#the second in your three daily jamz

[die-tenebris]

tfw the og is better than the cover >.>

[sologxlaxies]

Not About Angels | Part 2

Coping Mechanisms

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Summary: Loving him feels like the most exquisite way of self-destruction. Too close, and you’re radioactive. Too far, and your heart shatters, and the city cracks in two while debris scatters in the space between your ribs. Pining over a brooding, unstable Bucky Barnes isn’t exactly your brightest idea, especially when you’re just as damaged as he is, and he doesn’t seem to love you half as much as you love him. Based off the song Angels by The XX.

Warnings: drinking, alcoholism, a lot of cursing.

Word count: 2369

This is part of my submission for @whothehellisbella ‘s Cool Times Summer Jamz Mix Writing Challenge

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                                    Light reflects from your shadow                                  It is more than I thought could exist                                        You move through the room                                           Like breathing was easy

Sixteen.

It is the exact number of days that Bucky has spent in the compound, and it’s also a rough estimate of the female population in this place that he’s managed to pick up. Daily.

The worst part is that you’d probably be scoffing at the women, most of them practically drooling over the prospect of seeing Sergeant Barnes, much less talking to him, if you weren’t the slightest bit jealous of them. Massively jealous, if you’re actually being honest with yourself.

Truth is, James Buchanan Barnes is a handsome son of a bitch—a very charming, good-looking, not to mention alluring man—but a jerk nonetheless. The problem is that he’s only a jerk around you, and while you’re used to people behaving like utter jackasses in your presence, it’s particularly hard when he has no problem in flashing a smile here and winking at another girl there, as long as they’re not you.

Somehow, he’s wary of you since day one, treading carefully around you just like every other member of the team does. The difference between him and the others, is that while they have plenty reasons to distrust you and be cautious of you, he doesn’t have one. And yet he treats you just the same, if not a little better, but it’s all forgotten the second he starts stealing your food and drinking your carefully stashed wine coolers that you’ve scattered all over the compound.

As infuriating as he might be, you can’t deny there’s something else about him that calls to you, an intangible something that draws you to him. After day number nineteen you think you’ve figured it out: it’s they way he walks.

He has a particular way to carry himself around the room. It’s as if his coping mechanism lies in the set of his shoulders along with the small smirk and the way he casually swings his arms, they all scream confidence with every step. It’s all fake it ‘till you make it because this Bucky doesn’t seem like same person Steve told you about, the scared, broken shell of a man that HYDRA had left behind after almost seventy years of torture and brainwashing, but you know he’s still there. No amount of therapy or brain programming they’ve been trying to fix in Wakanda can get rid of that.                                                              

The façade he’s built around himself is almost perfect—you have to give him that—but you can see through the cracks, no matter how small they are. Like the way he flinches slightly every time Tony blows something up, or how he’ll always try to keep his back against a wall, but mostly it’s just the dark circles under his eyes.

Maybe that’s what bothers you the most; the fact that he keeps pretending that there’s nothing wrong, and maybe, if you’re willing to admit another ugly truth, you’re jealous of him too, because you can’t get rid of your ghosts as easily, much less pretend that everything is okay when it’s obviously not. The bottles stashed in your room and the half empty flask of strong vodka currently snug under the waistband of your pants can attest to that. And the permanent presence of Bucky in the room, along with his cocky attitude and the fact that he’s only been here two weeks but everybody trusts him more than you, makes it really difficult for you to keep the promise you’ve made to Steve and stay sober—not that you haven’t snuck up a few drinks here and there.

By the time Friday morning rolls in, you’re practically rushing to the main hall of the compound, sighing in relief when you spot Agent Hill already sitting in the reception, and you have to restrain yourself from running towards her like a madwoman, suddenly very glad for your mandatory meetings with her.

“Hill, thank God!”

“Whoa!” she instinctively takes a step back when you try and hug her, and you pull back as well, crossing your arms protectively over your chest and trying to hide a frown.

You forgot. It’s a stupid, one-second lapse of judgment, but it happens, and when reality comes crashing back you can’t help but feel terrible all over again, muttering apologies under your breath. Your good mood is instantly sour, and you suddenly remember why you hate these meetings with her in the first place.

“Y/N��” Hill notices--of course she does, with her being your friend and all--and you hate that you only get to see her once a month after the accident, and even then you can’t even hug her. It breaks your heart. “You know the drill, and-“

“Prolonged physical contact with me is potentially dangerous for people” you huff bitterly; reciting the words you’ve been hearing over and over again. “Trust me Maria, I know. It’s a damn shame that this particular HYDRA gift didn’t come with a return policy.”

“We’re still trying to find a solution.” She says, almost apologetically. “Is Stark’s bracelet still working?”

“This thing?” you raise your right hand where the restraint bracelet is fused shut, a little incrusted vial glinting under the sun. “Yeah… it has about two days worth of dosage before Tony has to refill it.”

“Good. That’s very good Y/N.”

A few seconds pass while she taps into a little tablet, and you can’t help but feel a little hurt. It’s been two weeks since you last saw Maria, and even though you used to be friends, things have changed after the accident. She’s become colder, more distant, and it hurts more than you’re willing to admit.

“Is… is that all you came here for?” you ask her. At least it makes her look up from her notes, and her expression softens the slightest bit before she tentatively places a hand on your forearm, mindful of your long sleeves.

“Oh, no Y/N” her hand is gone in a flash, and she focuses on putting back her tablet instead “I wanted to check how things are with Barnes.”

“Him?” you’re taken off guard by the question “He’s fine, I guess. We don’t really talk much-”

You’re interrupted by the sound of Maria’s phone, and she rushes to answer it, speaking in short sentences to whoever is on the other side of the line.

“I’m so sorry,” she says after she hangs up “Something’s come up and-“

“You have to leave.” The disappointment in your voice is evident this time, but you know it won’t change anything.

“I’m really sorry about this. See you in two weeks!” And then Maria is rushing down the hall and out the door, her frame disappearing as she climbs into a car and speeds off. Just like that, you’re all alone again, left with the bitter feeling that comes after your meetings with her, but you try to ignore it as you go through the secure doors that lead back to the living quarters.

The kitchen is empty—thank your lucky stars for that—so you head straight towards Tony’s minibar, opening the little door and taking your time to pick a perfect bottle of gin that you intend to have for breakfast.

Plopping on one of the bar stools, you uncap the bottle and pour out the contents in a glass, taking a tentative sip first that soon turns into large gulps. The liquor tastes bitter and tangy on your mouth, and before you know it you’re pouring yourself another glass, feeling the all too familiar heat spread in your belly and the tingling sensation in the tip of your nose. You revel in the feeling, little giggles escaping your mouth with every other sip until the room is spinning and you have to lean on the table just a little so that you don’t fall.

That is how Nat finds you. Tipsy and tired; with your upper body sprawled over the countertop and a half empty bottle at your side. It’s become almost a tradition. Every two weeks you go and meet with Maria on a Friday morning, only to return—probably sad or angry, or both—and drink at least half a bottle for breakfast.

“Oh honey…” she mutters under her breath.

She’s at your side in a second, prying the glass from your nimble fingers and putting the bottle back in the minibar before returning to you. Carefully, she puts an arm behind your back and pulls yours over her shoulders, half carrying-half dragging you to the couch and setting you down on it.

“Nat… Nattie” you mumble, the words slurred in your tongue.

“I’m guessing your meeting didn’t go well.” She says.

“Maria wouldn’t even hug me, can you believe it?” You giggle before answering, the corners of your lips pulling up into a lopsided smile. “It went awful.”

No words are exchanged between the two of you after that, but there’s no need to. Nat and you prefer the silence, it’s something you’ve both grown to appreciate. She remains quiet when she makes you some food, quiet when she brings it to you, along with a big glass of water, and quieter still when she drapes a blanket over your shoulders, silently sitting at your side on the couch and turning on the TV to watch a movie. Even Vision doesn’t make a sound when he joins you after a few hours. He simply appears in the room with three bowls full of popcorn and sits beside Nat, passing the bowls around.

That was quite a few hours ago.

Now, the blankets are warm and fluffy and you’ve had so much to drink that your limbs feel heavy and your eyelids droopy, so you inevitably fall asleep, your teammates too focused on the show to notice until Nat makes fun of Vision because of the faces he is making and he turns around to ask you something, all bright eyes and “Hey, who was the guy-”

Vision’s words die in his mouth when he sees you’re asleep. Legs tangled up in the blankets and an empty bowl lying on the carpet. He makes a move to wake you up but a hand shoots out to his chest, halting his movements.

“Let her sleep,” says Nat, turning off the TV and picking herself off the couch at a blinding speed.  “I’ll come check on her in the morning.” It’s just past midnight and the only light comes from the huge fireplace located in the center of the room, but all the others are either on a mission or already sleeping, so both Natasha and vision go to their rooms at the other end of the facility and leave you soundly asleep on one of the couches.

Hours later, you are woken up by the sound of screams. You’re still groggy and no fully awake, trying to open your eyes in spite of the headache you feel coming on, but the screams continue to get longer and your brain is set in alarm.

Reaching for a knife you always keep under your pillow, you stretch your hand, only to find the soft surface of the leather couch and fuck, your mind can’t think because it’s the first time you are caught unprotected and drunk, and it’s the worse mistake you can make.

You sit up in a flash only to take in your surroundings, fearing some kind of attack, but all the windows are sealed tightly and the fireplace is still burning; not a single person in the room besides you.

As the screams become louder, you rush to the kitchen and grab Natasha’s gun, conveniently strapped under the counter, and head towards the noise. The sound of your feet rings like cannons in your ears and you can’t help but curse yourself for forgetting your training, rushing like a bull to try and knock down the door—to no avail because the surface is too hard and you’re not exactly in prime condition to be bumping into hard wood with your shoulder—but then it’s too late and the screams stop and there is nothing else to cover the noise of your footsteps. You see a small beam of light that’s just been turned on but before you can turn around the door is being wide opened and it’s none other than Bucky Barnes leaning against the doorframe with his hair mussed from sleep and a murderous expression on his face.

You are frozen to the spot with the gun hanging limply from your right hand (and damn, you hate feeling like an amateur right now) because, let’s face it, it is Bucky fucking Barnes, former Winter Soldier and HYDRA assassin—who hasn’t thrown even the hint of a smile of you in more than two weeks since he came back, so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t like you a lot—and you’re apparently standing right outside his room.

It was he screaming, you realize, your breath hitching at the powerful glare he sends your way.

“What the hell are you doing in my room.” It’s not a question as much as a complaint, meant to sound intimidating in the way that he almost growls when he says it, but even with his sweaty forehead and tousled hair, he’s never looked more raw to you than in that moment; unguarded and angry, even if that anger is directed at you.

“You were screaming.” You state.

“And you’re drunk.”

“Technically, I’m just hungover but- Hey!” You wedge a foot in between the wall and his bedroom door when he trues to close it, suddenly feeling very pissed off at the supersoldier. Just enough to make you push the door back open and stand in front of Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest and a frown on your face. “That’s it Barnes, you’re dropping the act right fucking now and stop being such an arrogant, disrespectful-“

“Disrespectful?” he scoffs “at least I didn’t try to break down your door in the middle of the night.”

“You were screaming your throat raw. At two in the morning-“

“And you’re drunk and delusional.” He interrupts. “If we tell the team about this, who do you think they’ll believe, huh?”

His words are enough to make you shrink and almost take a step back. That’s how much they hurt, but then it’s followed by anger and you’re not really sure if it’s you or the alcohol talking, but one moment you’re at the door and the next one you’re surging forward, poking a finger into his chest and glaring at him with enough force to make him recoil.

“Now listen to me Barnes, and listen to me well: you wanna scream? Fine. You want to punch a hole through the wall and tear your room apart? Go ahead. Just don’t pretend like everything is perfect, because you know it’s not. You went through hell and we know that, but you weren’t the only one there, and yet you bottle everything up and pretend you’re alright, when any moment now, you’re going to explode! And it’s not going to be on you, but on them, and they’re the ones who will have to take care of the aftermath, so do this team a favor and don’t make the same mistake that I did. Tell them the truth. Stop pretending.”

It all comes down to this moment. Almost three weeks of pent up anger and months of distrust and years of pain, they all lead to this moment when you confront Bucky in his room and accidentally bare your soul in the process. It’s ugly and chaotic and you don’t even realize you’re eyes are watering until you feel a stray tear rolling down your cheek, but before you can react—or do anything, really—he has taken a stance murderous enough to make you step back and all you see is the door being shut on your face.

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[shut-it-tinman]

Drive (steve rogers x reader)

warnings: heavy angst, mentions of cheating, alcohol abuse, toxic relationships, mentions of sexual content

steve rogers x reader

word count: 1.4k+

based on the song,

“Drive” by oh wonder

A/N: this is part of @whothehellisbella’s cool times summer jamz mix writing challenge. also a Modern!AU oneshot. I enjoyed writing this, even though there were tears and anger through it all. :) i hope you enjoy this too!

“Tell me you didn’t leave.” She looked ahead, not glancing at the speedometer, as she sped up. 50. 65. 72. 82.“Tell me you didn’t abandon me.” he said, his voice husky over the phone, his voice filling the car, choking her. “I didn’t,” she sighed, “I’ll see you home.” “Okay,” he said, clicking off. Her music blared back on, and she clicked the windows to slide all the way down. Tears trailed down her face: a look of despair, dread, and even some fear, of the thought of going back. Going back to her apartment. Going back to him. 

The apartment building loomed ahead of her. She took a deep breath, before she started her daily climb up the stairs.

Everyday. Everyday I try to leave. But I can’t seem to make it past eighty miles away from him.

The keys jingled as she was turning the lock, the only music that played in her mind. 

“You’re back,” he slurred. He stumbled toward her and gave her a sloppy kiss on her lips. “I thought you would leave me, doll.” She bit her lip, trying to lock up all her emotions in a tiny box in the back of her mind. She smiled, but it seemed to be on the verge of breaking.

“I wouldn’t ever leave you, Stevie.” she whispered, giving him a peck on the cheek. He gave a lazy smile to her, and she gave him half of one back.

There was clothes scattered around the room: some of hers, mostly his, and small piles of someone else’s lingerie tattered on the floor. She ignored the mess, including the other woman’s, and walked to her room. Their room. She set down her purse next to the bedside table, and picked up the various bottles of whiskey and gin scattered around the room. 

“So you had some fun today.” she muttered to herself. The bottles clattered as they fell in the recycling bin next to the refrigerator. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” he said, the volume of the tv increasing without her reply. She grabbed a garbage bag from underneath the sink, whipping it in the air.

Y/N walked around the apartment, chucking various things in the bag. Beer bottles, used condoms, a tattered t-shirt, among the many other things. She tied the bag up with a sigh of relief. Then, Y/N grabbed her keys, and walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” he said. Steve’s voice was still groggy from the excessive drinking, but his head was clear enough to be aware of her movement around the apartment, cleaning up his mess. 

“I-I was gonna go throw this away,” she said, her voice tightening.

“What about the keys?” She looked down at them in her hand, the various keychains and that one car key dangling, taunting her.

“I need them to get back into the apartment, silly!” she said, hoping that the shaking in her hand was not present in her voice. He chuckled, flopping onto his back to continue his glazed stare at the TV.

“Just make it back before it gets dark.” She nodded, even if he wasn’t looking at her.

The door slammed shut, and her breathing slowed down, as she walked down the stairs to the third floor where the garbage shoot was. The bag was heavy on her wrist, and the contents stung her heart, more than it should. But then again, she was used to this. Everyday, after work, she would come home to his mess: the alcohol, the stench of lingering sex, and scattered clothes of various persons around the apartment. But she was used to it. And she had promised that she would stay. For better or for worse. 

The walk up the stairs was exhausting, almost draining any ounce of energy left in her body. She couldn’t wait to finally talk to her boyfriend about her crappy day at her crappily paid job, and they could enjoy that bubble bath that she’s been thinking about all day.

“Steve? Are you home?” she called out, opening the door wide open. All she heard was silence for a couple of seconds, before a feminine giggle and a guy groaning. Her stomach dropped at those sounds, hoping that it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. He would never.

She quietly set down her purse and keys on the kitchen counter, creeping slowly to their shared bedroom. The giggling and groaning became louder, also accompanied with the sounds of the bed groaning in protest. Y/N scrunched her eyebrows, praying to the heavens that it wasn’t her boyfriend. She took a deep breath, hoping to mentally prepare herself for what she was about to see.

“I’m ho-” she proclaimed, slamming the door open. 

And there he was, on top of another girl, who looked like a Mindy or a Christina, having the time of his life, banging another woman. 

She was in shock, shaking in disbelief that Steve would, that HE WOULD. The couple on the bed quickly got up, noticing her presence. 

“Y-Y/N, you’re home,” he said, wide eyed. 

“Steve, what the fuck!” she slammed the door shut and stormed back into the kitchen. Y/N tried to calm herself down, her shaking hands trying to make her after-work cup of tea. 

“Y/N, I messed up. No, fucked up.”

“Quite literally,” she quipped, sarcasm rolling off her tongue.

“I’m so sorry. I went to go meet up with a couple of friends, and Caroline and I reconnected, you know, she’s one of my friends from college-” The mug, that she was holding, shattered on the floor suddenly, breaking his speech.

“Her, Caroline, that’s who she is,” she spat out, in realization. Apparently Steve didn’t catch her drift.

“Yeah, Caroline from college, anyways, we got to talking, and one thing led to another.”

“Fuck you Steve,” she finally said with deep vengeance that was buried in her heart. She stormed back into the bedroom and grabbed Caroline by the arm. “And you, get the fuck out of my apartment. I don’t ever want to see your fucking face ever again!” Y/N slammed the door on Caroline’s face, right after she chucked all of her belongings out the door. 

“What the hell, Y/N?” Steve said, his hands on his hips in anger. She turned around, shell-shocked and wide-eyed.

“Excuse me? What do mean, ’what the hell?’” 

“I mean, why did you tell her to fuck off? She was one of my college buddies.” Y/N scoffed, surprised at his reaction.

“You know what, I’m done,” she said, picking up her purse and keys. “I’ll be back in three days to pick up my stuff, and I’m not paying the rent or your insurance anymore.”

_ _

And that was the first time she drove, drove far, far away from that cheating bastard. Unfortunately, Steve had called her, begging her to come back, saying that his parents would kill him if they ever found out that he couldn’t pay for his rent or insurance anymore. And she relented, threatening to leave if he did this again. 

But he did. Again and again, almost everyday with a new girl from his past life, work, heck, even off the street. Y/N lost count how many times he cheated on her, sleeping with another woman. And with the devastation of his mother’s death about eighteen months ago, he picked up drinking, and even brought home a couple of hookers on some occasions.

Everyday, she came home, cleaned out the apartment of his escapades of the day, and accepted the bullshit apology that he would spit out when they both lay in bed, when he was finally sober.

She dropped the garbage bag down the dumpster, playing through her daily routine. And oddly enough, after all these months, she was okay with it. It wasn’t the best relationship, but she longed for those moments, as they were both in bed, talking to each other. Like any other couple. 

Y/N turned around, facing a window to the nearest highway. Her awaiting freedom staring at her in the face.

Maybe someday. 

Maybe someday she’ll have the guts to leave. And never come back. 

But, that day is not today.

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