tears pouring. “I love you. Don't wanna hurt you.”

Steve slowly moves closer, hand on Bucky's shoulder. “But you didn't, sweetheart. It was just a nightmare.”

Bucky sobs out and leans into him, face pressed into his shoulder. “Don't you hate me?”

“Baby, no. I hate these circumstances. I hate what you've had to go through, what you still have to go through. But I don't blame you for them, okay? So don't blame yourself.”

Steve pulls Bucky into his arms, cradling him to his chest, fingers gently running through his hair as Bucky slowly calms down.

Once his sobs turn into occasional hiccups, Steve speaks. “Buck? Wanna talk about it?”

Bucky shakes his head, burrowing his face deeper into his chest.

Steve sighs and nods. “How about I get you a cup of tea and we can go from there?” Bucky nods in response and Steve gently maneuvers him off his lap, helping him up off the ground.

“Go lay down. I'll be back in a moment, okay?” Steve says, helping Bucky to the bed. Once he nods, Steve presses a gentle kiss to his forehead before padding off to the kitchen. When he returns, its with a mug of tea in his hand, only to see that Bucky had fallen back asleep.

He smiles and sits down on the bed next to Bucky, sipping on the tea he'd originally made for him. “Sweet dreams, Buck.” He whispers, one hand playing with Bucky's hair. He watches over him for the remainder of the night, keeping an eye on his movements and sounds.

Credits for the prompt:

[buckybarneswannabe]

I just started my first fic

—————-

Steve watches as Bucky leans in towards a girl and kisses her on the lips, his hand gripping onto her waist as he pulls her closer to him. it makes Steve feel sick to his stomach. he turns away from them, grabbing another drink and downing it in one swallow.

Without a second thought Steve gets up with his injured body from stupid fights he had gotten into to forget Bucky and leaves the bar, Bucky doesn’t even notice

Bucky is still completely engrossed with the girl, not noticing as Steve gets up and leaves the bar. the music is loud, and he's too distracted to pay attention to anything else around him.

When Steve gets home he slams and locks the door. Steve stares at his reflection in the mirror, his face still beaten up and bloody from the fight. he doesn't understand why he's not enough for Bucky, why he's not pretty enough, why is he so god dammed weak, why he's not good enough.

Without thinking, he grabs a towel and starts to roughly rub at his face, wanting to get rid of the blood that staining his face. The rough action causes his injuries to bleed more, the towel quickly becoming stained with blood. he doesn't care though, he continues to rub harshly at his face, his emotions overwhelming him.

He makes his way to the small kitchen in their shitty apartment and grabs a bottle of whiskey, and sits down on the couch, taking a swig from it. he doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't want to feel so all the time. He just wants to numb himself and drink until he can't feel anything.

——————————

Should I write more?

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Hurt/Comfort Bingo Masterlist

'Human Shield to "I'm Here For You."' On The Tide - Chapter Ten. James 'Bucky' Barnes x Original Male Character. Winter, Greg and Neri do what they do best, with both expected and unexpected results. CW; Dead body, canon-typical violence, gun use, graphic violence, risk of MCD, implied sexual violence, human trafficking references.

'Sleep Deprivation to Hand Holding' Silver & Gold - Chapter Ten. Natasha Romanoff (ish) x Original Male Character. The final chapter. CW: Smut, Keeping Secrets, Vomiting, Pregnancy mentions.

'Broken Ribs to Stitching Up Wounds' On The Tide - Chapter Nine. Bucky Barnes x Original Male Character. Winter’s captors reveal their true intentions. CW; Kidnapping, torture, physical abuse, slave sale, non-con virginity auction.

'Held at Gunpoint to Taking Their Mind off It' On the Tide - Chapter Eleven. James 'Bucky' Barnes x Original Male Character. The boys live with the after-effects of the kidnapping, and how to move forward… Together. CW: Discussion of gunshot wounds and captivity, non-graphic medical care, smut, AAAALLLL the smut. Full smut warnings in prompts.

'"I'm so sorry." to stuffed animal' Nightmare. James 'Bucky' Barnes x Steve Rogers. Steve supports Bucky through his nightmares Post-HYDRA, and Bucky realises that his apartment is slowly filling up with Steve's things. CW: Smut, some angst.

@sweetspicybingo

This was a LOT of fun, even though I didn't get a bingo... I'm looking forward to seeing what comes next from SSB!

[darthbloodorange]

Rations

Rating: Gen Universe: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers Warnings: None Major Tags: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, World War II, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers's Metabolism, Hungry Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers vs the Super Soldier Serum Word count: 100 - Drabble

Summery: Steve and Bucky get something to eat after returning to camp.

For the: ✦ Stucky Bingo - IMAGE: Steve and Bucky after the POW rescue [G4] (Card: 5054)

Read below or on AO3 >HERE<

He spent who knows how long in Hydra's grasp, starving, and yet he couldn't work up an appetite to eat his rations. 

Bucky sighs, pushing the rations around in its tin. "Do you think there's actually egg in the 'Egg and Ham', or do they just say that to make you feel better about the texture?" he asks, turning to Steve. 

Steve looks up from opening the third(!) pack they had given him. All his rubbish looked licked clean.

Bucky shudders, "Serum must've killed your taste..." he tries joking.

"Taste's nothing t'do with it," Steve says, shrinking, "M'just real hungry."

THE END

Sort of inspired by Bucky's comment "You don't have one of those do you?" when Red Skull tore off his face. I thought Bucky seeing Steve eagerly eating his rations and asking "Did the serum take your sense of taste?" would be a funny continuation. Then I thought he'd be horrified for Steve when he learns about the change to his metabolism (He'd likely be horrified by a lot of the serum's changes to Steve.)

Why isn't Bucky as hungry? Well, I like to headcanon that Steve and Bucky have two very different serums. The version given to Red Skull was unfinished and unrefined.

The one given to Steve was next to perfect, and Hydra failed to get it. The one given to Bucky likely was based on Red Skull's serum, whatever notes they could get from Erksine and Zola's experimentation. (I don't know if Bucky grew taller like Steve did?) But for being the Winter Soldier I think it would be an asset for Bucky to be super-efficient at extracting what he needs from food and going a long time without (Kind of makes the Winter Soldier a little scarier. He will outwait you. You will die of hunger and thirst before he does.)

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖 "Hydra Sanatorium"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Tags: a/b/o, medical institutionalization, cognitive disability, made up kinky medical things, diapers, catheters, non-con medical procedures, restraints, forced wetting, hurt/comfort, humiliation, kind!Careworker Steve, bratty!Patient Bucky, alpha Steve, omega bucky, dub con everything due to a/b/o biology, dry humping, forced orgasm, masturbation, implied self harm, orgasm therapy, age difference (19/30), omorashi

Summary: Bucky is a troubled teen coping with the traumatic transformation of late-onset omega puberty.

Steve's been developing too much of an attachment, he knows he has. But he might not have the self control to remain detached anymore.

Chapter 1: A Weekend in the Pens

Chapter 2: Holding It in

Chapter 3: A Catalyst

Chapter 4: Release Therapy

Chapter 5: Excited Catatonia with Aggression

Chapter 6: Inflation Therapy

Chapter 7: Pheromonal Oil Massage

Chapter 8: Sensory Reset Therapy

Chapter 9: Persistent Genital Arousal

Epilogue I.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

It’s been a bit since I wrote about feral!Bucky but I genuinely cannot put into words how much Steve (and me) loves him

Bucky now associates physical touch with pain, with torture. He hides from visitors, scampers away from touch, and never lets anyone get close to him. Nevertheless, Steve wakes up from a nap one day with Bucky curled into his side, and Steve is pretty sure that if he could, Bucky would be purring like a kitten. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks tentatively, trying not to spook him. Bucky doesn’t seem to be upset by Steve sudden consciousness, instead just making a small noise and wrapping his arms around Steve’s chest possessively. He mumbles something that sounds like “Stevie”. 

“You alright, angel?” Steve asks with a grin, confused but pleased with the change in Bucky’s demeanor. He knew Bucky had always been closer with Steve, trusting him more than others, but this was still new territory. He slides his arms around Bucky, which causes Bucky to make a happy noise that Steve hasn’t heard in years. 

————

Also, maybe Bucky’s a bit territorial now that he’s been given more freedom. The poor thing doesn’t know what to do with himself. However, after consulting a bunch of psychiatrists and Dr. Banner, Steve knows what he needs to do. He empties out an old walk in closet, and fits it with as many soft things as he can find. He buys as many plushies as he can afford, and stuffs the closet with them. He remembers how much Bucky hates harsh lights now and decides to buy those pretty string lights that Peter has in his room at the tower. He shows it to Bucky when it’s finished and they’ve both had a good day. 

“It’s all your own space, Buck. I’m never going to come in here without your permission. I swear it.” Steve says, holding Bucky’s hand, which lately Bucky won’t let go of. 

“It’s… mine?” Bucky says, slowly, tentatively. He’s scared that all of this will be taken away. 

“Yeah, Buck. Yours.” Steve says, as comforting and securely as I can, trying to make his confidence transfer to Bucky. 

Steve is tackled in a hug, and there are tears wetting his shirt. He hugs Bucky back, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Thank you.” The whisper is so soft, so small, that it’s almost imperceptible. But Steve hears it. He’ll always hear Bucky. 

————

Then, of course, there’s the moment when Steve’s telling Bucky about life back in Brooklyn, a topic that Bucky is very interested in. He’s going on about something that they did to piss off Becca (“we were teenagers, Buck. The best entertainment we had was making that poor girl mad.”) when Bucky stops him. 

“I remember.”

Steve drops the pencil he’s holding. “You… You do?” There’s so much hope in his voice. There’s unshed tears in Bucky’s eyes, and a small smile on his face. 

“Yes. Rebecca. My Becca.” Bucky’s smile gets bigger, as does Steve. Steve rushes to his side, hugging him. Bucky’s crying, and Steve’s not far behind him. Bucky laughs, and it is the best goddamn sound Steve Rogers has ever heard. “She was so mad. I can’t believe we did that.” He giggles, and it makes Steve feel like maybe everything will be okay. 

previous feral!Bucky

Me too! I am such a fucking sucker for feral Bucky

I am beside myself thinking about Bucky being so touch adverse only for Steve to wake up and find him tucked into his side 😫 and there's something so special, too, about Bucky having moments in recovery where he's so suddenly more himself. It makes it so much more painful to see the rapid realignment. It's as if he's found two loose ends and knotted them together as quickly as his fingers would allow to ensure that he doesn't misplace them again. Gah! It's so just 🤌🏻ouch🤌🏻

Oh my god!! The territorial thing, yes! I've had this in my notes for actual years, waiting for me to come back to it and do something with it:

Sometimes, during Bucky's recovery, he latches onto things with this ferocity, holding until his fingers hurt, distraught when he accidentally breaks it, if the object of desire is fragile, claiming "mine." He won't let anyone touch it, not unless it's over his dead body. Steve has genuinely never been so distraught and proud of someone for grabbing a mug and declaring it as their own. Bucky deserves to have his own things.

Same wavelength, lmao

That's so fucking sweet, though! I love the idea of Bucky having his own space. (And I love the idea of Peter's room in the tower having fairy lights. Fuck yeah.)

Ah! That last part is the fucking best. Steve will never be as eager to be interrupted as he is when he's in the middle of a story, and Bucky stops him because he remembers. He doesn't need to tell him again, he remembers. Steve could fucking kiss him. Steve will kiss him. Steve will pick him up and spin him around, clutching his waist all the while, a huge grin on his face.

In conclusion:

Thank you so, so much for this!!

[freedvmrouge]

Slow Dancing in the Living Room

Word Count: 679

Tags & Warnings: POV Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Steve wakes up alone in bed and heads to the kitchen. Amidst the sudden silence, music rings out from Bucky's phone.

For @stuckybingo R5 / February Monthly Adoptables

Steve woke up blearily, unsure of the time or even what day it was. There was nothing pressing to wake up for, he gathered. Everyone kept saying how he had eidetic memory, and he did. But there was some nuance to that. He needed visual references, for instance, like having it written down. He still needed associations to form those memories, and right then, he wasn’t associating an appointment with— he looked directly at the clock hanging unnecessarily on the opposite wall— a startling one in the morning time slot. 

He was free, unless anyone told him otherwise.

The other thing, though, was that Bucky wasn’t laying beside him in their thousand thread count sheets— or whatever the insane number was; he wasn’t paying attention. It was quickly losing its warmth, so Bucky’d been away for a while now. He could look for him, surely. He could ask FRIDAY for assistance, too.

Steve did none of those things.

Instead, he got up and raided the refrigerator. All of the kitchen’s light was thanks to this one appliance, and the longer he stood there, the colder it was on his skin; compensating for the lost coolness. 

He quickly picked out a pop tart— probably the least nutritious thing he could’ve settled on— and popped it into the toaster. There were only so many things he could handle this late into the night, and cooking was not one of them.

As he waited, he was met with deafening silence. Even the toaster was dead silent.

Steve patted down his pockets to find his phone only to realize a second later that he left it in his room.

Before he could go and grab it, however, he heard the beginning piano notes of Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Somebody Nobody Loves’-- an otherwise cheerful and optimistic song if you didn’t understand the lyrics. Steve turned his head toward the incoming music, finding Bucky leaning against the front door with his phone out in his left hand; a small smile curled on his lips.

Although I know it sounds alarming; I've prayed on bended knee; For that certain gay Prince Charming; Who was meant for me.

Steve couldn’t help but laugh out loud, the pressure tickling his sides and pushing out of his throat easily.

“You couldn’t have picked a more solemn song for one in the morning,” he said with rolled eyes.

Bucky’s smile widened and he shrugged. “What can I say? I was going through it tonight.”

Steve’s laugh teetered off, and he looked at his partner with soft eyes; watching him closely. He could see how Bucky’s eyes were a little red, and the end of his pajama sleeves had only recently dried.

The song continued to play, even as Bucky shut the front door and traversed the living room toward him. 

Steve met him halfway, somewhere behind the outrageously large living room couch. He gathered Bucky in his arms as soon as he was within reach. He pressed a kiss atop the other’s head as Bucky settled against him, ignoring the windswept hair and cool fabric under his palms. Bucky likely went to the roof for some alone time despite the low temperatures.

They stood there in the comfort of one another’s warmth. He didn’t move, even when his pop tart was ready, and toasted just how he liked it.

Instead, he closed his eyes as they started swaying in place with no real intention to dance. He felt Bucky’s breath coming out calm and steady as the song continued. Steve hummed lowly into the darkness, following the happy tune of the music. 

When the song finished, another soon started up with a gentle cello or some other. Steve didn’t pay attention to the words this time, and neither did he stop swaying with Bucky; enjoying the moment as it was— without any expectations to perform, not even in the bright light of a stage or dance hall. 

Just the two of them, swaying in the dark as the sweet scent of artificial blueberries wafted through the air, and that was enough.

[fsbc-stucky-library]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Captain America - All Media Types, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes Additional Tags: no happy ending, Angst, Hallucinations, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Anger, Unrequited Love, Canon Compliant, Not A Fix-It Summary:

How do you mourn for someone who isn’t dead? That’s the big question, and so far, Bucky hasn’t been able to answer it.

He’d fought for seventy years, even when he didn’t remember his own name, when he didn’t know he was a person. Always the first memory to come back to him was a set of blue eyes, touched with a tiny bit of green. The whisper of a voice in his ears, the flash of memory that someone should be there, right beside him.

[gfawkesphoenixchokingonashes]

The Shield Bearer

WWII Stucky, Canon divergence, hurt/comfort, sad, sweet

@amarriageoftrueminds and this amazing map is what triggered this fic. (That and the fact I haven't written anything new in a while.)

The helmet bounced as it hit the rocky ground, shattering the fragile shale and sending shards in every direction. Gabe caught it on the way back up and the rest of the Howlies scattered. Grumbles of protests rumbled throughout the team but nobody said a word, not even Dum Dum. They all knew when to keep their mouths shut. Especially when it was Bucky's turn to lose his cool.

"If I have to chase down this goddamn shield one more time –!"

He slammed the vibranium disc into the ground where it parted the rock beneath it and stayed there, listing slightly to one side.

For lack of anything else to take his anger out on, he kicked at the dirt. It fanned out over the fire. The flames collapsed for a few beats, then, as the wind whistled through the gorge, reignited. It was like the searing burn in Bucky's gut, ever constant and resilient.

He began to pace while the others regrouped around the fire. "Not only do I have to cover his ass, I've got to clean up after him, too!"

Bucky dropped his gun on the ground, ignoring the vocal cringe from Denier, and picked up the coffee pot from the fire. He poured into an awaiting cup and took a mouthful.

Ugh. It was awful.

Jim scowled at him as he bent to spit it on the ground, and Bucky thought better of it. The guys were exhausted, having not slept in three days. It wasn't Jim's fault the whole thing had gone tits up, nor Monty's or Gabe's or Dum Dum's. It was his responsibility, because he'd taken it alone. And boy, was he regretting that decision.

He swallowed the horrible stuff and set his pack on the ground. The others had already set up camp in the gorge. The mountains rose up on either side, and only the brush offered any kind of cover. If HYDRA were to locate them, they'd all be sitting ducks.

"He back yet?" Bucky huffed as he sat next to Gabe. The man had rolled over a few of the larger rocks. Uncomfortable as hell, Bucky reminded himself to appreciate it. Jones wasn't even supposed to be over there. 

"No sign of him," Dum Dum confirmed. "He went after those two that got away."

Bucky closed his eyes and quietly fumed. "Of course he did."

The others looked ready to peel off again if Bucky got violent. He decided they'd had enough for the day.

"More rations for the rest of us then." Bucky unzipped his pack and grabbed a kit, then handed it to Gabe without taking any for himself.

Morita stared at him with those alert eyes. Nothing got past him. Nothing.

"You not eating, Sarge?"

"Nah. My stomach's tryna break free from my intestines." He rubbed his belly for good measure. "Would be a waste cos' it'll all come right back up again."

It was a lie; he was starving. But so was everyone else. They were supposed to pick up more rations in the city before they were unceremoniously ambushed by nazis. They had to have been waiting for them.

Monty loosened the red scarf around his neck and wiped the grime from his forehead, then set about rolling cigarettes. Dum Dum and Denier helped Morita portion out what little they had, and Bucky stared off into space. 

Gabe stoked the fire with a long branch he'd broken off a nearby bush. It kept catching fire, and Jones kept putting it out in the dirt. Bucky thought about how it was a perfect metaphor for their plight. Everywhere they stamped out Hydra, more and more cropped up. It was exhausting.

He poured some more of the terrible brown liquid and forced it down. If he filled his belly with it, maybe he wouldn't feel so empty inside. Their mission had been a failure; besides not successfully procuring more supplies, they'd stirred a hornet's nest and a few of its inhabitants had gotten away.

They'd retreated to the mountains with the enemy hot on their tails. The mountainside was bare and treacherous, rocks sliding dangerously beneath their feet. At one point, they took such heavy fire they had to hole up under an outcropping of rock. They were already low on ammo, and they'd been ordered to save it. After all, they had other means of protection.

Only that particular protection detail didn't clean up his toys when he was done with them.

They ate in torrential silence. 

Afterward, Bucky listened as Dernier did an ammo count, and Jim took a written inventory. It was stupid, really. They knew they were in trouble. But the mind did strange things when under duress, and sticking to a routine always worked for them.

Why had they named Bucky second in command anyway? Just because his dad was a cop and he knew a bit about guns? Or maybe they'd heard about his sparring record? That was probably it. Someone opened their big mouth and –

"Sarge."

They should have given it to Monty. He was a major, after all, and just because he was a Brit didn't mean he couldn't –

"Sarge!"

Bucky was shaken out of his own head by Dum Dum. "It's your turn for night watch."

Because, of course it was.

The guy's mustache twitched. "You sure you're up for it? You're lookin' kinda pale."

"I'm fine!" Bucky shouted, a bit on the intense side. He'd have to work on toning that down. "Go get some shut-eye."

And then, to the rest of them. "All of yeh. Get outta here!"

They didn't wait around for him to change his mind. Each man unrolled a well-used bedroll into the dirt near the fire and turned away from him. It seemed nobody wanted to make eye contact.

Nobody except for Gabe. "You want me to take this shift?" he asked, and Bucky felt the boot of guilt in his gut. All the shit that man had been through and he still had room for a heart. 

"Nah." Bucky took the stick Jones had been using to stir out the rest of the embers. "I got it."

It made sense for Bucky to take the night watch. His hearing was better than the rest of them. He could tell an animal step from a human, a rolling rock from a tumbling grenade. His reflexes were faster and his stamina greater. And, for now, he had a little extra armor.

Bucky waited until everyone was still before snuffing out the fire with the rest of the coffee. It gave off a hissing kind of putridity that made him instantly regret it. But the rest said nothing, and the sky was already growing dark, and Bucky had a night full of thinking to do.

He rescued his rifle from the dust and propped it against his pack, then wrestled with the shield to free it from the ground. He fetched his bedroll and folded it against the pack, then sat and tried to imagine his stomach was angry because he was overly full.

Bucky pulled the shield into his lap like the world's most uncomfortable blanket and lifted his eyes to the summit. He scanned the treeless ridge on both sides, positioning himself so he could see out of the corner of his eyes if needed. Then he focused on the red glow rising in the west.

He'd never been to Greece. Hadn't even seen pictures of it. The whole thing was tragically surreal; he'd never have even left Brooklyn if it hadn't been for –

Well. He was in Greece now, not far from the coast. Even as high as they were in the mountains, he could smell the salty air. It was much different than the Atlantic back home.

Home. Wasn't that a strange concept? There was a time when he'd considered it a place. Four walls and a roof and a key to a door. Skyscrapers and cars and throngs of people. As it turned out, it wasn't the things that made it home. It was the people. The people he'd left behind, yes, but also the people he'd met over here.

Jim and Gabe. Monty. Dernier. Hell, even Dum Dum.

And that led him to their missing team member.

Oh, Bucky could throttle him. What was he thinking, leaving their little pack like that? And without a proper weapon to protect himself? For all Bucky knew, he'd been captured again, and there wouldn't be another chance to beat the snot out of him for being so stubborn and impulsive. 

He fumed for so long his jaw began to ache and his hands cramped from clenching them so hard.

Anger eventually evolved into worry. The sunset was long since gone, and there hadn't been a moon for the past two nights. Greece may have fought off the Italians at one point, but they were close to making alliances. And the little band of nazis they'd encountered sure sounded German to him.

Bucky knocked the toe of his boot against a rock and thought about the expanding hole in his sock. Eventually, his skin would chafe and bleed, then ooze in the most painful of ways. But he'd recover, just like he'd done before. The wounds would heal themselves. And if he didn't say anything about it, nobody would know how wrong it was.

But he couldn't think about that. He'd spiral into madness, and men were counting on him.

And so, he hummed. To himself, of course. He hummed to melodies only he could hear, harmonized with orchestras inside his head. All the songs he'd loved, some that he hated even. Just to be able to forget.

But the tune always returned in the end. Turned bittersweet, thick with longing and want for something he couldn't have. A face swam before him, familiar but — different. And then another with red, red lips would cut in and take it from him.

"Fuck."

Bucky wiped a filthy hand over his face and shivered. The cold always affected him more intensely than anything else. Goosebumps rose in waves over his skin, muscles clenched, tendons gone tight over aching bones. It wasn't the temperature that triggered this reaction. It was the memory of a metal gurney, glinting steel instruments. A wickedly pleasant voice.

Bucky slid his palm over the ever-sharp edge of the shield. Without gloves, it could slice him open if he wasn't careful. Heaven knew how many fascists it had maimed and dismembered. He'd lost count.

He hated it, this perfect weapon. Hated what it did, what it stood for. Hated taking lives at all, even if they were demonically evil. It wasn't in his nature to kill anyone.

But.

The war was bigger than just him and his pacifist nature. This was the destruction of his people simply because of who they were. Elderly, ill, children; the fascist machine of death didn't care. The only goal in sight was world domination.

Most of all, though, quite selfishly, he hated how it had turned his best friend into a killer.

Bucky sighed and tucked the shield higher under his chin and tipped his head back to look at the stars. The constellations were different in this sky. Which was good, really. Counting and making his own connection between the brightest objects would keep him occupied as he waited out the rest of the night.

The waiting went on throughout the morning and into the afternoon. The guys played cards and rolled more cigarettes. Bucky tried to sleep, he honestly did. But a pair of blue eyes wouldn't let him.

As the second evening in the gorge began to fall, Dum Dum approached him with that stubborn sternness. "Sarge, we gotta do something. Ain't getting nowhere just sitting here."

Bucky knew it. But he couldn't admit to it.

"One more night," he said. And that was that.

Bucky took to his bedroll like everyone else and turned his back to the snuffed-out fire. A sliver of moon had appeared over the crest of the hill. He watched as it glided over the part of the sky he could see. And when it disappeared behind the mountain and well into the night, he began to dive back into his mind.

Luckily, Gabe's night watch ended early. Bucky heard the slide of the shield as it rolled out of his hands. Heard the soft thud as it fell to the ground. Felt the vibration of its alien metal on his exposed skin. Remembered those blue eyes looking over it at him.

Bucky pushed up from the ground and relieved Gabe of his post. He took the shield into one hand and rolled Jones over onto his bedroll with the other. The man grunted softly but didn't wake.

Something glinted from the ground where Gabe had sat. Something small and rectangular, its monochrome tones clear as day to Bucky's keen eyesight. He recognized it as a photograph, the face smiling out one that was all too familiar. 

Bucky snorted softly as he lifted it. It appeared more than one person was enamored with Agent Carter. He tipped the photo into the upturned helmet and felt a sudden connection with Gabe that cut deep; he, too, wanted something he couldn't have. 

Bucky couldn't sit and wait any longer. He took up his weapon with the shield and set off through the gorge and away from camp. There was something he wanted to say to someone.

When he was far enough out of earshot, and yet close enough to fulfill his guard duty, Bucky dropped both shield and gun and got it off his chest.

"I hate you, you sonofabitch!"

The hiss of his heated whisper echoed between the slopes on either side like one snake attacking another. His chest heaved and a sting of tears welled in his eyes. And he was glad there was no one about to see him fall apart.

He didn't know how long he stood there until he heard it. Until the hair at the back of his neck prickled in warning. He only knew the infuriating relief he felt as he counted the milliseconds between footsteps.

He would follow those footsteps anywhere.

As the footfalls neared and came to a halt, Bucky turned away from the sound and waited for the inevitable.

"Buck?"

Something in his heart clenched tight as he imagined those eyes staring down (down!) at him.

"You came back." It sounded accusatory, which was exactly how Bucky meant it.

"Yeah." A step closer, the heavy breathing more audible. "I uh – I left something behind."

Bucky couldn't stand it; his heart was near exploding. He spun on the spot and shoved the hated shield into that well-muscled and perfectly healthy chest.

"I'm not your slave," Bucky growled around the lump in his throat. He tried very hard not to look upon those broad shoulders. The way he was loaded down with a pack three times normal size. How that smart mouth opened and closed. Opened and closed. Opened.

"Never said you were."

There was an unexpected bite at the end of it. Bucky bristled.

"We were gonna leave in the morning whether you came back or not."

"As you should have."

And dammit. Why was he always so sanctimonious about it?

"The guys had a bet going on how far we'd get before you caught up."

"Oh, really?" The rumbling, deep voice wasn't supposed to be comforting him, of all people.

Bucky thought how stupid they must look. Standing in the middle of a war and not saying anything.

"I put money on you getting captured."

The man holding the shield stiffened. The weight he carried shifted. "C'mon Buck."

A hand reached for his forearm, but Bucky wasn't having it. He turned away and started walking back toward camp. There were a few tense moments where he wasn't followed.

And then — "I brought food."

Bucky recognized the tone. It was something he'd heard many times in the past after they'd had a fight. The new arrival was trying to make up, uncomfortable with the awkwardness of being absolutely fucking wrong.

"Great," Bucky said, continuing forward. "Guys are starving."

He thought he heard muttering over the sound of that shield being hefted over a massive forearm. But eventually, they were both walking back into camp. Bucky on soft, careful feet, and his companion like a bull in a china shop.

It was telling to their exhaustion that nobody else woke as the man set about unpacking. Bucky didn't help. He went back to his bed on the ground and pretended his heart wasn't thundering away in his chest. Nobody tried to talk to him. Nobody poked at the thoughts and fears and things he wanted badly to say but couldn't. Nobody even noticed he was there.

He was surprised to be woken from sleep by the overpowering smell of cooking meat.

"Morning sunshine," that familiar voice said. Bucky sat quickly, surveying the scene before him with mixed feelings.

Several tins steamed from the coals in the fire, sending mouth-watering aromas into the air. Around him, his pack of scoundrels was stirring. Wiping sleep-slow eyes. Blinking away the fog of a sudden awakening. Shouting with recognition as their vision cleared and they laid eyes on the newcomer.

"Cap!"

"Hey, he's back!"

"Look what the cat dragged in!"

"So you didn't abandon us for greener pastures!"

Bucky felt that one especially. It was made even more difficult by the soul-destroying gaze from impossible blue eyes across the fire.

"Nah. Couldn't do that to you."

The chatter around the fire was jubilant. Full of actual sustenance, eager to hear and share the stories of how they were separated, the guys grilled Rogers on each and every detail.

Apparently, the great Captain America had single-handedly caught up with and 'taken care of' the two scouts who had been tasked with trailing them. Then he'd met a group of locals who had banded together to make things difficult for the Italians. This resistance group was combating the theft of food destined for the smaller communities to prevent it from being sold on the black market. And, of course, Captain Rogers couldn't resist helping the little guys.

They packed up after breakfast. Cap had secured three tents, brand new by the smell of them, a week's worth of rations for all of them, and a stack of secondhand books.

"What? You reading now, Cap?" Dum Dum teased. Rogers smirked in his all-American way.

"It's the latest fad. You should try it!"

His optimism gave Bucky a headache. 

Bucky tagged along at the back as they hiked down the mountainside. Captain Rogers had a destination in mind, and the group followed him without question. There were rights to wrong, after all. Evil to defeat. Liberty to defend. Who would say no to that?

They moved slowly, covering dusty, dry ground as they descended. Bucky kept to himself. He didn't want his foul mood to affect the rest. Something was wrong with him that couldn't be cured by a rousing noble quest.

Around the bend of another mountain, Bucky caught sight of the sea. It was aquamarine and clear and too good to be true. He fought back the hope in the back of his throat.

They set up camp just before the sun sunk below the horizon. The tents went up quickly and the rations disappeared the same. And when Bucky could no longer hold his tongue, he disappeared from the group.

And, naturally, Rogers followed. It wasn't but five minutes after he'd shucked out of his boots, hung up his holey socks, and laid his head on the ground that he entered the tent.

Bucky closed his eyes. He knew they couldn't go on avoiding it. 

"I know you're mad at me, Barnes."

So it was to be Barnes, then. Bucky took a deep breath and sat up to face his roommate. "I'm not mad. I'm furious."

Rogers crouched in the entrance, allowing the flap to fall against his back before he entered fully.

He didn't speak, so Bucky continued. "These guys? They'll do anything you say. But they aren't superheroes. They can't shake off a bullet wound to the shoulder. Trek a hundred miles without food and water. Then get up and do it every day for a week."

Rogers remained silent. His wide knees poked out from thick thighs as he crouched, one hand on the ground between them.

"They're bound to break at some point. They need to rest."

His companion took a deep breath. "And what about you?"

Bucky sighed in exasperation. "Doesn't matter, does it? You don't listen to anything I say anyway!"

Rogers began to argue, but Bucky cut him off.

"No! You don't get to talk! You were safe in Brooklyn! There wasn't any danger of them sending you over here! Then you went and signed up for some fool's science experiment! And I will never, ever, be able to make it up to your Ma'!"

Bucky flopped on the ground and rolled away. It didn't matter anymore anyway. He'd failed at the thing he'd promised Sarah Rogers before she passed. But, dammit, he was going to die trying to make amends.

The tent was quiet for a long, long time. So long that, if Bucky didn't know better, he'd have thought the man had left. But there was the telltale clumsy shuffle as Rogers joined him on his own bedroll not two feet away.

Time passed slowly, excruciatingly so. Bucky's palms began to sweat and so did his bare feet. His heart continued to pound unhelpfully, and his mouth had gone desert-dry. He wasn't prepared to hear the heavy, steady inhale and exhale of a man asleep.

Bucky turned his head, and sure enough, Rogers had assumed his usual arms and legs spread eagle pose. Always a bed hog, he was even more so in this strange new body. And there was still that little click in the back of his throat as he breathed.

That familiar protectiveness was back, full force. Even though it was completely unwarranted. Bucky turned onto his back and listened out of habit. Just like he used to. Making sure his friend was still breathing.

Something closed around Bucky's throat, and something else made him roll toward that which vexed him so. A third something broke down the wall he'd built to protect himself, shattering the rage he'd been harboring since he returned.

Bucky found a warm palm, large enough to fit his whole cheek into. He nuzzled into it, resting the weary weight of his face inside, and breathed easy for the first time in days.

"Steve."

Read on AO3

[adventures-of-impala]

Fictober Day 8

No prompt. Just an idea. Credits to @buckyalpine for the inspiration behind this.

Angst, Stucky-ish, hurt no comfort.

Bucky sits down in front of the engraved stone, fingers running over the letters as tears prick his eyes.

“I didn't know they could remove it, Steve. I-I was just tryna calm everyone done. Didn't needa be a situation. S-She did somethin’…”

He trails off, sobbing softly, forehead against Steve's gravestone, his heart aching.

“She took if off, Stevie. Didn't know they could do that. I-I though she trusted me, I thought they all trusted me. B-But they still… they still treated me like I was him. I'm not a monster, Steve.”

His chest aches, throat tight, fist clenched as tears pour down his face.

“I need you, Steve. Why'd you have to go off and get the girl? I thought… I thought you loved me. You said you loved me. Til the end of the line.”

His voice cracks and wavers.

“I guess that was the end of the line, me coming back. Steve, I'm not a monster. I was gettin’ better. I was gonna be okay, for you! Why didn't you gimme that chance?”

Bucky rambles on and on, tears pouring, sobs falling from his lips, his forehead pressed against the gravestone, heart aching.

When his tears finally dry, he stands, wiping his face.

“Love you, Steve.” He chokes out before walking away, hands shoved in his pockets.

Passerby always wondered who was leaving the expensive bouquets of flowers on Steve's grave. Afterall, no one spends that much money on a hero they never met. But after that day, the word spread and the speculation stopped. Bucky Barnes was Steve Rogers secret lover, the lover that stayed, even after death, leaving flowers on his grave.

[buckybarneswannabe]

Fic for @griminker

Steve and Bucky slow dance and it end up in an argument revealing feelings from

Years past .

—————————————————————————————————————

Are you still listening to the same song?” Bucky asked Steve walking into his room. Hearing the farmiliar hum of frank Sinatra fill the room . Steve chuckled, his gaze remaining fixed on the skyline of Brooklyn through the window.

"You still remember that?" he replied, amusement lacing his voice.

Turning away from the view, he faced Bucky with a nostalgic smile. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

“Why only 40s music though” Bucky asks, “You know more music has been created since then.”

Steve chuckled again, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I know, I know," he said, "but there's something about the 40s music...it's like comfort food. Reminds me of home, before all this."

He shrugged with a lopsided grin. "Plus, have you heard some of the modern songs? They're... interesting”

“I think it’s good” Bucky remarks, shrugging.

Steve's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise.

"You do, huh?" he said, leaning against the windowsill. "Bucky Barnes, man out of time, likes modern music. Times have truly changed."

He smirked. "You going to try to get me to listen to some then?"

“If ya want” Bucky said with a smile.

Steve let out a dramatic sigh, feigning reluctance.

"Alright, lay it on me then," he said, gesturing for Bucky to start. He crossed his arms again, a playful challenge in his eyes. "Let's see if you can convert me to the ways of modern music."

“Not converting you just showing you” Bucky says siting next to Steve and opening his phone that stark had given him, he was still figuring out how to use it but Natasha had helped him make his way around Spotify.

Steve watched as Bucky opened his phone, the glow of the screen casting a faint light on his face. He had to admit, he was a bit intrigued. He nodded for Bucky to continue.

"Alright, show me what you've got, Buck," he said, turning his full attention to the phone.

“I’ll start you out easy, you know Lana del Rey?” Buck asks.

Steve shook his head, his expression a mix of curiosity and slight skepticism. "Lana... del Ray?" he repeated, the name foreign on his lips. "Can't say I've heard of her. Go on, play something."

“Okay pic a song, do you want ‘Margret’ or ‘chemtrails over country clubs?” Bucky replies.

"Hmm... Let's go with 'Chemtrails over Country Clubs,'" Steve replied, his curiosity piqued. He leaned back against the wall, ready to listen.

As the music began, Steve's attention fixated on the soft melody that filled the room. It was definitely different from the 40s tunes he was used to but something about the singer reminded him of Sinatra. but there was something captivating about it. The beat was slow, mellow, and almost dreamlike. The lyrics were poetic, and the singer's voice was sultry yet soothing.

“What do you think? I chose her cause she sounds old timey in this song i guess” Bucky says to Steve.

Steve nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Yeah, I can see what you mean," he said. "She's got that old-Hollywood vibe about her. It's different, but it's... nice."

He was genuinely enjoying the music. It felt like a bridge between the past and the present, something familiar yet new. He looked at Bucky, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Alright, maybe you're onto something here."

“It’s slow dance music. You know” Bucky says nudging Steve.

Steve chuckled, shaking his head in playful disbelief. "Slow dance music, huh?"

He considered Bucky's words for a moment before feigning a look of horror. "You're not about to ask me to dance, are you?" he asked, trying to keep a straight face.

“No..” Bucky says quietly because honestly, he was going to ask. It’s not like it would be a crazy ask they used to dance in the cold air of their old apartment to kitty kaling and Judy garland. For gods sake, Bucky even taught Steve how to dance because he couldn’t get a single girl at the bar to give him a chance.

Steve noticed the way Bucky's voice trailed off, the hint of hesitation. He saw the flicker of something in Bucky's eyes that he recognized all too well.

"You sure?" Steve asked, pushing off the wall to face Bucky. There was a gentle knowing smile on his face, a smile that said he understood more than he was letting on.

"Because I might be persuaded to dance for old times' sake," he added, his tone lighter than it should be for the sudden intimacy in the room.

Bucky stared at Steve for a moment, surprise clear in his eyes. It was like Steve had read his mind. But instead of backing down, Bucky's gaze turned just as determined.

"Yeah," he said, more sure of himself now. "I'm sure."

Steve chuckled at his friend's stubbornness. He pushed off the window sill and extended a hand to Bucky. "Alright, then, old buddy," he said, his voice warm. "Just try not to step on my toes."

Bucky took Steve's hand, and for a moment, they were just frozen like that, the two friends and war veterans, holding each other's hands like teenagers ready to dance. Despite everything they had endured, this moment felt oddly simple and comforting.

Steve gently pulled Bucky closer, guiding him to the empty part of the room. "Remember those old dances we used to do in our apartment?" he asked as he placed a hand on Bucky's waist.

Steve didn’t miss the slight hitch in Bucky’s breath or the way his body went rigid. He could feel the tension in Bucky’s muscles, the way his chest kept still under Steve’s hand.

Steve didn’t say anything, just waited for Bucky to relax into the dance. He began swaying slowly, his movements smooth and controlled, guiding Bucky into the rhythm.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only Bucky to hear. “It’s just a dance, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know” whispered Bucky in response.

Steve could still feel the tension in Bucky’s body, but he could also feel him trying to relax. They continued dancing in silence for a few moments, letting the music fill the space between them.

“You know, it kind of makes me laugh,” Steve said, pulling back a bit to look into Bucky’s eyes. “Back then, you used to tell me I didn’t know how to dance. Didn’t have any rhythm you used to say.”

“You didn’t have any” Bucky smirked as he replied.

Steve chuckled at Bucky's blunt response. "Well, maybe not then," he admitted. "But I've learned a thing or two since then."

He gave Bucky a sly smile, his grip on Bucky's hips tightening just a bit. “I can at least manage a slow dance without stepping on my partner’s feet.”

“Partner” Bucky murmurs.

Steve chuckled, sensing the jest in Bucky's tone. "Yeah, partner," he said, his gaze holding Bucky's. "Is that such a funny thought to you?"

He continued the slow, steady rhythm of the dance, keeping Bucky close. The conversation was light, casual, but there was something under the surface that Steve couldn't ignore. The tension in the air felt palpable, and he knew Bucky felt it too.

Suddenly ‘One’ by Metallica starts playing ruining the moment.

Steve looked a bit taken aback as the slow song ended abruptly and a heavy metal track blared through the room, shattering the tranquility of the dance. He pulled back a bit from Bucky, turning his head slightly to look in the direction of the phone.

"What in the—" he murmured, looking back at Bucky with a puzzled expression.

Bucky chuckled at Steve's reaction his own amusement clear on his face. "Stark must have put that on my playlist," he said, reaching for his phone and turning down the volume just a bit.

Steve looked at Bucky with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. "You listen to this kind of music now?" he asked, still a bit bewildered by the sudden shift in sound.

“Sometimes” Bucky replied.

Steve chuckled at Bucky's response, his gaze raking over Bucky's body, noticing the way the other man visibly shivered at the sudden absence of his touch.

"You cold?" he asked, his voice gruff with a hint of amusement. He stepped a bit closer, his hands finding their way back to Bucky's waist.

“Stop.” Bucky suddenly.

Steve raised an eyebrow at Bucky's abrupt response, a slight frown line appearing on his forehead.

"Stop what?" he asked, his hands still resting on Bucky's hips, refusing to let go just yet.

“Don’t do this don’t hold me like that, don’t act like it the same as it was.” Bucky says frantically remembering how dancing before use to always lead to a kiss or something of the sort,and Steve clearly didn’t see Bucky in that way anymore so why go through the pain of false hope.

Steve's grip on Bucky's waist tightened slightly, his expression darkening a shade as he absorbed Bucky's words.

"What are you talking about, Buck...?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Act like what is the same as what was? I'm just dancing with a friend."

“Exactly, you are just dancing with your friend, so let go of me” Bucky says sharply.

The words stung a little, but Steve tried to keep his expression neutral. He held onto Bucky for a moment longer, as if debating with himself, before finally relenting and releasing his grip.

He took a step back, creating a small space between them. "Alright, fine," he said, his voice gruff, but there was a hint of hurt beneath it that he couldn’t completely hide. The distance between them felt cold and sudden, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort that had been between them moments ago.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, his eyes avoiding Bucky’s for a moment, before he spoke. “You know, Bucky, sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

Steve watched as Bucky grabbed his phone and started searching for another song. The atmosphere in the room had shifted, the easy camaraderie replaced by a certain tension, a distance that neither of them seemed to know how to bridge.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and waited for the next song to start, his mind still trying to make sense of Bucky’s sudden shift in mood.

As Bucky put the phone down and the new song started playing, Steve listened to the music for a moment. It was a different track, softer than the one before, but there was something melancholic in its lyrics that felt fitting for the mood.

He looked back at Bucky, trying to ignore the pang in his chest at the thought that maybe Bucky was right, maybe it wasn’t the same anymore.

“So, you like this song?” he asked, the words coming out sounding more indifferent than he intended.

“Mhm” Bucky mumbed Steve could tell Bucky wasn't in a talkative mood. The answer had been curt, almost dismissive. It stung, but Steve tried his best to push the feeling aside.

He shifted against the wall, his gaze fixed on Bucky, the dim light from the window casting shadows on his face. “Can I ask you something?” he said after a moment.

“What”

Steve hesitated for a second, not sure if he should ask. But the question was burning in his mind, and he couldn’t hold it back.

“Are we... alright, Buck?" he asked, his voice soft, almost tentative. “Because sometimes I feel like you... like you’re slipping away, somewhere where I can’t reach you. And I... I don’t understand why.”

Steve’s eyes bore into Bucky’s, his gaze intense and earnest. “Do… do you even like having me around anymore?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft, almost vulnerable.

Bucky was caught off guard by the question. Steve's voice was not its usual firm, confident self but tender and vulnerable in a way Bucky hadn’t heard in ages. He swallowed, feeling his throat constricting suddenly.

A thousand thoughts and feelings raced through his mind, memories of their shared past, the pain and suffering they had endured, the fights, the joy, the sorrow. It all came crashing back, and it suddenly felt like too much to bear.

He looked down, avoiding Steve’s eyes, his voice quiet when he spoke. “Of course I do.”

Steve's shoulders sagged in relief at Bucky’s response, his breath releasing in a shaky exhale, almost like he had been holding it for too long. He took a step closer, his hand almost automatically reaching out to touch Bucky’s arm, but he stopped himself midway.

His eyes searched Bucky’s face, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. “Then why do you keep pushing me away?” he asked, the question quiet, pleading.

Bucky could feel the sincerity in Steve's tone, the helplessness, desperation. It was like a punch in the gut.

He didn’t know how to answer that question, didn’t want to answer. Because the truth was... He wanted Steve close, always had, always would. But it was hard, so hard, to allow himself that vulnerability, especially because they had never discussed what they were now, they clearly wherent the same.

Bucky swallowed, running a hand through his hair, his voice low and hoarse. “It's just... complicated, Stevie.”

Steve felt his heart clench at Bucky’s words. “Complicated?” he repeated, his voice thick with barely contained emotion. “We fought side by side, Bucky. We’ve been through hell together. And you’re telling me it’s complicated?”

He stepped closer, his gaze fixated on Bucky’s face. “What is so complicated that you can’t even... even let me hold you when we dance?”

“No steve its not, we’re not”

Steve furrowed his brow, confusion and hurt clear in his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘we’re not’?” he asked, his voice low.

He took another step forward, standing just inches away from Bucky now. He could smell the familiar scent of Bucky’s shampoo, could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Buck, I... I miss you,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I miss my best friend. Why can’t we just… be like we were?”

“Because we are so different now” Bucky replies.

Steve let out a shaky exhale, his eyes searching Bucky’s face, trying to find any trace of the man he used to know.

“We’ve changed, sure,” he said, his voice gruff. “I know I’m not the same guy you first met, and neither are you. But… But we’re still us, Buck.”

He took another tentative step forward, his hand twitching with the need to reach out to Bucky, to touch him, to bring him closer. “Aren’t we?”

“No” Bucky replies softly.

Steve’s heart wrenched at the bluntness of Bucky’s response.

“No?” he repeated, his voice hoarse, “How can you say that? After everything we’ve been through?"

His hands clenched into fists by his sides, the knuckles turning white with the effort to hold himself back. He wanted to yell, to shake Bucky, to make him understand. But he managed to keep his voice steady, even if it threatened to crack with every word.

Bucky took in a breath “We aren’t us anymore….you don’t, before when we danced. God - Steve you don’t even look at me the same”

Steve froze, his eyes widening as Bucky’s words sunk in. He could feel a lump forming in his throat, his heart clenching in his chest.

“What… what do you mean?” he managed to croak out, his voice weak. “Of… of course I look at you the same way. I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t do this” Bucky pleaded

Steve could see the pain in Bucky’s eyes, hear the plea in his voice, and it broke his heart. But he couldn’t pretend like everything was fine, couldn’t act like he didn’t understand.

He closed the distance between them, so close now he could count the specks in Bucky’s eyes, could feel the heat of his breath on his skin.

“Buck…” he murmured, his voice a low, agonized rumble. “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

“Steve” was all Bucky managed in response.

It was just one word, his name, but the way Bucky said it sent a chill down Steve’s spine.

He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, caught in Bucky’s gaze like in a whirlpool, spirally down into a dark unknown.

“Buck…” he tried again, his voice pleading this time, “Please… please don’t do this. Don’t push me away, not again.”

You dont love me anymore” Bucky said with a joyless smile.

Steve's heart plummeted at Bucky's words, shock and pain washing over him like a cold wave.

“What?” he breathed, the syllable barely loud enough to qualify as a word. “No, no, Buck, that’s not true. Of course I…”

He stopped mid-sentence, his words catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice again, the next words ripping like shards of glass from his mouth. “Why… why would you say that?”

“You know why. Steve you can’t look me in the eye half the time” Bucky replied,his voice breaking

Steve’s heart twisted in his chest, guilt and shame washing over him like a tidal wave. He knew it was true, but having Bucky call him out on it was like a blow to the gut.

He looked into Bucky’s eyes, seeing the pain and disappointment there.

“I…” he began, but the words got stuck in his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes falling to the floor, unable to hold Bucky’s gaze.

Steve felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. He wanted to tell Bucky how much he still loved him, wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to never let him go.

But he was frozen to the spot, the words caught in his throat, the guilt and fear and shame of everything that had happened, of everything he had lost weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"I…" he managed to force out, his voice strangled, "I never stopped loving you, Buck. Never. You know that, right?"

Bucky just looked back at him, pain etched into the lines on his face. “Do I?” he asked quietly. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

Steve felt his heart ache at Bucky’s words, the hurt in his voice like a knife stabbing into his chest. He wanted to explain, to tell him everything that was going on in his head, the fears and doubts that haunted him, but the words wouldn’t come.

Silent tears fall from Bucky cheek as he mumbles “sure as hell dont feel like ya love me.”

Steve felt like he was suffocating, his chest tight with pain and helplessness. He watched as the tears rolled down Bucky's face, unable to move, to speak, to stop any of this from happening.

“I do,” he finally managed to force out, his voice thick with emotion. “I do love you, Buck. I always have. I always will.”

The words felt hollow even to his own ears. He knew they weren't enough, but they were all he had. Steve reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently brushed away a tear from Bucky's cheek. His fingers lingered on Bucky's skin, feeling the warmth, the softness, his touch desperate and tender at once.

"Please, Buck," he whispered, the plea ripping from his throat, "Just... just don't give up on me. Don't give up on us."

The words hung heavy in the air, filling the small space between them. Steve's heart was racing, his breath shallow, as he waited for Bucky to respond. The silence was unbearable, the seconds stretching into eternities as he watched Bucky's face, searching for any flicker of hope.

Bucky's eyes were still on him, tears still glittering in the corners, his expression a mix of pain and indecision.

“Steve”

Steve swallowed again, his throat dry as sandpaper. He was hanging on by a thread, waiting, hoping, begging internally for Bucky to just say something, anything.

He reached out again, his fingers gently touching Bucky's chin, tilting his face up so he would look at him. "Please," he murmured, his voice ragged, "say something…"

“Tell me that you still love me.” Bucky pleas.

Steve felt a wave of raw emotion wash over him, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say.

"I do," he said, his voice firm now, strong, his eyes locking with Bucky's. "I do still love you, Buck. I'll always love you. You're my... my one constant. The best thing that's ever happened to me."

“Kay” Bucky responds.

Steve's brows furrowed slightly in confusion at Bucky's reply. It wasn't the response he had expected. It wasn't a rejection, but it didn't feel like a acceptance either.

He searched Bucky's face, trying to find a hint of what he was thinking or feeling, but his expression was guarded, unreadable. Steve took a step closer, his hand still resting on Bucky's chin, his eyes locked on Bucky's.

“Just ‘kay’?” he asked, a wry note of humor to his voice, masking his insecurity.

Bucky nodded, his gaze not wavering from Steve's. There was a silent tension in the air, an electric current passing between them. Steve's heart was pounding in his chest, his fingers still gently cupping Bucky's chin, his thumb gently caressing the stubble on his cheeks.

“So,” he said after a moment, his voice low, “that’s it, huh? ‘Kay’ is all I get after baring my soul to you?”

“Yeah.”

Steve felt his heart sink at Bucky's nonchalant response. After everything he had confessed, after baring his soul, this was all he got? Just a casual 'yeah'?

He let his hand drop from Bucky's chin, his fingers balling into a fist at his side. He took a step back, putting space between them, a flicker of hurt and anger in his eyes.

“That's it?” he repeated, his voice firmer now, the tone challenging, “That's all you have to say to me?”

“Steve?”

The single word, his name, hung in the air like a curse. Steve felt his frustration boil over, the whirlwind of emotions he had felt since Bucky first started talking to him now threatening to consume him entirely.

He took a step closer, his voice tight, his body tense. “Don't 'Steve' me,” he said, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. “Don't just ‘yeah’ me. I need more than that, Buck. I need... I need you to talk to me, damnit.”

Steve froze, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn't expected that response, and for a moment he just stood there, staring at Bucky in disbelief.

"What?" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "You... you want me to... kiss you...?"

A million thoughts raced through his mind, a mixture of shock, hope, and trepidation. But before he could say anything else, his body seemed to act on its own, his hands reaching out to pull Bucky closer to him.

Their bodies collided, Steve's hands gripping Bucky's hips, pulling him flush against him. Bucky's hands found their place on Steve's shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of Steve's shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between them.

Steve's heart was hammering in his chest, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked into Bucky's eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or hesitation, but all he saw was a mirrored desperation, a need that matched his own.

Steve leaned in, his lips hovering just above Bucky's, his breath mingling with Bucky's in the small space between them. He could feel the heat radiating off Bucky's body, could feel the racing of Bucky's heart against his own.

He lifted a trembling hand, gently brushing back a strand of Bucky's hair, his touch tender and reverent. And then, slowly, deliberately, he pressed his lips to Bucky's. The kiss was soft at first, gentle, almost tentative. Steve's lips moved against Bucky's slowly, carefully, as if he was afraid he might break, that this might all crumble away if he wasn't careful.

Bucky's hands gripped Steve's shoulders tightly, his fingers digging into the fabric of Steve's shirt, pulling him closer still. He parted his lips under Steve's, a soft, needy sound escaping him, the sound like a dam breaking.

Steve broke the kiss, pulling back just enough so he could look at Bucky, his eyes roaming over Bucky's face, taking in the sight of him, flushed, panting, his lips red and swollen. It was a sight that would be forever etched into his memory.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against Bucky's, his breath hot on Bucky's skin. "This is what you needed?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ragged.

“I just need you to love me” Bucky whispers back. “ ya wanna dance”

Steve felt his lips twitch into a smile at Bucky's sudden change of topic. “Dance? You’re asking me to dance?” he teased lightly.

He moved, pulling Bucky so he was standing in the middle of the room, a fair distance from any furniture or other hazards.

“Sure,” he said, taking Bucky's hand in his. “I’d love to dance with you, Buck.”