#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.

[darthbloodorange]

After everything that transpired, Steve is exhausted. He takes a temporary leave from the Avengers and goes on a world camping trip with Bucky.

For the: ✦ @stuckybingo Round 6 - Sunrise [I1] (Card: SB6035)

Word Count: N/a - Moodboard Title: Restful Trip Rating: Gen Universe: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes Warnings: None Major Tags: Canon Divergence AU, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship, Camping, Holidays, Coffee, Tired Steve Rogers, Long-Haired Bucky Barnes ~ Summery: After everything that transpired, Steve is exhausted. He takes a temporary leave from the Avengers and goes on a world camping trip with Bucky.

[captaintoomanybattles]

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Summary: After crashing his car in a snowstorm, Steve sets out in search of shelter. What he finds is an isolated cabin, and an unfriendly stranger who might be just as dangerous as the storm outside….

[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

[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!

[rolandtowen]

Chapter Summary: Steve and Bucky stay in New York while the team heads to Siberia. Steve visits Peggy and Bucky goes to therapy.

Recommended listening: "Who We Are" and "Francesca" by Hozier

The Avengers deploy four days later, the coordinates for the Siberian base programmed into the Quinjet. 

With much of the team gone, this leaves Steve, Bucky, Helen, and Pepper essentially alone in the Tower aside from support staff. It was strange, to hear the floors so quiet and see the common room so empty. Bruce had taken up a habit of reading in the common space in the mornings, and Steve finds himself missing the soft-spoken man's presence. It was nice to be able to just…share space with another person. No conversation required or social expectations. Just the smell of Steve’s coffee and Bruce’s tea and the occasional turning of pages from the two of them. 

Maybe it's an "old man thing", as Tony would say, because Steve could swear Bucky feels the same way, even if he can't verbally express it. They make their way through an entire afternoon without a word to each other. Bucky coloring and Steve drawing while Nina Simone plays in the background. Bucky'll need a new coloring book soon, at the rate he's going. Steve almost thinks about taking him shopping before he considers, well, everything: crowds, strangers, bright lights, sudden noises. They'll work up to it. 

Sam had left some more realistic task suggestions - more activities of daily living. Laundry, dishes, cleaning, that sort of thing. He did make it explicitly clear that Steve was not to teach Bucky how to cook. "I've seen your cooking, Rogers, and it makes my mama roll over in her grave. You leave the culinary lessons to me." 

Sam had seen him make eggs one time , and that had been enough for him to write off Captain America's cooking skills. To be fair, he wasn't wrong. So that left the other activities to fill their time. Steve knew they were essential skills to learn if Bucky wanted to regain his autonomy and become independent. As the Winter Soldier, Bucky had no say in his own care. Feeding, bathing, clothing, exercise – all of these were determined by handlers. By making the Winter Soldier fully dependent on its handlers, HYDRA ensured absolute compliance. 

Steve's not sure Bucky would've survived defecting on his own. He's enhanced, sure – but the refeeding syndrome almost took him out. Not to mention the trouble Bucky would have with discretely acquiring enough calories while a fugitive. They haven't talked about it yet, Bucky staying by Steve's side on the banks of the Potomac. Had he just been ensuring Steve was found safely? Or had he been planning to defect, to stay with Steve? Bucky can barely remember from before the war – Steve is certain he doesn't remember what they were to each other. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to ask. The Smithsonian had it wrong. More than friends. More than brothers. Lovers, as much as two men could be in the twentieth century.

Steve vividly remembers June 24th, 2011. He'd been out of the ice for a few months, still waking every night from nightmares, shivering no matter how many blankets he put on the floor, no matter how many punching bags he broke. After another restless night, he opened up the Friday paper to read: NEW YORK ALLOWS SAME-SEX MARRIAGE. 

Unsurprisingly, his SHIELD mandated reintegration training had left out a lot of things. Maybe they were still being cautious, tip toeing around topics like Civil Rights and feminism, as if Steve would get offended. Steve. The second-generation American who spent his entire youth disabled, survived the poverty of the Great Depression and rationing, and commanded the first racially integrated special ops unit in the Army. Sure, Steve needed to be sheltered from all the progress that had been made in the last seventy years. 

The paper headline had been like a punch to the gut. He'd had no idea that marriage equality was even possible. It'd been a pipe dream for people like him to just exist openly without being arrested and institutionalized, he never could've imagined -

He should've been happy. Overjoyed. He could get married now, have a family. But all he could think about was Bucky. His Bucky, who read science fiction and dragged him to tech expos and dreamed of the future. And there Steve was, in the future, without Bucky. There wasn't anyone else for him, Steve knew that much. 

One day, our souls will find each other again , Buck had said, staring up at the stars one night in '39. The day we don't have to hide.  

How will you find me? Steve had asked, frail and tucked under Bucky's arm. 

I reckon the Good Lord carved our souls from the same stuff , Buck said, intertwining their fingers. Can't help but be brought back together. 

In another lifetime, Buck had promised. They'd gotten to the future. But they hadn't gotten their future. The next lifetime, then. Steve's good at waiting. 

***

Steve visits Peggy. He tries to make it every week, always on Thursdays. He takes advantage of the fact that Buck has his second therapy session with Rebecca that afternoon, and walks to the long-term care center, coffee in hand. He’s nearly buzzing with excitement, certain that Peggy will be overjoyed to hear that her friend’s alive and – not well, not yet – but still. Alive. And getting better. 

He greets Amanda at the nurses’ station, and she returns the courtesy. “Mr. Rogers,” she smiles. “You’re in luck, it’s a good day today.” She guides him out to the facility’s garden, and Steve sees Peggy sitting under a cherry tree, knitting something with blue yarn. He crosses the cobblestones in a few strides and sits on a bench next to her. “Hiya, Peg.”

“Steve!” She beams at him. ���It’s been so long.” It had been longer than usual since his last visit – he hadn’t wanted Peggy to see him with all of his injuries after the Triskelion. He explains why he missed his last visit, and her eyes are rapt with attention. He clears his throat, trying to think about the best way to break the news to her. “Peggy – I have something else I have to tell you – SHIELD fell, but we found someone else instead.”

Peggy’s eyes widen. “Who? Who did you find?”

Steve clasps her hands in his. “Bucky. He’s alive. He was captured during the war, and he���s been a POW all these years.”

“The Winter Soldier?” Her eyes flick away for a moment. “You found him? You captured him?”

“Yes, we – wait.” Steve’s hands tighten over hers, before he removes them entirely. “I didn’t tell you Bucky was the Winter Soldier.” 

Peggy’s face falls, and she sighs. “Damn. Still so sharp after all these years.” She shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “Howard and I had our suspicions – and then those were confirmed after Howard and Maria were killed –”

“You knew? ” Steve whispers harshly. 

“Not for certain. They…were driving with prototype supersoldier serum. It was stolen from their car, and I could only assume…” Her voice trails off, getting weaker with each word spoken. “I assumed that someone out there was still trying to finish what HYDRA started.”

“And who else knows? Clearly you never told Tony this.”

“I am the only one who knows what was in the trunk of the Starks’ car, and only I had access to the full report from the car wreck.” 

“So,” Steve’s tone turns dark. “You’ve thought there was a chance all these years that Bucky could still be alive – and that there could be other supersoldiers out there – and you did…what, exactly?”

“I held it together, Steve,” Peggy says, her voice breaking. “I knew no one would believe me – the government had already forced SHIELD to hire Zola and countless others from Operation Paperclip, and after Howard was killed I had…no one. No one I knew wasn’t HYDRA. If – if we had started searching for Bucky, we knew it would have gotten us both killed.” She looks down at the knitting in her lap, abandoned. “But don’t you dare think for one second that it didn’t haunt us.

“All we could do was move in the shadows. Pull invisible strings. Howard and I had Zola exposed to radiation, to finish him off, but he took ages to die. By the time he was gone, Howard had Tony, and I had my girls to think about.”

Steve looks down at his hands. Michaela and Elizabeth, Peggy’s daughters. It’s easy for him, he thinks. The man out of time, no attachments to the real world. He could still jump on a grenade in a heartbeat but for Peggy, for Howard – they had their kids, their spouses to think about. The only thing he ever had was Bucky, and he thought he was gone. When he looks back up at Peggy, he sees that she’s weeping. “C’mere, Peggy girl,” he murmurs, and he holds her for a good long while. All around them, the mourning doves coo. 

***

“I hear you've had quite the week,” Rebecca says kindly. “Would you like to tell me about it?” 

Bucky's mind goes blank for a moment before he remembers his journal. Placing it on the table, he shows Rebecca the daily entries. “It - I have been completing logs each day. Tracking sleep, calories, and noting the – the rules.” 

Rebecca nods, a look of appreciation spreading across her face. “Do you find this activity helps you stay more present? Completing the logs?” 

Bucky hesitates. “It…fills the time, yes.” He pulls out the stack of printed worksheets Rebecca had given him the week before. “Apologies. The Sol– I have utilized all of the worksheets. More will be necessary, to fully catalog the rules.” 

Rebecca doesn't scold him. Instead, she smiles. “That's really good, Bucky. I can get you more worksheets, no problem. Do you mind sharing with me some of the rules you identified?” Bucky passes the papers over and she reads through each, noting the logic used to overrule each fallacy. 

1. The Soldier is not a person 

Status: Unknown. 

2. The Soldier has no name 

Status: False. Steve has given the Soldier the name of James Buchanan Barnes, but also “Bucky” or “Buck”. JARVIS says the Soldier once served as “Sergeant Barnes”, and Avengers refer to the Soldier as “Bucky” or “Barnes.” 

3. The Soldier has no preferences 

Status: False. Bucky is encouraged to make choices by the Avengers. He likes the color blue. He likes Duke Ellington. He likes Steve

4. The Soldier does not own

Status: False. Bucky has many possessions now, gifts from the Avengers. Records, books, and colored pencils from Steve. Calming tea from Sam. “Good” shampoo from Natalia. Bucky has many clothes now, too, though it is unclear who buys them. 

5. The Soldier exists to serve HYDRA. 

Status: False. Bucky is helping to destroy HYDRA. But after that, who does he serve?

“Tell me more about this first one,” Rebecca points to the worksheet labeled ‘the Soldier is not a person’. “You've come to the conclusion that all these other rules are false, what's different about this one?” 

Bucky takes a long moment to gather his thoughts, gazing out the window at the Manhattan skyline. “People…feel things, yes?” Rebecca nods, leaning in, and he continues. “It – I feel things too, sometimes. But…” he struggles with the words for a second. “Most of the time, it's just…silent, in here.” He gestures to his head. “And there is no initiative. It – I – am just…existing.”

“Well, there’s quite a few people who experience what you’ve described,” Rebecca says, writing down the words ‘dissociation’ and ‘executive dysfunction’ in her notes. “So, you feel like you don’t make your own choices very often?”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s exhausting. Picking. But people make choices all the time. And if I can’t make choices…”

“You think you’re not a person,” Rebecca finishes as he trails off. He nods. “Well, give me an example where you didn’t make a choice this week. Any example.”

Bucky looks out the window again, gathering his thoughts. “The day after – after the meeting with all the Avengers, I just – stared out the window when I was alone. Not reading or listening to music. Just looked outside for a whole afternoon, until Steve came to visit.” 

“What if I told you, that’s a choice too?” Rebecca asks, and she can swear she sees the gears turning in Bucky’s head. “You made a choice to not read or listen to music on your own. The schedule doesn’t tell you what to do with that time, so you chose what worked best for your energy that day.”

“But – if I’m not doing anything, how is it…” Bucky goes back to twisting his shirt hem. “How is it a choice?”

“Choices aren’t only about action. Sometimes they’re about inaction too.” 

Something nags at Bucky’s brain when she says that, and he’s only vaguely aware of what she says about the other inner rules. If inaction is also a choice, then that means…well, it could mean – there were times when the Soldier did not act. Did not shoot. Did not, for example, destroy surveillance cameras prior to a kill and extract mission. Did not walk away after pulling a target from the river. And if those were all choices then…then he, he was making choices, he was trying where he could, and –

Rebecca’s voice suddenly comes back into focus. “I heard you recovered quite a lot of memories this week, can you tell me about that?” 

Bucky fidgets with the hem of his shirt. He can talk about it, but he doesn't want to. But, Rebecca has told him many times that she's just here to help. And she can't help without knowing what's going on. He takes a deep breath. “Approximately 0300 hours on Tuesday morning, this – I – had a malfunction, a dream. I remembered a mission: December 16th, 1991. Kill and extract. The target was Howard Stark.” his fingers twist in his shirt violently. “I killed him. But he – he knew me, he knew my name. He called me ‘Sergeant Barnes,’ and I,” Bucky pauses, breathes in and out through his nose. “I still killed him.” 

Rebecca nods, her voice even. “And what happened, after you woke up?” 

“I asked JARVIS if it was true – if I was Sergeant Barnes – and he said yes. And then,” Bucky takes a deep breath. “Sam said I was having a panic attack. JARVIS called him and he came and helped me.” 

“How did Sam help?”

“He – he told me where I was, when I was, who he was and he – he gave me a blanket. He made it warm.”

Rebecca smiles. She knew she liked Sam for a reason. “I’m really glad JARVIS called Sam for you. It sounds like he was really helpful.” Bucky nods, and Rebecca thinks she can see the hint of a smile. “I think it’d be a good idea to talk about some grounding exercises you could do if you have another flashback.”

Bucky looks at her, suddenly concerned. “Am I in trouble for calling Sam?”

“Absolutely not,” Rebecca soothes immediately. “But, I think it’s likely that you’re going to have more flashbacks as your brain heals, and I want you to feel like you have the coping mechanisms to handle them. Having a support person like Sam is great, but I want you to feel like you’re in control. Does that make sense?”

Bucky nods. Rebecca gives him another sheet of paper that describes methods of grounding. She walks him through the 5-4-3-2-1 technique, listing categories, body awareness, and mental exercises. “You said the warm blanket and tea was helpful as well – sometimes therapists recommend using the cold to ground yourself during a flashback, but I think you’ll respond much better to warmth. JARVIS, could you please order a microwaveable heating pad?”

“Certainly, Doctor.” 

Rebecca turns her attention back to Bucky. “JARVIS can walk you through how to use that. Do you think you’ll be able to use these skills on your own?” Bucky nods, pointing to the fourth technique on the list. “I think – the body awareness will be really…helpful.” He settles on the word slowly, like he’s not quite sure of the definition. 

“I think so too. And I’m always happy to give you some more options, if you find these don't work for you.”

When Rebeca departs from their session, JARVIS informs Bucky that Steve is requesting access to his apartment. Bucky assents, looking to the schedule on the whiteboard. Time for music hour, as usual. Steve looks…drained, Bucky thinks. Whatever he's been doing for the last few hours must've been exhausting. He's curious what it might very been, but it's not his place to ask. That doesn't stop him from feeling a bit guilty – Steve must have so many responsibilities now with the team gone, and yet he's still making time to come visit Bucky. 

“Hey, Buck,” the blond smiles easily, though his eyes are red. “Therapy go alright?” 

Bucky nods. “Rebecca is a very skilled technician. She has given me more coping skills to exercise.” 

“That's great,” Steve beams at him. “I wanted to ask – Pepper suggested a movie night, while the team's away. I thought it might be good for you, hanging out with only a few people this time.” He chuckles to himself. “I promise it'll be much less stressful than a team meeting. The Avengers are wonderful, but they can be…overwhelming, to say the least. I think Helen is planning on bringing her crochet, if that gives you any indication.” 

– The sound of wooden needles sliding against each other – a shuddering projector and moving images and a small blond next to him – checking the alley behind the movie theater for – 

“Buck, you with me?” Bucky shakes his head free of the memories. 

“I'm okay, just – just some flashes.” He takes a deep breath in, feeling his ribs expand. He's here, he's safe. And he's…happy? 

“Oh, God, I'm sorry,” Steve is saying, but he stops when he sees the smile on Bucky's face. 

“Good flashes,” Bucky clarifies. “Good memories.” He stands, crossing to the record player, loading a Harry James album. “So,” he turns back to Steve as the trumpet solo soars through the apartment. “When's movie night?”

[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?

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 5461

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, and alcohol abuse.

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

8. Banana-Dulce Cheesecake

Bucky

It occurs to him to tell Steve about the kiss later that night, when Steve is three fingers deep in him and Bucky wants some leverage to make him get in him already. He’s told him four damn times already to move things along.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, making an effort to control his voice so that Steve doesn’t know just how well he’s getting at his prostate like this. “If you don’t listen to me and get your dick in me in the next fifteen seconds, I’m tying you up and riding the dildo while you watch.”

Steve’s rhythm falters and his eyes widen, because he knows his husband and he knows it’s no idle threat. Sexual denial is one of Bucky’s favorite cruelties. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Okay, okay.” His fingers leave a sad absence inside of Bucky, but he gets right to work in reaching for the lube bottle to slick himself up.

“Aht, forgetting something?” Bucky raises his eyebrow and watches Steve huff in exasperation as he stretches across the bed to reach for their beside drawer. Bucky takes the opportunity to smack his ass, enjoying the slight jiggle and the clenching muscle. “Good boy,” he purrs, as Steve comes back with a condom in hand. 

Even when he’s fucking Bucky, Steve isn’t allowed to come inside of him. Only Bucky gets the privilege of leaving a load up inside his husband's ass, a possessive reminder left behind to slide out, slow and filthy. He watches Steve roll the latex down his dick and then give himself a few indulgent pulls with the lube. He's red and throbbing, and Bucky can tell by the way he keeps sucking his bottom lip back into his mouth that he’s feeling very sensitive. “That feel good, Honey?”

“Nngh.”

“That’s enough. C’mere.” He hooks his heels in behind Steve’s ass to urge him forward. Steve drops his dick and climbs over him, settling into the spread of his legs and reaching down to line himself up. Bucky feels the wet drag of his cockhead over his hole.

Obedient boy, he thinks with a smirk. But it slips off his face when Steve starts to push in. He inhales sharply through his nose and closes his eyes as he focuses on letting Steve in. “Ungh,” he grunts quietly, brow furrowed at the stretch.

“You okay?” Steve’s hovering, not pushing any further. Waiting for permission.

Bucky swallows and nods, because he is okay, but goddamn. Sometimes he forgets just how big his Stevie really is. (No better reminder than to have it shoved up his ass.) “Yeah,” he pants, sliding his hands up the backs of Steve’s arms and feeling up the tension in his triceps—he’s straining so beautifully, trying so very hard to hold still for him. It makes Bucky melt when he opens his eyes again and gets a look at the beautifully pinched expression on Steve’s face.

Oh, his golden boy.

“C’mere, you,” he husks, pulling him down by the jaw for a kiss. It forces Steve’s cock a little bit further into him, and he groans at the stretch. “Ff-uck, uhn, Ssteve.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

He shoves his tongue into Steve’s mouth like it’s payback for the way he’s invading his body right now, the lewd, wet swipe of his tongue a counterpoint to Steve’s dick. Bucky just wants to get inside his man, any way he can. Steve makes a filthy, tortured noise when their tongues roll together, and Bucky relishes it. He growls and drives their mouths together again and again, making it sloppy, taking Steve’s breath away, tongue-fucking his mouth before he gets any real chance to start fucking him.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, the word wet on his lips as he holds himself still. He’s looking so pleadingly at Bucky, near-pained self restraint and begging eyes that make Bucky want to destroy him. “Please. I gotta. Gotta move.”

Bucky feels that ever-familiar dark thrill zip through him. “Yeah?” he asks, mock sympathy lacing his tone. He strokes Steve’s hair. “Is that what you want, big guy? You wanna bury that fat cock up in me? Wanna go to town?” Steve nods, of course he does, and Bucky forces one more harsh, unyielding kiss onto him before he pulls back and relents. “Okay Baby, push it in a little. Go slow. Make yourself feel good.”

Steve sags with relief, instantly sinking deeper into Bucky’s body. He goes slow like he’s been told, easing in each of the seven plus girthy inches he has to give, and since Bucky’s just put up with God knows how much time and lube and fingers softening him up for this, it doesn’t hurt.

It’s just so fucking much.

Steve waits once he’s settled all the way inside, because he knows he needs permission to start thrusting. Bucky strokes a tender thumb just under his eye, taking the time to soak up his expression, his pretty features when he’s feeling good like this. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, y’know that?”

Steve grins shakily and knocks their foreheads together. “That why you married me?”

“Mmm. Had to do somethin’. Couldn’t let somebody else get at you.” Bucky grinds up, feeling Steve’s hot length rub inside him, so big. “Oh, Honey.”

“Fuck,” Steve says tersely. “Fuck, Bucky please. Say I can. C’mon Baby.”

Bucky nods, and that’s all the permission Steve needs. He starts moving, thrusting into Bucky with short, deep rolls of his hips. Steve’s a goddamn savant when it comes to getting at Bucky’s sweet spot with his dick, and now’s no exception. Bucky hisses as sparks fly up his spine, his balls pressed deliciously by Steve’s pubic bone every time he rocks in deep. It’s so damn good. “S-sumthin happened today,” he says, stuttering over his words in a way he almost never does.

“Mm.” Steve starts necking at him, humming in acknowledgement. “What?”

“With Mary,” Bucky grunts. “I—nnh—I kissed her.”

Against his neck, Steve makes this tiny, appreciative sound that just about makes Bucky's blood boil. His hips jolt down in an uncontrolled thrust. “Yeah? She liked it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, a dirty thrill shooting through him at this: at talking about someone else while Steve fucks him. Talking about her. “Yeah she did. She felt so good, Stevie. Felt so nice in my arms.” 

Steve groans again. "Tell me."

“Wanted more, God, I wanted to squeeze her, y’know? Trap her. Right up between me and you.”

“Fuck, Bucky. Uhn.”

“Yeah.” They’re grinding filthily now, all firm and deep, skin slapping quietly, Bucky’s legs wrapped up around Steve’s waist to draw him in hard again and again. “I wanna do something about it,” he pants. “Want to have her.”

Steve moans and nods, his face pinking from the effort, from the thought of the three of them together. This, the idea of the two of them in a three-way relationship with a woman, used to be one of their biggest fantasies that they’d talk about. “Can we?” he asks, looking to Bucky for permission. Always to Bucky. It gets him hotter than anything, so in love with his man.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching down to grab handfuls of Steve’s flexing ass, urging him on. “Yeah we can. We’ll take her apart. Fuck her so good.”

“Oh, God. How?” Steve’s back to kissing on his neck while he grinds into him, dirty pants against sucked-wet skin going straight to Bucky’s dick. “Tell me.”

“Mm, I dunno. Maybe you can hold her, huh? Hold her open while I go down on her. Or maybe we’ll—ugh, shit—maybe we’ll both have her at the same time, yeah? You behind her and me in front, taking turns dipping our cocks in her ‘til she screams.” 

Steve groans, his hips slowing and his head sinking over Bucky’s shoulder—He’s close and doesn’t want to come.

Bucky bites sharply at his neck. “Did I say you could stop? Keep fucking me.”

Steve, trooper that he is, whimpers and gets back to it. Bucky grits his teeth, angling his hips into the thrusts just right so that his prostate is getting it good. “Aw, fuckyeah. Like that, Honey, juust like that. Shit. You’re gonna make Daddy cum, y’know that?”

Steve whines, his hips stuttering at the words. Bucky rarely calls himself “Daddy” when they’re together, it’s usually something he only utters when he’s domming a sub. But with Steve topping like this, Bucky needs the extra dominance. The growled words get to Steve too though, and he starts to come, shoving harder and uncoordinated. “Ohn ... shit,” he whimpers, the high pitched, desperate sound of it making Bucky’s cock pulse dangerously.

He growls and smashes their mouths together, shoves his flesh hand down between their bellies and grabs himself, starts stroking off hard and fast as he feels Steve’s jerky final thrusts. They finish seconds apart, with Steve still grinding his orgasm out as Bucky’s cock starts shooting up his belly and over his knuckles. “Uh, ughn, godyeah …”

They slump against each other with exhaustion once it’s done, panting against skin and reveling in the aftershocks. Steve eventually takes the initiative to pull out, getting rid of the condom and snuggling back up against Bucky’s side. Bucky hums and wraps his arm around him, pressing a kiss to the edge of his temple. “S’good,” he mumbles, letting Steve pull the blanket up to cover their legs, even though they haven’t even wiped off yet. It feels too good to move right now.

“So,” Steve says a few minutes later, his voice softened and lax from the afterglow. He’s got his head pillowed on Bucky’s chest, and Bucky begins to play idly with his hair. “The Mary thing.”

Bucky inhales deeply, his chest rising and falling underneath Steve’s cheek. “Yeah. The Mary thing.”

“What’s the plan?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time, picturing various scenarios in his sated brain. “Hell if I know.”

Bucky

Steve’s already back from his ass-o’clock morning jog and putzing around the kitchen by the time Bucky has finished dressing for work and emerges from the bedroom. He hears (and smells) the coffee pot percolating, and sighs gratefully as he walks into the kitchen to join him. “Mornin’ babe. Thanks. for getting that started.”

Steve gives him a cheerful peck on the lips as he passes to open one of the upper cabinets. “There’s a piece of cheesecake in the fridge for you,” he says. 

“Cheesecake?” Bucky’s slightly distracted by the shape of Steve’s muscular back through his tight Under Armour top as he stretches to reach his preferred to-go mug. “For breakfast?”

“I may have mentioned that it’s your favorite dessert of all time.” Steve shoots him a knowing smile when he turns back around. "Enjoy the view?"

"You know it," Bucky says, shameless. "I'll have to have a talk with her about making cheesecake. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and I have a problem."

Steve snickers and goes to grab the coffee pot and fill the mug. “At least take it to work with you for lunch. She’ll be bummed if you don’t.”

“Sure.” In the fridge, Bucky discovers a clear plastic clamshell box with a single slice of cheesecake inside. Previously unaware of any hunger, his stomach suddenly turns over in a growling vote of confidence for the cheesecake. “Damn,” he mutters, reaching in and pulling the clamshell out. “So that’s what the banana threats were for.”

“Yep.” Steve chuckles. “I already had a piece. And Buck:” He turns around and looks at him with theatrically wide eyes. “It’s really good.”

“Oh, I have no doubt.” Bucky checks the time on his phone, decides that he has enough time to sit down and eat it there before he leaves for work. He goes to grab a fork from the silverware drawer. Seated on the stool at the breakfast bar, his eyes slide shut as the first bite of dense, creamy goodness slides over his tongue. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” he moans. “Caramel.”

“I know, right?”

He opens his eyes again and gives Steve a withering look. “We’ve gotta set some boundaries for ourselves. Or she’ll have us rocking dad bods in no time.”

Mary’s laugh sounds from the hallway just before she appears, dressed in sneakers and workout clothes. “With the way you two work out? Yeah right.” She shoots a cheerful finger gun in Bucky’s direction. “And it’s dulce, not caramel.”

“Oh. Well I stand corrected, then.”

“Basically the same thing as American-style caramel.” She makes a face. “Which hardy counts at all. Just wait until I make you a real caramel. Where the sugar’s actually cooked dark enough to taste.” She nods with an adorable amount of conviction. “Your mouth’ll know the difference.”

“I’m sure it will,” Bucky drawls, looking her over with the same sort of appreciation that he’d just done with Steve. Mary wears leggings on a regular basis, which is always very enticing, but her gym leggings are even tighter, and it’s a total cocktease. Bucky waits until she has her back turned before he lets his gaze drop to her hips and ass. Jesus, help him. “You going to the gym?” he asks, knowing that it’s her day off.

“Yeah,” she huffs, going over to grab her jacket from the catchall. “I’ve gained so much weight since Halloween, it’s not even funny. Got about fifteen pounds to work off now. Blegch.”

Bucky actually puts his fork down, he’s so disturbed by the casual way that she throws it out.  “What?” he says, and Steve echoes him with a stifled noise in his throat that basically means the same thing. “Fifteen pounds?” He lets his eyes drag over her body, mouth agape. “Mary, wait.”

“What?” She’s shrugging her jacket on with a humorless laugh. “It’s true.”

“No it is fucking not,” Bucky snaps, and at hearing his tone, she stops laughing. “Mary,” he says sternly. “You do not need to lose any weight. And certainly not fifteen pounds. Jesus. That’s ludicrous.”

She turns around with an incredulous expression. “Seriously? I literally just heard you complaining about dad bods. Have you seen yourself? And you’re gonna talk to me about what’s ludicrous?”

Bucky frowns at how defensive she’s gotten and how fast. “Mare,” he says, trying to soften his tone. “You look great. Now I’m fine with you going to the gym if you want, but let’s not get out of hand, here.” Something about the tense determination in her features sets off alarm bells in his head. “You should wait to go to the gym with Steve when he goes in the afternoon,” he decides, making it an order. “You don’t need to be going by yourself.”

Her entire face screws up. “Excuse you,” she scowls. “I’m not a child. I can go to the freakin’ gym by myself.”

“No,” he says firmly. “I want you to wait.”

For a split second, he sees her expression smooth over at how calmly and firmly he’s said it—her own natural submissive reaction to a direct order from him. But that quickly bleeds back to astonished anger. “Sorry, Daddy, but I’m ready to go now. I already took my pre-sup and I’ll just waste it if I—”

“Pre-sup?” he hisses (forcing himself to ignore the ‘Daddy’ thing—holy shit). “What supplements are you taking?”

“None of your business!” She laughs meanly, and Bucky sees Steve shift out of the corner of his eye at how quickly this is devolving. “Jesus. I’m a grown woman, Bucky.”

“I know that, Mary,” he grits. “Now take your coat off and wait for Steve.”

“No.”

“Have you even had any breakfast?” he growls.

“I don’t like to eat before a workout,” she says, grabbing up her purse from the catchall. 

“Mary,” Steve pleads, looking worriedly at Bucky. “You should have something for fuel. C’mon, let me make you a piece of toast at least.”

She huffs, shouldering her purse and heading for the door. “You guys’ bread has like a hundred and thirty calories a slice. No thanks. I’m fine.” She unlocks the deadbolt and reaches for the doorknob.

Bucky lets loose his full Dom-voice when he warns, “Mary, don’t you open that door.”

Her shoulders visibly tense, as if she’s fighting off the full-body urge to obey him. “I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she says, then pulls open the door and leaves.

Bucky stares, furious. “A couple of hours?!” The barstool’s legs scrape against the floor as he hastily pushes out from the counter, intending to go after her.

“Babe, wait. No.” Steve stops him with both hands on his shoulders. “That’s not a good idea.”

“She just willfully disobeyed me!” Bucky snarls. “I can’t let that go!”

Steve’s fingers curl over his shoulders in a squeeze and he ducks his head to fix him with a meaningful look. “Buck, hey, take a deep breath. You’re not handling this well.” 

The message is clear. This is the way Steve talks to him when he’s trying to calm him down from domspace—and not the good kind of domspace, either. Bucky jerks away from his hold, but Steve arches an eyebrow, and so Bucky takes a few deep inhales and exhales, glaring at his husband the whole time he’s doing it. “She can’t get away with behavior like that,” he reiterates once he’s done. He forces his tone to be more calm so that Steve can’t hold it against him. “That was out of line. She needs to be corrected.”

“I know,” Steve says, still looking at him cautiously. “But we don’t have a discipline plan in place, so what’re you gonna do? Go grab her in public and drag her back here kicking and screaming?” 

Bucky's jaw works in frustration. “No," he grits. "No, that won't work."

“Good. I'm glad you can see that.” Some of the tension releases from Steve’s shoulders, and Bucky instantly feels bad. Poor Steve. He’s already married to one erstwhile/sometimes mental case, and now he’s got another one on the extreme opposite end of the spectrum to deal with.

“Sorry,” Bucky says tightly, turning away in embarrassment. He can still feel the ticking of his pulse in his veins, and the desire to control pulled tight throughout all his muscles. “Sorry,” he says again, going back to sit at the breakfast bar.

“It’s okay, Babe.”

He scoots back in to the counter and grabs his fork, moodily spearing another bite of the cheesecake. His thoughts still linger on the showdown with Mary as he chews, and after he swallows he mutters, “The hell’s gotten into her?” Normally she’ll go soft as a stick of butter the second he starts talking sternly at her, but this time she’d seemed to actually harden against him the more he tried it. 

Steve comes over with the to-go mug, emptying a Splenda packet into it. “You think it has anything to do with you kissing her?” 

Bucky frowns, not having considered that. He shakes his head grumpily. “No. She’s been coming down every night. It doesn’t make any sense for her to be acting like this."

“Okay, but Babe … maybe we should try to get her in to see Linda this week. See if there’s something she needs that we’re not—”

“What she needs is a quick trip over my lap,” he growls, left hand flexing. “She’s bratting.”

“She does like to go to the gym,” Steve hedges, but he shuts up when Bucky shoots him a withering glare. “Yeah, okay, maybe you’re right.”

“Damn right I’m right. Call the Center today. Try and get us in. The sooner the better.”

Steve nods. “And what do you suggest I do about her when she comes back?”

Bucky grunts and eats the last bite of cheesecake n his plate, vaguely aware that he would’ve savored it a lot more if he wasn’t so riled up over Mary’s behavior. “Just leave her alone. You’re right: we don’t have a discipline plan in place.” (Though he plans to correct that very soon.) “We’ll sort it out at this next visit. Linda already said she has strong indications for impact play.”

Steve winces. “Why do they need to put the word ‘play’ after everything?” Bucky shrugs, and Steve looks rueful. “You know she’s gonna throw a fit when you bring it up.”

“I know.” And he really doesn’t care. A dark thrill of dominance zips through Bucky at just the idea of putting Mary over his knee, of trapping her wrists at her lower back and holding her down, giving her a good spanking until she’s crying and grinding and sorry. “She’ll learn real quick that it’s what’s good for her. That girl needs consequences like a fish needs water."

“Uh huh.” Steve seems almost amused, but he holds up his hands again when he gets another glare from Bucky. “I’ll call and make an appointment, I will,” he promises. “But what about you, Babe?”

“What about me?”

Steve gives him a look. “You could stand to go in yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes slip down to Bucky’s left hand. “Babe ...”

Bucky looks down—Somewhere in the past few minutes, he’s bent the fork in his fist a little bit. Huffing, he sets it down.

“Take the morning off and go get a session in with one of the Pros,” Steve coaxes. “Spare your poor coworkers.”

Bucky scoffs and takes his plate to the sink to rinse it. “No. I’m fine.”

“Uh huh.”

“I am,” he insists, giving Steve a warning look when it seems like he’ll argue further. “Steve,”

“Okay, okay.” Steve holds up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to help.”

Bucky softens, feeling bad. “C’mere, you. Hey, I’m sorry.” He gives Steve a big hug, and then a kiss that’s equal parts possessive and apologetic. They part, and he smiles a little, nudging Steve’s nose with his. “You still having fun in the nuthouse?” he murmurs.

Steve ‘tsks’ at him for the joke and give him a chiding squeeze. “Yes,” he insists. “Now get going, nutso, before you're late. And don’t forget your coffee.”

Bucky gives him one last peck on the lips and then grabs his things. He puts his coat on and drapes his suit jacket over his arm at the door. “Try to keep her here once she’s back,” he says, frowning once again as he thinks about the “hours” remark Mary had made. “Ridiculous,” he mutters. 

“I’ll head over to the gym in a bit. Make sure she isn’t overdoing it,” Steve promises. “Now go on, try to have a good day. Try not to make your secretary cry.”

Bucky huffs, though he is smiling a little as he heads out the door. He’s only ever made his secretary cry once, and Steve will never, ever let him live it down. “Bye Babe. I Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Steve

That evening, they bite the bullet and show Mary the letter that came in the mail: addressed to Bucky, from the circuit court of New York. It lists the court date for review of Mary’s case of custodianship.

Steve’s expecting a meltdown, but what they get instead is a morose sort of silence. He’s not sure he wouldn’t prefer the meltdown. Mary just sniffs and doesn’t talk much, picking her portion of dinner to smithereens before deigning to eat any of it. After their nightly tv time and Bucky's low key domming, she goes off to bed without bidding them goodnight like she usually does.

Steve wakes in the early hours of the morning, having to take a piss. He’s just flushed and is considering being naughty and slipping out to the kitchen to grab himself a slice of cheesecake, when he sees that Mary’s bedroom door is open. He sticks his head in to check on her, but she’s not in her bed. “Mary?” he whispers.

That’s when he hears soft noises coming from the kitchen.

It’s Mary. Steve stalls in place when he sees her, leaning back against the cabinets and face splotchy from crying. She’s dressed in her workout clothes again, hair messy like she’s already been out and back from another workout. Steve frowns worriedly when he spots her house keys and empty water bottle on the counter next to her phone. “Hey Mare,” he says quietly, so that he doesn’t spook her. 

She sniffles as she sees him and hurriedly scrubs her face. “Oh. Hi Steve.”

“What are you doing up?” He takes a few cautious steps closer. “It’s late."

“Just wanted to get a snack,” she says, voice sounding tearful and pitiful. It’s such an obvious lie, Steve doesn’t even bother remarking on it.

“Were you at the gym again, Honey?” he asks. He’d had to intervene at the gym yesterday, when she’d been approaching hour number three with no signs of stopping. Now, he walks over and leans against the countertop’s edge right next to her. The room is dark, but he can just make out the silvery tracks left behind on her cheeks, the puffiness around her eyes. He smiles sadly at her. “You want to talk about it?”

Her expression pinches and she looks away. “No.”

“Okay.”

“... I went to the gym,” she eventually murmurs. 

“Yeah, I cry at the gym, too. All the time.” Steve nudges his bare foot against her sneakered one. “Come on,” he coaxes. “I’m a good listener.”

“You’re a good tattletale,” she grumbles.

“Hey.”

“Well you are. You tell Bucky everything I say and do. And he’s always on me about everything and I just …” she huffs. “I just don’t want to deal with it sometimes.”

“Well …” Steve hedges, knowing that he shouldn’t say what he’s about to say. “You could still tell me,” he offers. He lets his hand inch over on the counter’s edge and hooks his pinkie over hers. She looks down at it, then up to him. Steve’s mouth quirks. “Bucky can be a lot. I know. But he’s just trying to do what’s right. And you’ve gotta remember that he isn’t perfect. He has to live with this thing just like you do. Some days he handles it better than others.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Steve sighs. “Look, if there’s something you want to talk to me about, but you don’t want him to know, it can stay between us.” Mary looks over in surprise and Steve cringes. “Just ... promise me that you’ll talk it out with Linda, too?”

She hums noncommittally. “Walk me back to bed?”

“Course, Hon.”

She shuts herself into her bathroom and returns after a few minutes, dressed in pajamas and her hair towel dried. She seems surprised that Steve has stuck around when she sees him standing there, toeing the line of the doorway. "Oh."

“I didn’t know if you meant …” he shrugs. “Tuck you in?” 

She smiles a little, though it’s sad. Steve thinks she might’ve been crying again in the shower. “Sure,” she says, tucking her head down. She gets into bed and Steve covers her with the blankets, then sits on the edge of the mattress for a moment. “So do you want to talk?” he asks softly.

She chews her lip for a long moment, and just when Steve thinks she’s about to turn him down, she whispers, “... I don’t think it’s working the same anymore.”

“What isn’t working?” 

“The stuff with Bucky. The drops.”

Steve’s lips part in understanding. “Oh. I see.”

She nods and won't meet his eyes. “It doesn’t feel the same as it did before. Like it’s not as strong, or something. And it’s wearing off faster.” Her face pinches and for a second she really looks like she might cry. 

“Honey?” Steve reaches to tuck her damp hair back from her face, and that seems to be what does it. She starts crying and turns into the pillow, hiding there as her breath hitches in tiny sobs. Surprised, Steve lets his hand fall to her shoulder, where he gives her a comforting squeeze. “Hey,” he soothes. “Shhh, it’s okay. It's okay.”

She shakes her head with a little whimper. “No it’s not. I th-thought they’d stop now. They did stop, for a while.”

“What stopped?” Steve asks, confused. 

She sniffles, face crumpled up in distress. “I have bad dreams sometimes. That’s why I was up. Went to the gym to try and run it off.”

“Bad dreams?" Steve says, concerned. "You mean nightmares?" Sometimes Bucky has them too, so he's under no illusions about how debilitating they can be. "Mare?" he prods gently. "What are the nightmares about?”

She burrows further into the pillow, turning onto her side and curling up in a little ball. “Just stuff,” she mumbles. “From when I was a kid.”

Steve gets a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he has to really consider his words carefully before he speaks. He finally settles on a quiet, “Your dad?”

“... Yeah.”

Ouch. Steve swallows. “Honey … you really need to talk to somebody about this.”

She sniffles and shakes her head, and when Steve puts his hand on her shoulder again, she doesn’t try to shrug him off. “You promised not to tell Bucky,” she says.

Steve winces. “Yeah, I know.” Bucky and he already had a pretty good idea about this, but he doesn’t feel the need to point that out right now. “And you promised you’d talk with Linda,” he reminds. “It’s not safe for you to be sneaking out of here at night.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. "It’s just that ... the only thing that ever really made ‘em stop was getting drunk. And then with Bucky …” Her body shudders in a quiet sob. “But now it’s not working the same anymore! So what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, Mare.” Steve rubs her shoulder. “Shh sh sh, Honey, it’s alright. It’s a process. We just gotta figure out what works for you." He gives her a comforting squeeze. “We’ve got an appointment for tomorrow, okay? We’re gonna talk to Linda and figure this all out. It’ll get better, I promise.” He bends to kiss the top of her head, and soothes her with a gentle litany of murmured words as she cries. “It’s okay, Mare. We’ll figure this out. It’s all gonna be okay.”

She calms down after a while of that, and Steve gives her one last hug before he stands to leave. “Goodnight, Sweetheart. Tomorrow’ll be a better day, you’ll see.”

“Steve?” He turns back around to see her peeking at him from over the top edge of the covers. “On the dresser. On the top, there's a ... You can take it.”

He’s confused, until he goes over and sees the only thing that’s sitting on top of the room’s highboy dresser. His heart all but stops. Carefully, he slides it into the palm of his hand, dread filling his chest like cold water. “Mary,” he says, fearful. “Did you—”

“No,” she says. “But I was thinking about it.” 

With a sinking sense of horror, he realizes what a massive mistake it was to tell Mary he’d keep secrets for her. “Mary,” he says warningly, “You know I can’t keep this from—”

“I’ll talk to Linda,” she says, looking at him with tearful, angry eyes that dig into Steve’s heart. “I gave it to you, didn’t I?”

Steve’s lips thin and he frowns, pained. “Where did you get it?” 

“From work.”

“Why would they have these at your work?”

Mary squirms, looking embarrassed. “It’s for a lamé. For scoring the bread before it goes in the oven.”

Steve sighs and drops his hand, letting his fingers curl loosely over the razorblade. “There’s a limit to this, you know,” he warns. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me without worrying that I’m gonna tell him every little thing, but he’s still my husband. And that means that my responsibility is to him, first.”

Her eyes lower in defeat. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “I know.”

“Hey.” He holds up the blade and gives her a pointed look. “And you can’t be doing this. Because at the end of the day, he’s still the one who’s legally responsible for you. He has to do what he thinks is in your best interest. We both do.”

She frowns and won’t meet his eyes, but after a moment she nods, and Steve believes that she means it when she mumbles a tiny little, “Kay.”

“Kay. You gonna try to get some sleep now?”

She nods, still tearful, but calmer. Steve gently bids her goodnight and heads for the door. When he’s almost got it closed, Mary calls out softly one more time. “Steve?”

“Yeah Honey?”

“Thank you,” she says, so quiet that Steve almost doesn’t hear. “I feel like … I just needed that. To talk to you.”

Steve’s shoulders relax and he smiles grimly, relieved to hear that he’s made her feel a little better, and that he’s able to be someone she can confide in. He even feels a little bit proud that she trusts him enough to tell him these things. It’s almost enough to take away his guilt over promising to keep secrets from his husband.

… Almost. 

“G’night, Mary,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Steve.”

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[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!!

[darthbloodorange]

Steve retires from being an Avengers and becomes a farmer. He buys a farm for suspiciously cheap. An issue with the neighbors supposedly? Steve not going to be intimidated. Steve gets some chickens and is very protective of his flock.

One day, one of his neighbor's goats breaks in and tries to harass his chickens… Only to find Steve's chickens fight back. The goat runs… right into Steve's grip. He goes to return it to the neighbor… and recognizes the man from SHIELD's wanted list.

But the man is kind of attractive… and Steve was retired and…

For the: ✦ @stuckybingo Round 6 - Free Space [N3] (Card: SB6035)

Word Count: N/a - Moodboard Title: Goats and Chickens Rating: Gen Universe: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairings: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes Warnings: Guns Major Tags: Farm AU, Canon Divergence AU, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Getting Together, Enemies to Lovers, First Meetings, Developing Relationship, Goats, Chickens, Retired Steve Rogers, Tired Steve Rogers, Hurt Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Farmer Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Modern Bucky Barnes, Retired Bucky Barnes, Assassin Bucky Barnes, Farmer Bucky Barnes, Grumpy Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, Short-Haired Bucky Barnes ~ Summery: Steve retires from being an Avengers and becomes a farmer. He buys a farm for suspiciously cheap. An issue with the neighbors supposedly? Steve not going to be intimidated. Steve gets some chickens and is very protective of his flock.

One day, one of his neighbor's goats breaks in and tries to harass his chickens… Only to find Steve's chickens fight back. The goat runs… right into Steve's grip. He goes to return it to the neighbor… and recognizes the man from SHIELD's wanted list.

But the man is kind of attractive… and Steve was retired and…

[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.