#bucky barnes whump

[yourmidnightlover]

forever?

pairing: mob!bucky x reader

summary: after being forced into a marriage you didn’t want, you become very cautious of your new husband out of fear of what he’s capable of when one of his employees makes a move at a dinner meeting.

warnings: anxious reader, threat of domestic violence (reader is just worried abt it), groping, please let me know if i missed something or need to add anything!

a/n: reader is very timid in this. i know a lot of people like a reader who doesn’t take shit and stands up for herself, but i often find myself in situations where i just shut down and don’t know how to respond… so this is kinda inspired by that feeling

two months out of forever.

two months of what seemed like wedded bliss from the outside.

in reality, that “bliss” included sleeping in separate rooms, never even seeing each other unless necessary to make appearances for either of your parents. 

the ones who arranged for this to happen in the first place. 

you were just glad you were able to have your time for yourself. you thought you would use the time to continue writing for your book, but you’ve hit a serious case of writers block. so lovely. 

on the bright side, he wasn’t as controlling as your few friends had made it seem he would be. 

they had painted this picture of a monster in your head. a man who would loom over your presence during every waking second. a man who was controlling and wouldn’t let you have a personal life or secrets.

so far, he’s been the opposite. 

for some reason, that still leaves you unsteady. 

because they also painted him in a very violent, angry, red light. 

but maybe he had a mistress. if that were the case, he truly didn’t respect you or your family. it didn’t seem like bucky to do that, though. he wouldn’t ruin a business deal that benefitted him so much. 

the reason you married him was because your father’s finance business was going under, drowned in debts while the only options were to sell to the barnes’ or the rumlow’s. the barnes’ seemed the lesser of two evils.

the only way to smoothly transition your father’s business to be under the barnes’ control without raising any question of your father’s capability was to marry. if any questions were asked about why your father sold his company, the not so good side of the finance industry would trample after your entire family. the barnes’ would get a new company and their many clients, while your family wouldn’t become entirely blacklisted by the entire country, would be putting your family under the barnes’ protection, and there would be less questions asked as to why the company had been merged.

you had a few months of “leaking” images of you and bucky together into the tabloids to prepare the public for the news of such a big marriage. some were photos of you and bucky holding hands while walking. a couple of you at a restaurant smiling. a few staged kissing photos… those may or may not have been your favorite.

those times spent with him, in all honesty, weren’t bad at all. going for walks together at sunset, dinner dates, feeling his lips against yours…

you had gotten to know more about his childhood that the tabloids didn’t feel was important to cover. his favorite subject in school and how he actually lost his arm so many years ago. you learned each others’ fears and worries in life. your favorite thing to learn about him, however, was what he truly wanted in life. 

peace.

a couple weeks after the wedding, a few photos of the reception were once again “leaked” in order to sell the “too in love to wait” bit that everyone had started assuming upon seeing the first few photos of you and bucky together. 

but all of your history with him flew to the back of your mind as bucky knocked on your office door. 

“come in,” you replied hesitantly, not sure what he wanted from you for the first time since your wedding. he stepped through the threshold and stood at the doorframe. 

“there’s a work meeting tomorrow,” his hand remained on the doorknob, so stiff you’d think he might rip it off the precious white wood in seconds. “the men are meeting at the house. i wanted to let you know. the men in this business, they expect marriages to be of the… traditional values.”

you nodded with understanding, turning to face him with a forced grin. “so i should play the part of the doting housewife, huh?” no smile in return, so you bit back your humor in turn for matching his serious tone. “what food should i prepare, then? and uh, how many guests will we be expecting?”

“whatever’s easiest for you,” he shrugged lightly. “there will be 9 of us there.” with one final look in your direction, he left the office and didn’t return to say goodnight. 

-

the next morning you got to work setting the house up for the 6pm meeting your loving husband was hosting. 

you had decided to set up a buffet-style table outside of the main dining room where the meeting would take place. for the menu, you settled on simple grilled chicken with quite a few side options. roast potatoes, asparagus, sauteed carrots, green beans, and rolls. 

you were putting the rolls in the oven when bucky got home, seemingly entranced by the smell of all the food, heading straight to the kitchen.

“it smells amazing in here,” bucky called from the archway of the kitchen. you jumped slightly from the surprise, but swallowed down the shock and another weak smile. 

“thanks,” you nodded to the edge of the island where a large chalkboard sat, your handwriting neatly displayed on the board that listed all the food to be had. “the menu. i figured a variety would be nice, and who doesn’t like chicken, right?”

“vegetarians,” if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was telling a joke. but you knew better than that. “the men are coming in a little less than an hour. do you maybe want to change before they get here?”

you looked down at what you were wearing, a pair of blue jeans and a loose t-shirt clearly not worthy of someone who had married a barnes man. “right, of course. i’m sorry,” you finished setting the timer on the oven and ran upstairs to get yourself put together before bucky saw the tears trying to seep past your waterline. 

you settled on a black cocktail dress you had worn to one of your dad’s company events before the downfall… quickly swiping some makeup on to cover the exhaustion in your eyes and pulling your hair up to a more respectable updo rather than your typical messy bun. 

luckily you had become an expert at quickly getting ready from your time in university, as you were back in time to pull the rolls from the oven, but not before pulling on your apron. you’d be dammed if you got this stunning dress dirty right before this prestigious meeting. 

t-5 minutes before the meeting was supposed to begin and you could already hear lots of rustling from the formal dining room. you knocked on the closed doors before bucky opened the door for you. 

the men went silent as their gaze rested on you in the doorway. 

“the foods ready. buffet style?” your eyes didn’t leave bucky’s pretty blues, too scared to do anything wrong in front of his men. 

“that’s perfect, my love,” his hands gravitated to your waist before pulling your body taut against his, one hand moving a stray hair behind your ear before leaning in to whisper. “you look ravishing…”

as he pulled back, you were sure your blush was evident across your cheeks. you tried to hide it behind a smile, shrugging with a shy ‘thanks’ leaving your lips. 

“what do you say to my stunning wife, boys?” his hand squeezed your waist once more before turning to the other men, ‘thank you’s being echoed throughout the room as they stood and made their way to the kitchen to make their plates. 

in a matter of minutes, all the food was gone. you figured it was best they liked the food, even if you didn’t get to try any of it yourself like you had planned. 

you got started on cleaning everything up with earbuds in your ears, starting with the dishes already in the sink from when you were cooking. then, you were sure to place the dishes that the food was in inside the sink for you to clean before starting on wiping the counters, then sweeping, then mopping, and then back to the dishes. 

you didn’t realize that bucky had called for a break in the meeting, however. you were in for quite the rude awakening when you felt a pair of hands on your waist, but not the ones you were semi-familiar with. 

you turned around with a gasp, shock evident on your face as you tried to piece together whoever this man was. blond hair, blue eyes… definitely not steve though. you knew steve well and had seen him often. 

you pulled your earbuds from your ears in attempt to better understand what was going on. his hands were still gripping your sides, but you couldn’t necessarily escape his touch. you were backed against the sink. even if you could fight him, you’d likely lose to his strong grip. 

“is the meeting-is it over already?” your voice was so much more cowardly than you’d ever expected yourself to be. 

“no, no,” he shook his head. “just a little break, some of the guys were getting antsy.” you leaned back further, trying to create some semblance of space between you. “i figured i’d say a special thank you, on behalf of all of us guys in there.” he let one hand cup the side of your face and neck, his other hand trailing down from your waist, firmly grasping your ass with a sqeeze before you jumped at the invasion.

“i don’t-i’ve got it…”

“john,” he smiled grossly, as if he could convince you to go to bed with him.

“no need for a thanks,” you tried to remind him. “i did this for bucky. for my husband.” your eyebrows rose, trying to emphasize that his boss was also your husband. 

“i’m sure he won’t mind you getting a little bit of extra special attention, don’t you?”

then, a growling voice cut through the fear running through your veins. 

“i think he might mind.”

you turned to face bucky with wide eyes before facing john, wishing the tears welling in your eyes would just go away. 

his hands slowly retracted, stepping back with a chuckle.

“sorry, sir,” he smiled before turning to face your husband. “she was just telling me how she wanted some extra attention, weren’t you, toots?” he tilted his head expectantly.

your mouth opened, nothing leaving in spite of your brain screaming at you. what would bucky do? would he take his side? would he believe you? would he hurt you? 

you’ve embarrassed him now… humiliated him in his own home. surely he’ll take action against you for this. 

your mind replayed stories your old friends had told you about him. how he would lash out at men that betrayed him. how he never took shit from anyone who showed him any disrespect. how he was the kind of man to shoot first and ask quesitons later.

and now, in a way, you’ve both betrayed and disrespected him. or at least, that’s what he’ll think. 

you didn’t even realize tears were flowing down your face until your sobs were interrupted. 

“enough!” you finally looked at bucky before his eyes softened for a second before walking closer to you. “go to the room.” he ordered sternly. 

“but the dish-”

“i’ll take care of it,” he interrupted gravely, “go. to. the. room.” 

“yes, sir,” you nodded and swiftly left the room entirely, collapsing against the door once you had shut it, sobs wracking your body. you held your knees against your chest before trying to regulate your breathing.

he won’t hurt you.

he has to protect his image.

you’ve embarrassed him.

you’re his wife.

you’re his business deal.

you’ve humiliated him.

he’ll hurt you.

you didn’t know how long it had been since the incident. 

your sobs had subsided. you had, at some point, moved to your bed. you were still rocking your body back and forth, trying to self sooth. 

and then there was a knock at the door. 

your body instinctively jumped at the sudden noise, although it wasn’t harsh in any manner, at least not one that you were expecting. 

he twisted the knob, slowly opening the door with slow movements. 

“i-i’m so sorry,” you began apologizing as soon as he stepped through the threshold into your room. “i swear-i swear i didn’t tell him that. i didn’t even realize he was there, i promise. i wouldn’t lie to you. i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry. please believe me.” your body was still rocking and you didn’t even notice he was as close to you as he was until you saw his hand moving by your head.

automatically, you assumed the absolute worst, your head ducking into your body like a fucking turtle, the meekest squeal leaving your lips mixed with a sob. your arms went over your head protectively, as if a bomb were about to go off.

“sweetheart,” his voice sounded so broken, so torn, so unexpectedly soft. 

you finally looked at him for the first time since he came in your room. his flesh hand was holding his metal one as if it were something that could kill. in ways, it was. 

“you-there’s no need to…” after looking at him for a second longer, you noticed that his eyes had tears that almost mirrored your own. “i would never, ever lay a hand on you. i’m so sorry for scaring you. i can’t…” he sighed. “i can’t believe i made you believe i’d ever hurt you.”

“i’m sorry,” you pleaded with him once again. 

“you have nothing to apologize for,” he hesitated to reach for your hands before settling on simply grabbing a spare pillow. “i came up here to apologize. for my tone earlier… i know john. he never knows his boundaries. i should’ve… you never should’ve been put in that situation. that’s my fault. that’s on me. and i will spend the rest of forever to make it up to you.” 

“you don’t have to-”

“no, my love,” he shook his head. “can i-can i hold your hands? please?” you, without hesitation, grabbed his hands yourself. “i need to make it up to you. you’re mine. you’re my wife. it’s my job to protect you, to keep you safe. and to have someone ruin that? to touch what’s mine in my own home? i’m so sorry.” he brought your hands to his lips, pressing at least ten kisses to each hand. he was so gentle and careful it was a good thing you knew better than to think it actually meant anything.

you were surprised, to say the least, at how tender he was being with you. 

how could you have ever thought he would hurt you? that he would raise his hand and swing? that he would cause you harm? he was here declaring that he would make up this incident for the rest of eternity when it wasn’t even his doing… 

“will you stay with me tonight?” his eyes lit up at the request.

“are you sure you want that?” he became a touch more reserved. “i don’t know if it’s a good idea since you were worried i would…” his voice trailed off.

“i’m sure,” you nodded before scooting over in the bed. 

sure, your marriage was arranged and didn’t stem from true love. you may not have talked outside of when absolutely necessary. you might have even been terrified of him at one point. 

but now, the thought of forever with bucky barnes didn’t seem half bad. 

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #marvel #sargeant barnes #sargeant bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes whump #bucky x fem!reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #winter soldier #marvel au #bucky barnes au #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky fanfic

[questionableratatouille00]

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐’𝘥 𝘋𝘰 (𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘠𝘰𝘶)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky explore ways to practice non-sexual intimacy.

Warnings: Non-sexual nudity, implied past SA, bad therapist Dr. Raynor, showering together, implied panic attack, let me know if anything else needs to be tagged.

Help! I haven’t read the first part!

“You struggle with intimacy.” Dr. Raynor’s unmistakable voice rang through his head.

He glared at her, his brows furrowed. “What?” His voice was slightly hoarse, so the word came out all croaky.

“You struggle with intimacy.” She repeated. “It’s common in victims of sexual abuse and assault. And you’ve got over fifty years of that.”

Bucky grimaced at her blunt choice of words. “So..what?”

“So, we’ve got a lot to work on. You’ve got any relationships? Friends, partners?” Dr. Raynor asked. “What about the girl you’ve mentioned?”

“I have friends.” He grumbled.

“Good. What about your relationship with your girlfriend? Are you two intimate?”

He clenched his fists. “That doesn’t sound like a professional question. Do you ask all your clients about their sex lives?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Barnes. Are you intimate with your girlfriend?”

“No.” The word rotted in his mouth. He felt an overwhelming sense of shame as he was positive that Raynor was disappointed for some reason.

She scribbled something down in her notebook and Bucky felt like he was going to throw up.

“Try and build up trust and intimacy through non-sexual means.” She suggested.

When he raised a brow, she continued. “Cuddling together. Sleeping next to each other. Take baths or showers together. Be naked around each other. Work up to that one slowly.”

He didn’t think it would help his weird sex problems.

“Ask for what you need. The world won’t end.”

Bucky just shook his head bitterly, looking away as he clenched his metal fist tighter.

“…Hey.” You whispered as you looked at him. He felt a smile creep onto his face.

“Hey.” He echoed.

“You’re watching me while I sleep, now?” You chuckled.

“Maybe.” He gently played with a strand of your hair.

“You alright?” Your voice was warm, sleepy. He felt a warmth bloom within his chest.

“Mhm.” He answered after a moment. “Y/n?” He asked gently after your eyes fluttered back shut.

“Hm?” You didn’t open your eyes.

“Can..can we cuddle?” He asked. To his surprise, the world didn’t end.

“What?” You blinked your eyes open. He felt a pit of shame form in his stomach.

“Never mind. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” He shook his head.

“No, no. What did you say?” You smiled encouragingly.

“…I asked if we could cuddle.” He muttered. He asked for what he needed. And the world didn’t end.

“Sure, hon. You want me to hold you? Or..” You offered.

He nodded. “I want you to hold me. Please.”

You lifted your arm, and he awkwardly shuffled over towards you, not quite sure what to do. “What..where do I—“

You chuckled a little, shifting slightly to lay on your back. “Just lay your head on my chest, if you’re comfortable.”

He nodded, doing so. He could hear your heartbeat. His right hand drifted to your stomach to gently play with the fabric of your shirt.

“This all right?” You asked gently as you rubbed circles into his back.

He nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.” He said earnestly.

“Anytime. Always.”

“Hey, honey?” He asked suddenly as he dried the last plate.

“Hm?” You turned off the sink and turned to look at him.

C’mon. Don’t back at now, he told himself. “Do you..do you want to take a shower together?”

He watched as your eyebrows raised. But the world didn’t end.

“Yeah. We can do that. You sure you want to? There’s never any rush.” You assured him. He knew you meant well, but he felt like you were treating him like he was glass.

“I’m sure, honey.” He exhaled. “I’m..not glass. You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me.”

“I know, baby. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was.”

“It’s okay. I’m—I’m not mad. I just wanted you to know that you don’t need to treat me differently.”

“Alright. No differences. Scout’s Honor.” You did the Girl Scout sign with your hand.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Let’s go shower.” You suggested, and he nodded as he followed you to the bathroom.

He watched as you turned on the shower, waiting for it to warm up as he grabbed two towels.

He watched as you pulled off your shirt. You were absolutely gorgeous, and he couldn’t help but stare.

You chuckled a little as you caught him, and he smirked slightly. He pulled off his own shirt, and that’s when things felt a little off. Not inherently bad, but…wrong.

He tried to push away the feeling as you stripped down to your underwear.

He fiddled with the button and zipper of his jeans. He barely noticed as his breathing began to become more intense.

“Buck?” Your voice snapped him from his thoughts.

“What?” His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

“You’re breathing all weird. You okay?”

“I..I can’t.” He shook his head, before rubbing at his eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay. No worries. Today’s not the day; no rush.”

He frowned deeply. “I’m sorry.” And he felt sorry. He felt like shit.

You reached for his hand. He let you take it.

“Don’t be sorry.” You rubbed his knuckles with your thumb.

He gave you a small, weak smile. “Okay.” He failed. It didn’t work out. He had to be at least somewhat broken.

But the world didn’t end then, either.

“I want to try again.” He told you a few weeks later.

“Try..what?” You raised a brow.

“Showering together.” He stated.

“Okay. Now?”

He nodded. “Now.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.” You agreed, and you both walked to the bathroom together.

This time, he pulled off his shirt and sweatpants with ease, standing there in his black boxers.

You pulled off all your clothes, checking the water to make sure it was warm.

Slowly, but surely, he slid his boxers down his legs and stepped out of them. He stood before you, completely naked, but he knew that you didn’t have a single thought of judgment in your mind.

“You wanna get in first?” You offered. He shook his head. Logically, he knew it didn’t really matter who got in first. But he figured that maybe a sense of being sure he was able to leave would help him if he needed it.

He watched as you stepped into the shower.

And then he did. And the world hadn’t ended.

He smiled at you as he stood so close to you. Close, but not touching. And it was perfect.

“We did it.” He grinned.

“We did.” You grinned up at him lovingly.

He’d done it. Even if it was only a step in a long process, he’d done it.

And the world didn’t end.

A/n: wanted to post this.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #hydra trash party #bucky barnes whump #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic

[buckrecs]

Hurt / Comfort

masterlist | req masterlist

deny (with love) my labor by @divine-mistake

“I’m here,” you sob, hand shaking. “I’m right here, Bucky. I’m here. I’m here. Bucky, please. I’m here. Please don’t leave me. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Lavender by @wkemeup

Not every nightmare is the same and Bucky doesn’t always wakes up as the man you know.

A New Start by @wkemeup

Woken from a nightmare plagued with memories from his time in Hydra, Bucky finds himself standing at a mirror at 3am holding a pair of scissors, determined to cut away the strongest connection he has left to that time. His hair.

Going Backwards by @wkemeup

Bucky struggles to let go of his past and you’re there to help ease him back to the light

Scared of Loosing You by @moonvis

Bucky has a nightmare about loosing you. So, when he wakes up to see your bedside epmty, the nightmare feels all to real.

Trust by @softlyspector

She panics the day she finds him in the bathroom with scissors in his hands and freshly cut hair in a soft pile on the floor, innocently sandwiched between his bare feet.

never by @irndad

Bucky has a nightmare that you find a file of everything he’s done (you already know everything in the waking world) and tell him to get out, and that he’s a monster. when he wakes, she informs him otherwise.

solace by @buckysfaveplum

Bucky’s been avoiding the idea of you spending the night, until he no longer can. After you witness one of his nightmares, he prepares for you to end it.

All of You by @itsapeterthing

in which bucky confesses that he’s afraid to sleep next to you because he believes his arm is a weapon and he fears hurting you

Mended Fragments by @foreverindreamlandd

After a night filled with nightmares about his past, Bucky is drowning in pain and shame. His friend Steve Rogers finds him sitting on the floor in a comatose state, and texts you to ask for you to come over and help Bucky fight the demons that are haunting him.

Cutting Bucky’s Hair by @mellowpiepizzalamp

Bucky’s hair didn’t sit good with him anymore.

Still Having Nightmares by @spilledkauffie

The desperate “no’s” and the heavy breathing. Rolling over in bed, you placed your hand where he often began the night, right next to you.

Scrub-a-dub by @subwaysurf45

Bucky asks you to cut and wash his hair.

boys don’t cry by @bucky-bucket-barnes

Bucky keeps all his emotions buried deep within because that’s what he believes he’s supposed to do. One night after he’s attacked, he goes to you searching for some sense of comfort. After a loving conversation, Bucky learns to let it all out.

3:15 by @delicatelyherdreams

After hearing Bucky’s screams, you know you can’t just leave him alone.

Burning the Midnight Oil by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

Bucky says he’s okay. He tells you that he just can’t fall asleep, but his continuous absence from your bedroom spells trouble.

midnight haircuts by @lovelybarnes

reader cuts bucky’s hair

better man by @rocketrhap3000

Bucky wants to take a big step in his personal growth and change up his hairstyle, and you promise him you’ll love him no matter what.

Give Me A Sign by @lostgirlmuseum

Bucky asks the universe for a reason to live. The universe delivers you.

#bucky barnes fic rec #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes smut #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes hurt and comfort #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes whump #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x agent!reader #bucky barnes x avenger!reader #boyfriend!bucky #winter soldier!bucky x reader #winter soldier!bucky

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

You Drew Stars Around My Scars | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi. This is some heavy shit, so please proceed with caution. Do not read this fic if you are made uncomfortable by any of the warnings.

Thanks <3

❌Warnings❌ Scars, blood, depression, anxiety, self-harm, suicidal ideation / attempt

“And what about this one?” Bucky asked, dragging his lips across one of your scars. It rested along your ribcage, drawing a sharp line into your skin. It wasn’t sensitive anymore, didn’t hurt like it used to. But Bucky’s lips assuaged any lingering discomfort.

You ran a finger over the raised tissue and let out a laugh.  “Oh, that was a huge misunderstanding, actually. Have you ever met that guy in the red suit? With the katanas?”

Bucky’s gaze left your scar and drifted up to your face. “Katanas? As in more than one katana?”

“Yeah! His name’s Wade… something,” you paused, struggling for the eccentric stranger’s name. “Wade Williams… or something like that. Anyway, yeah, he got me with one of his multiple katanas. But it was really just a communication issue- Hill sent me after him. SHIELD had basically no intel on the guy and it was assumed that he was a threat- but he’s on our side.”

Over the course of his life, Bucky had seen some strange things. Red Skull. Infinity Stones. A talking raccoon. But never a guy running around with a couple of katanas and bright red suit. “So, katana guy is a friend of ours?” 

“Yeah! And he’s actually pretty cool. A little weird. Very funny. Kind of a sarcastic asshole,” you laughed. “I think you’d like him.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and brushed his lips over your scar once more. “I don’t know about that- he stabbed my best girl-”

“He didn’t stab me, per se…”

Bucky made a mental note to look into this Wade guy, see if he could be trusted. 

“Okay," you said, "it's your turn…” Another round of the game began.

For almost an hour, the two of you had laid in bed, asking about the other’s scars. You never dared ask Bucky about his scars or how he got them; their origins were too terrible to describe. If he decided to open up about them one day, that was his business. And you were more than happy to give him all the time and space he needed.

But it was Bucky who started the game. After you both came down from your post-sex euphoria, you decided to stay in bed. Kissing. Touching. Talking. Bucky ran his hand along a scar near your shoulder, the one he always noticed but knew nothing about. And though he didn’t want to hear tales of you getting hurt, he still held a curiosity about your life before him. He wanted every detail, every story. And so, he’d asked about the scar. And to his relief, it didn’t come from a knife or a gun- just a childhood game of tag that got out of hand. 

But his question opened the door. He promised he didn’t mind speaking about his scars- not to you. He argued that it was only fair. He asked you about yours- why shouldn’t you be allowed to ask about his? He wanted to share every detail of his life with you. The details he could remember, anyway. And so, the two of you went back and forth, asking the other for the stories behind your scars. 

Bucky learned more about you, and you him. But you didn’t bring up the massive ridge of twisted tissue on Bucky’s left side- you knew that story. And hearing it again would’ve gutted you. 

“Hmm…" your eyes drifted over Bucky's body, "how about…” 

There were too many to choose from. You hated how many options lay scattered across Bucky’s skin; each reminder of his past life spelled trauma, pain, abuse. But a new light seemed to flash in Bucky’s eyes each time he told you a story. He’d never let anyone tour his body like this. Had never opened up about all the vile things Hydra did to him. Each story unburdened him a bit more, helped him release the pain he’d been holding on to for so long. And you were more than happy to help shoulder the weight.

Your fingers ghosted along a jagged scar near his hip, “Okay, how about this one?”

“That one- that one is…” Bucky thought for a long, quiet moment. The holes in his memory acted like a sieve, draining most of his past life from his mind. You watched as he struggled, fought to remember this exact wound. His brow furrowed as he searched through the catalogue of his trauma. He flipped through page after mental page, reliving every instant of pain. And then, the light returned to his eyes. 

“Oh- I remember now. I got shot- and one of my handlers cut the bullet out while I was still in the field. Sewed it up- albeit, poorly.” He ran a finger along the uneven line of scar tissue, “And then they sent me after my target again. If I remember right, which I probably don’t…” He gave a sad laugh, “I’m pretty sure the stitches ripped almost instantly. I mean, maybe sixty seconds after he finished. So I just kinda bled until I took down my mark.”

“Jesus, baby…” Every story he told pulled you closer to his side. You wanted to cover him, to protect him from things that already happened. Things you couldn’t help or prevent. Every mention of his misery, every recollection of the abuse made you wish you’d met him sooner. Maybe you could’ve helped. Maybe you could’ve saved him.

You rested your head against his chest, willing the thoughts of Bucky’s pain to dissipate. But they refused to comply. And Bucky, always more concerned about your pain than his, took notice.

“Hey, I’m okay now,” Bucky curled a finger under your chin and tilted your face up toward his. “Don’t get sad on me, alright?” He shot you his biggest smile, ‘I’m just fine. And I’m here- with you.”

You gave him a solemn nod. “No, I know. I’m just… you didn’t deserve it, Buck. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

He took your face in his hands and gazed into your big, sad eyes. He never thought he’d find someone like you- never thought he’d find someone, period. But you had a big heart, and you loved him with everything you had. You showed him how much you cared. Made him feel like he mattered. 

“I know that now. You helped me with that.”

A small smile pricked at the corners of your lips. You wanted to fix everything for him. Take away his pain, remedy his problems, shoulder the weight of his nightmarish past. But you couldn’t. And the helplessness it planted in you made your chest ache. But knowing you’d at least helped Bucky see himself differently eased a fraction of the pain.

“Alright, my turn!” Before you had a chance to think, Bucky was on top of you. He tickled and poked at your sides, shunning the sadness from your eyes. And when he was satisfied with your improved mood, he rested a hand on your thigh. The scar he selected rested above your knee, its border faded. “This one?”

“That’s from a burn,” you told him. “Explosion at a Hydra base- I got a lot of burns that day, actually.” As the memory of that day resurfaced, you ran a hand over where the searing pain used smolder under your skin, “All the others healed, this is the only one that scarred.”

Bucky swept his thumb over it a few times, as though trying to ease your past pain. 

You sat up, coming face to face with Bucky. The scar you had your eye on was something you wondered about often. And now that you had permission to ask, you ran you lips over the mark. “What about this one?” The long scar ran along the side of his neck, beginning a few inches above his clavicle. It traveled horizontally, nearly reaching the back of his neck. “And this one?” And identical scar rested just on the other side, the two marks mirror images of one another.

After so many rounds of this game, Bucky didn’t seem to mind telling these stories. But when your attention landed on these particular scars, he didn’t want to play anymore. He wanted you to know everything about him- just not this. But what choice did he have? He could lie to you. He could make up a story. He could refuse to tell you the truth. But whatever he decided, he knew he’d regret it. 

It wasn’t fair to keep things from you. Bucky swore from day one to always be honest with you- and you did the same. But this truth only served to hurt you. The pain in your eyes when he told you about his gunshot wound and the resulting torn stitches cut him deep. But that story was nothing compared to the source of the scars on his neck. He knew how crushed you’d be when he gave you the real story. And though he never wanted to lie to you, he found himself pulling an explanation out of thin air.

“They’re from, um…” he cleared his throat, already regretting his lie. “They’re from restraints. They put me in this, I don’t know what you’d call it- I guess a… collar-type thing. Made of metal. Really tight. It dug into my skin. They used it to, uh, to chain me to a wall.” Part of Bucky believed his own lie. He thought for a silent moment- did this really happen? Was his attempt at a fabricated story actually a buried memory? For Hydra, such a punishment sounded plausible. But after several seconds, he determined it false.

Your mind went blank, only to suddenly overflow with images of Bucky in chains. Sharp metal cutting into his skin. His blood pouring down his body and pooling on the floor. The sound of rattling chains mixed with his screams and echoed inside your skull. 

“I don’t wanna play this game anymore…” was all you could manage to say through the sudden tears and tightness in your chest. You hid your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, your breath fanning the very scar about which you regretted inquiring. 

Bucky’s arms wrapped around you in an instant, pulling you as close as he could. Your shallow, shaky breaths rattled against his hand as he smoothed it along the length of your back. He saw the effect his lie had on you, the way it ripped chunks out of your heart. But the real story was worse- far worse- and as he held your shaking form against his chest, he swore to never tell you the truth.

“Just breathe for me, doll. Big deep breaths, okay?” He soothed you, helped free you from the crushing sadness. But when it cleared, a wave of guilt took you out at the knees. This wasn’t right. 

“Wait, no-” you pulled your face from his neck. “This is so fucked up, oh my god. I’m so sorry, Buck. You shouldn’t be comforting me- it should be the other way around. I didn’t mean to-”

How did Bucky ever find someone like you? Someone who cared for him so deeply, loved him more than he ever thought possible? He hated that he’d upset you, that he’d started this stupid game. But part of him liked knowing how much you cared. 

“Sweetheart, please don’t apologize. You’re just... you're reacting to new information. That memory is something I’ve gotten used to, it’s part of my past, so… it doesn’t bother me anymore.” Bucky knew damn well it didn’t bother him because it simply wasn’t true. The real source of his scar bit at him every day. But you didn’t have to know that. “Hey, you love me- which is unbelievable, by the way- and so hearing stories like that upsets you. Being sad about it is totally normal.”

You wiped at your eyes with the backs of your hands, “feels selfish.”

“It’s not.” A sudden laugh rumbled out of his chest, “if you weren’t upset, I think we’d have more to worry about.”

His joke was met with an eye roll and a small laugh. He wasn’t wrong. You cared so deeply for him that even imagining his past pain brought you to tears. Never had you loved someone the way you loved him. And though you dealt with your own pain and traumatic memories, you wanted more than anything to take all of Bucky’s. You wanted to steal any ounce of residual pain and every nightmare inducing memory, leaving him only with peace.

“I love you a lot,” you said. “And I’m so- I’m so sorry for everything you went through. You never should’ve suffered like that.”

Bucky’s forehead met yours in a moment of quiet. No one ever acknowledged his pain, his trauma. They talked about his kills, the blood on his hands. They talked about his pardon- the pardon that, according to you, he “never should’ve needed”. Because nothing he did as the Winter Soldier was by choice. He was a victim, a prisoner of war. But everyone conveniently left that part out. They regarded him as either “the winter soldier” or the “pardoned war criminal”, never the hero, the abused, the broken.

“Thank you,” he whispered. And he meant it.

The two of you sat there for a few long moments, reveling in the other’s presence. But Bucky’s growling stomach broke the silence. He locked eyes with you in an apologetic glance that quickly devolved into a storm of laughter.

“I’m guessing you want dinner?”

“You could say that…” Bucky shrugged. “But I made you cry, so I want you to pick.”

“Buuuuck-”

He crossed his arms over his chest and refused to listen to your protests. “From this moment on, the rule in this house is: whoever who caused the other to cry must let the crier choose dinner, and must deal with the cuisine consequences.”

“Cuisine consequences? Did you just make that up?”

Bucky gave a proud nod, “yup”. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and grabbed your laptop from the nightstand, offering it to you. “Pick a place, doll. Whatever you want.”

Nearly an hour later, the two of you sat camped out on the couch. A spread of take-out lay strewn across the coffee table, half demolished. And while it was Bucky whose hunger signaled dinner, he didn’t eat much. You’d decided on take out from your favorite barbecue place, knowing Bucky loved their brisket almost as much as he loved you. But his mood seemed to deflate as he pushed his food around his plate.

He wasn’t devouring his brisket like usual. And his side dishes went almost untouched. 

“Hey, is something wrong?” You paused the tv and turned to Bucky, “You’ve been quiet- you barely touched your food. Is everything alright?”

Bucky gave a small nod.

Guilt grabbed you by the throat. He wasn’t okay- and you knew it stemmed from the memory he recalled for you. The restraints, the collar. The thought of it made you shudder. 

“Buck, if this is about earlier- about the story you told me- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, babe. I didn’t know where the scars came from, I never would’ve asked if I…” you took a deep breath, easing the shaky quality in your voice. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no-” he set his plate on the table and turned to you, “it’s not like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It was just like Bucky to swear you were perfect, that you never did anything wrong. But you knew better. You knew he’d been forced to dig up some deep, soul-crushing trauma when you asked about the scars on his neck. You knew he was hurting- and it was your fault.

“Buck, if I upset you, you can tell me-”

“You didn’t. I swear.” He took your hands in his and dropped his gaze. “But I lied to you. About the scars on my neck. And I feel really bad about it.”

It certainly wasn’t what you expected. “Oh… okay.”

In a panic, Bucky dragged his eyes back to yours, “I know that we always tell each other everything, but I just didn’t-”

“Buck, that’s not a rule. You aren’t required to tell me every single thing that’s ever happened to you or every thought you’ve ever had. You’re entitled to your privacy." You gave his hand a squeeze, "I just want you to know that you can tell me everything- nothing’s off limits- but you don’t have to. I know you’ve been through a lot of really dark shit. And if you wanna tell me every detail, I’m all ears. But if you’re not ready, that’s more than okay. It’s okay if you’re never ready- you don't ever have to tell me if you don't want to. I just want you to be comfortable.”

“Oh…” Bucky took a moment to think about what you said. He liked the way you phrased it, the way you were open to everything he had to say without demanding he say anything at all. If he wanted to talk, you’d listen. And if he didn’t, you’d be there, regardless.

“Whatever happened- however you got those scars- you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s all your choice.”

He considered skipping out on the entire venture. He could tell you the collar was a lie without giving you the real story, and everything would be fine. You’d respect his boundaries- he knew that. But the source of those scars was such a turning point in his life, such a defining moment. And to skip out on sharing it with you felt wrong. It was a pivotal time in his life that changed his path- and inadvertently led him to you. 

“I want to tell you…” he said after a long, quiet moment. “It’s a pretty significant part of my story, and I want you to know everything about me, you know? I just- I don’t want to upset you again.”

“Buck, it’s okay-”

Bucky gave a sad shake of his head. “I made you cry earlier, doll. And that story wasn’t that bad, it wasn't even true-”

You took his face in your hands, silencing him. “If you wanna tell me, I wanna listen. I mean, I obviously hate that these things happened to you- that you suffered so much. But if it’s part of your story, I wanna know.”

Bucky let his eyes fall shut as he thought it over. Memories of the darkest time in his life rushed forward, nearly drowning him. But your touch kept him afloat. It kept him safe, warm. With you by his side, he found the strength to wade back into the depths of his memory.

“It was after I escaped…” he finally said. He took your hands from his face and held them tight, anchoring himself to the present. “I didn’t know what to do, you know? I didn’t know who or where I was. I was lost.” A faraway look left his eyes hollow, lifeless. “I had to figure out how to reclaim my mind and my body. I spent days holed up, hiding, reading about the things I’d done. And it made me sick.” He shifted in his seat. A familiar sense of dread and nausea sat like a rock in his stomach. 

“I was disgusted. I hated the serum. I hated the Winter Soldier- I hated myself. I didn’t wanna be this anymore, you know? I was given the same serum as Steve, but I wasn’t good Like Steve. I turned into a monster.” He paused. It took far too much effort to pull air into his lungs. He knew the suffocating sensation well, the feeling of choking on his own agony. 

“And for a while I thought it corrupted me, that it changed who I was. I blamed the serum. But then I had this epiphany one day…” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the ground. He couldn’t look at you. “The serum just amplifies who and what you are, you know? They gave it to Steve because he was a good person, because he had a good heart. And he became a hero. But I…” 

The shame threatened to eat him alive. He’d worked so hard to change the way he viewed himself. And with your help, he no longer saw a monster in the mirror. But taking a trip down memory lane reminded him of his capacity for evil. “I became a killer. And it made me think- maybe I always had that darkness in me. Maybe my soul wasn’t pure enough.”

You curled a finger under his chin and lifted his head, bringing his eyes to yours. “Baby, you were brainwashed. Tortured. They wiped your mind- all your memories. They took away your sense of self and rebuilt you in their image. The things you did weren’t because of an impure soul or deep-seeded evil. And they had nothing to do with the the serum. If the roles were reversed, Steve just as easily could’ve become the Winter Soldier.”

That sounded almost blasphemous to Bucky.

“You’re a product of circumstance, Buck.”

He wasn’t sure he could digest your words. Only a few hours ago, he would’ve known without a doubt that you were right. He would’ve agreed and easily shrugged himself out of the darkness. But sinking back into the headspace from the days after his escape left him shaken.

He pulled his eyes down to the floor once again, unblinking. Unfocused. And though he felt lost in a different time, he refused to submit to the pain. He traced the same pattern on the back of your hand over and over, searched for peace in the sound of your breathing. Anything to keep him anchored in the present.

A deep need to diffuse the situation rattled inside you. You wanted to tell him that he could stop, that the two of you could return to this conversation after he ate. Or after a good night’s sleep. Or that he could abandon the story all together and never speak about it again. But just as you decided to speak up, words tumbled out of his mouth.

“I wanted the serum out of my body.” He finally met your gaze. Something in his eyes semmed frantic, helpless. “I thought that getting rid of it would turn me back to my old self- I know that’s stupid. But I was desperate. So, I started, um…” 

He couldn’t believe he was telling you this story. It was dark, shameful. Revealing his lowest moment to the person he cared about most- the person whose opinion mattered more than anyone else’s- suddenly seemed like terrible idea. It felt like a surefire way to scare you away, to convince you that he was far more damaged than you could ever repair.

But didn’t you deserve the truth? Didn’t you deserve to know who you slept next to at night, who you committed your life to? Bucky respected you more than anyone. And keeping secrets didn’t feel right. He needed to give you his authentic self, offer himself to you without hiding his darkness. Only then could he know that you loved all of him.

He screwed his eyes shut and yanked his shoulders up to his ears as though bracing for impact. And then, he set the truth free. “I started making myself bleed- I thought I could bleed the serum out of my body.” The admission lifted a weight from his chest he didn’t know he was carrying. Air rushed into his lungs and granted him his first deep breath of the evening.

He opened his eyes slowly, fearing your reaction. But you simply nodded and allowed him to continue. You provided him with a safe place to land as he jumped off the proverbial cliff. “I started making cuts into my skin every day, but the serum was…” he sighed, “the serum healed them too quickly- they’d always vanish.”

He eyed you again, waiting for a look of disgust or disapproval. But no such look came. You just stroked your fingers over his knuckles. Gave his hand a squeeze. You gave him the time and the space he needed to breathe. To think.

“And one day- I don’t know, I got fed up. The desperation and the anxiety and the fear- it was too much. It all got to me at once. And I wanted the serum out.” His grip on your hand tightened as the flashbacks pulled him under. “I dug my knife into my neck. I ripped the skin open on both sides- I wanted to sever every blood vessel I could. I figured that the more blood I lost, the faster the serum would leave my body. The sooner I'd return to who I was before.”

You nodded. An almost violent sadness vibrated in your chest, but you wouldn’t dare set it free. Not yet anyway. You kept it caged, allowing it to tear and thrash and bite at your insides. Bucky was sure to clam up if he saw just how gutted you were. How heartbroken. And so, you kept your composure. You remained calm. This was his time. 

And when he'd said everything he needed to say and purged every dark memory of those scars, you’d let yourself fall apart. But only then.

“And then things got all fuzzy. Hazy. From the blood loss. And I collapsed. I laid on the floor, watching the red pool around me. And I realized…” He took a deep breath. Why was this so hard to admit? Why did he hesitate? He knew you wouldn’t perceive him as weak or cowardly. Would never see him as pathetic. He knew he could trust you with his heart. But showing just how much he’d struggled ripped off yet another layer of protection. It left him raw. Open. His breathing hitched.

“Realized what, baby?” you spoke as softly as you could manage, easing his words out of hiding.

“I um, I realized it was never about the serum.” He stared at you expectantly, like he wanted you to connect the dots. Wanted you to save him from saying the words. But after a long moment, he forced them out.

“I wanted to die- I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

You knew he survived. You knew that he was okay. Still, his words gutted you. A burning sensation tingled inside your nose- but you refused to allow the tears to form. You swallowed every ounce of emotion. Forbade your heartbreak from making an appearance. But Bucky clocked your shaking hand. The slight tremors and twitches vibrated against his vibranium palm.

Sure, you could fight the tears and keep yourself composed- but you couldn’t force your hands to steady. 

He let a sad smile pull his lips upward, “Did you know that everyone who’s attempted suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived immediately regretted jumping? The instant they began falling, they realized they didn’t actually want to die…” A deep breath filled his chest, “And that’s exactly what happened to me.”

A strange relief eased through your body, coating your rigid muscles. Somehow, knowing he instantly regretted his attempt made you feel better- made you feel as though the urge didn’t still lurk in the back of his mind.

“I knew my life was fucked. I was lost, alone, confused. I was homeless. Scared.” A particular darkness overshadowed him as he reflected. He remembered the fear. The isolation. The constant, overwhelming sense of impending doom. He lived in a never-ending state of fight or flight back then, his body always prepared for death. 

But a sudden light banished the sadness, “And then I realized that I had a second chance at life, you know? I was free- from the military, from Hydra. And I told myself that if I survived, I’d figure my shit out. That I’d try to make something of my life- that I owed it to myself to make this work.”

You nodded. It didn't feel like enough of a response. You wanted to tell him you were proud of him, that you loved him. But your mind was blank, save for the image of Bucky bleeding out by his own hand.

“And I’m so glad I made it through, cause- I never imagined I’d find happiness like this. I look back on that time every now and then, and it’s… I mean, it’s horrible. It’s scary. And it’s sad. And I wish I’d never experienced any of it.” A warm, genuine smile broke out across his face. It lifted his features and cleared the storm clouds from his eyes. He stared at you like you were his salvation, “But then I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could tell myself that it gets better. That I won’t be alone forever. That one day, someone will actually care about me.”

The two of you sat in silence, staring at each other. Bucky couldn’t get the look of adoration off his face. When you entered his life, it was like he swallowed the sun. You warmed him from the inside out, filled his life with light. He looked at you, convinced you were heaven-sent.

The dam holding your tears wouldn’t last much longer- you knew it would collapse any second. But you fought to reinforce it. What if Bucky had more to say? What if he needed more time to purge the details of his darkest days? You weren’t going to let your emotions rob him of that- you couldn’t. So, you remained quiet, waiting.

“Anyway…” Bucky said when he finally spoke again. “That’s um, that's where the scars came from. Thank you for listening- I know that was probably hard to hear. And that it wasn’t what you were expecting. But I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. Do you-”

With a guttural sob, you scrambled into his lap. You flung your arms around his neck and secured your body to his- desperate to hold him. To assure yourself that he was real. That he was there. Everything you felt over course of his story came flooding forward, destroying your hard-built dam. The heartbreak and the pain and the utter despair drained from your body in streams of tears. 

But Bucky expected this. He knew how much you loved him, how deeply you cared- not that he ever expected anyone to feel such things for him. He knew his story ripped your heart out. Hearing something so soul crushing about the love of your life- something so dark and painful and scary- broke you. It cut you open and left you bleeding. He knew he’d react the same way if the situation were reversed. 

And so, he simply held you tight and let you cry. He smoothed a hand up and down your back. Left kisses against your cheek. Whispered assurances and soothing words. He whispered your name over and over again to convince you he was alive. He was patient and sweet, giving you the time you needed to process what he’d said. He knew exactly what you needed.

“I love you…” you finally whispered against his neck. 

A quiet, contented hum left Bucky’s chest. “And I love you. I just thought you should know… But now that I’m thinking about it, maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it was too much." The longer you cried, the more regret pooled in Bucky’s chest. It solidified and turned to concrete, sitting heavy on his heart. “I’m sorry for upsetting you-"

You pulled your tear-stained face from the crook of his neck and stared at him with a nearly frightening intensity. “No, don’t apologize. This is your life we’re talking about…” You paused for a moment, only to wipe the tears from your cheeks. 

“Everything that’s happened to you- all the good and all the bad- made you who you are. That moment-” Flashes of Bucky, bleeding and alone, swarmed your brain. The images robbed you of air and sent fresh tears trailing down your face. Bucky gave you as much time as you needed to compose yourself, to remember how to breathe.

“That moment is important. It’s part of your story. A big part. And it’s awful- it's really fucking sad. And it wasn’t easy to hear…” You forced a deep inhale and steadied your voice, “but it’s important. You chose to live. To stay. You made yourself a promise, and you’ve kept it. And I’m really- I'm so proud of you.”

Bucky pulled you back into his body. He basked in your love, in your support and your understanding. And he silently thanked the version of himself who fought to survive. He didn’t choose life all those years ago because he hoped one day he’d find love- but it certainly made his decision far more worth while.

Muffled words vibrated against Bucky’s neck, and he let out a soft laugh. “Can you say that again doll?”

With a dramatic groan, you once again pulled your head from Bucky’s neck. “I’m said… I’m glad- for a lot of reasons- that you took advantage of your second chance. The world would be a much shittier place without you in it.” You untangled your arms from around his neck and rested your palms against his stubbled cheeks. “And if I’m being selfish, I’m glad that you stuck around… cause I can’t imagine my life without you. That whole thing- all that dark shit- it brought you to me.”

Bucky’s lips met yours in an instant. He poured every ounce of his love for you into the kiss. All his devotion. He couldn’t find the words to describe how much you meant to him. How special you were. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to express feelings that strong.

The two of you laid on the couch, enveloped in one another. You held Bucky tight enough to ensure he wouldn’t spontaneously disappear. His head rested on your sternum; your hands tangled in his hair. You breathed together like one being, no seams or sutures to be found.

“I’m glad I finally told you,” he said after a while. “I wanted to get it off my chest, but I just didn’t know how. And the longer I waited, the guiltier I felt for keeping it from you.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty, baby. Not with me.” 

Things quieted again. It was so peaceful and calm that you thought Bucky might’ve fallen asleep. You couldn’t imagine the emotional toll it took to recount his darkest days- hell, you were exhausted from just listening to his story. If he needed to sleep off the turmoil, then so be it.

But a familiar sound broke the silence. Bucky’s stomach rumbled, once again disrupting a peaceful moment.

“Hungry?” you asked with a laugh.

Bucky nodded emphatically against your chest.

“I bet. You barely touched your food.” You removed your hands from his hair, freeing him, “Go heat up some leftovers, Babe.”

He hesitated. His eyes drifted from the containers of brisket, macaroni and cheese, and cornbread before returning to your face. He feared leaving your side, like he thought maybe you’d fall apart if he left you alone. You had to be fragile, still reeling from the awful things he’d said. And he needed to be there for you- his hunger could wait.

But you read his mind. “Buck, I’m okay,” you laughed, “I swear. You can make a trip to the microwave- I’ll be alright.”

With a deep kiss, Bucky leapt into action he snagged his plate off the table and piled it high with everything in sight. It was such a sharp contrast to the old days, the time he spent lost and alone without even a sliver of hope. Some days, he felt like he still sat in square one. Like he hadn’t made much progress or done enough work on himself. But it was moments like these that proved to him- and to you- just how far he’d come. Never again would he wish for death or seek to end his pain forever. He had to live- he wanted to live. For himself. For you.

---------------------------

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[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐋𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐞

It was inherently a dangerous way to live the life of a Nomad Dragon Rider — an outcast. And those very dangers would be what would tear you apart, and what would separate you from the one you trusted, the one you loved.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☽☾ Dragon Rider!Bucky Barnes x Dragon Rider!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☽☾ 1.3k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☽☾ Angst, whump, gore, established relationship, cliffhanger (because I am cruel)

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☽☾ I am back in my whump era, chaos kittens, and I am not sorry.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ☽☾ Akkadian Empire by Audiomachine ☽☾ Guardians At the Gate by Audiomachine ☽☾ Lachrimae by Audiomachine

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ☽☾ @buckybarnesevents Into an Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟰 — Fantasy AU — Masterlist ☽☾ @allcapsbingo 𝗜𝟯 — Whump — Masterlist ☽☾ @anyfandomaubingo 𝗡𝟯 — Dragon AU — Masterlist ☽☾ @anyfandomdarkbingo 𝗚𝟮 — Unhappy Ending — Masterlist

𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The life of a wanderer was dangerous – full of tumultuous battles for territory, for blood lust, and for the right to call yourself a Legend. 

It was no different that night. Patrolling the border of your territory while the wings of the powerful beast you rode beat the night air in a steady rhythm; the gold and ivory scales shining brightly under the luminant full moon. 

Your second, a man that you had come to trust with your life, flew behind you, a formation that displayed you as the leader. Bucky followed you, sitting just off your flank to your right, atop his shadowed hell flyer – the symphonies of beating wings and heavy breaths filling the silence and eerie stillness of the night air. 

There was a slight, almost indistinguishable movement amongst the cliff face ahead, and you hauled your dragon to a stop, the beast complying through the invisible bond ensnaring you together; making you as one. “Movement,” you said simply, narrowing your eyes as you scanned the rocks for another sign. 

Bucky fell in beside you, his left hand moving to the many weapons he had saddled on his mount. “I see it,” he replied lowly. “Move in? Or should we get out of here?”

“No…” The movement happened again, and your dragon huffed, a snarl lingering on her sharp, angular mouth. “Easy, Sig–Buck, we need to-”

You never managed to finish your command. 

Flame and ice converged over your path, and Sig started, a loud roar echoing off the rocks, and she swerved to miss a barrage of flying boulders. Bucky’s yell of fury sounded amongst the chaos, and you watched his dragon scrabble against the cliff face, a twisted, demented snarl of anger to show rows and rows of sharp teeth. 

“Move!” you shouted at him, gripping Sig’s saddle and bowing low against her neck. “Go, get out of there!” Sig bellowed at the approaching darkened shapes in the sky, and for a single, split second, you thought it was done, your life was finished as you knew it. “Hel, no, no! Sig, fly!”

Wings beat and Sig’s claws thrashed through the air as she whipped around, dodging more boulders. 

The attack only worsened – flashes of flame and ice continued to clash and spread over the rocks and the sea below, and Bucky with his hell flyer had vanished and was nowhere to be seen. Your heart seized amongst the chaos, the thought of him falling to his demise in the sea below froze you to your core. 

“Bucky! James! Where are you?” you screamed. “Buck! Please, where–?”

A loud roar echoed above you and you braced for an impact you never saw coming, only, nothing happened. 

Instead, an almighty crash of scales and leather and metal shook the world with the force of the collision, and you watched, horrorstruck, as Bucky and his dragon collided full force into an approaching attacker. The navy and crimson of the attacker’s dragon blurred and shifted as it was knocked off balance and out of the air to plummet down to the sea below. 

The shadowy form of Bucky’s dragon falling right behind them. 

Cursing to high Hel, you cried out in shock – a call of grief that even made the attackers pause in their attacks. 

Your feet found the stirrup switch and you pulled the reins. Sig followed your command and swiftly turned in the air, her wings beating swiftly as she roared loudly from the grief flowing between the bond. “Dive,” you barked, squeezing your knees, and Sig did so – folding her ivory wings and streamlining her ginormous form. 

Wind whipped through your hair and your armour, but you still did not let up. No matter how fast Sig dived, it was not fast enough – not quick enough to stop Bucky from plummeting down to the raging ocean. 

You forced a feeling of calm through the bond, and leant even closer to Sig’s neck, one hand on the reins, the other gripping the saddle. “Breathe,” you called through the bond, unable to open your mouth. “Swim.”

The feeling of Sig’s chest expanding under your knees grounded you, and you braced for impact. Sea salt stung your eyes as you neared and neared, and you watched Bucky land against the rocks, his unconscious form slipping into the sea, and his dragon caused a craterous splash of water around them both.

Ice enveloped your whole body as you breached the surface of the raging sea, the force of the impact burning your skin. Frantically, you searched for the darkened form of Bucky’s dragon, for the sight of Bucky’s limp body. A cloud of darkness shrouded something from view, and it took all of your will to not scream underwater – it was Bucky, a cloud of blood around his floating body. 

“Go!” you pushed through the bond. Sig turned and rushed through the water to James, her tail pushing her faster and faster until her giant clawed foot wrapped around his middle, and pulled. 

Sig’s head breached the raging waves and she propelled herself onto land, placing James on the rocks. The sight stole what air you had left in your lungs, and you fell off her back and onto your knees with a scream of grief, but before you could reach for your saddlebag, Sig turned and dived once more into the sea. 

Bucky’s left arm… it was gone – torn and bloody rags left in its wake.

The rocks were cold beneath your knees, and you sobbed while reaching for his unconscious body, desperate to feel him. Your hands met his chest and you felt it rise and fall shallowly. “Bucky! Please, please wake up!” 

A loud splash and a grunting bellow sounded behind you, followed by a solid thud of a heavy, scaly body landing on the rocks – Bucky’s dragon. You turned and saw the black mass of scales unmoving, but his chest was rising and falling at a much higher rate than his companion. 

“Sig, here,” you rushed, gesturing for her to move closer. The dragon complied while watching her mate lay motionless, and you dug through the saddlebag for your healer’s kit. “Buck, do not die on me,” you sobbed, groping for a potion vial. A small noise of victory pulled from your throat when you felt cold glass on your fingers, and you latched onto the vial, pulling it free. “I have to do this, I’m sorry.”

You forced Bucky’s mouth open and poured the potion down his throat, just as a white and blue dragon landed a stride away, mouth open and teeth bared. “Hands off,” a voice yelled, and you looked up to find a loaded crossbow aimed right between your eyes. “Back away.”

“Fuck you,” you spat venomously. “Like Hel will I back off!” your hands, now shaking from adrenaline, flew to Bucky’s arm and you tore a strip of the bloody fabric off with a grunt. “Who do you think you are!”

The crimson fabric in your hands stained your palms, but you continued to act swiftly – a tourniquet would stop him from bleeding out, you prayed, hoped. 

Sig suddenly roared behind you, and you whipped around to watch her fall to the rocky outcrop, unconscious, with a blood red dragon ridden by a masked woman looming over her limp body. Pure panic flooded you. You were outnumbered – with both Sig, and Bucky’s dragon down, you couldn’t fight them off. 

“What do you–” A loud splash cut you off, and another dragon rose from the sea. The same one that Bucky had collided with. 

The last thing you saw before the world faded to black, was that dragon stepping closer and a blond man dismounting, his glare stony and face set as he aimed a crossbow at your thigh, and fired.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes whump #alternate juneiverse 2023 #rookthorne's works #Lachrymose

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Hydra Sanatorium"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word count: 5112

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

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

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

A/N: This fic contains heavy medical kink, diapers/wetting, and a/b/o dub-con shenanigans. Consume Responsibly.

Wait! I think I missed a previous chapter! Series Masterlist

Chapter 5: Excited Catatonia with Aggression

It takes a while longer for Bucky to calm down, shuddering and shivering in Steve’s arms.

This session has been a big deal for the poor kid, since he’s been denied for so long. Omegas don’t do well when they don’t get release regularly. And Steve’s pretty sure that not only is Bucky sobbing because of that, but also because he’s likely been touch and sensory-starved at home as well. Who even knows the last time the boy was hugged, outside of a stay on-ward?

It is, unfortunately, going to be time to tell him about his family situation soon. Steve knows that if he doesn’t bite the bullet tonight, then his boss will do it for him tomorrow. And that won’t increase her confidence in Steve’s impartiality any. Steve could almost stomach her ire, but the part where Christina would be the one breaking the news to Bucky that his folks don’t want him is what sways Steve.

The kid deserves better than Doctor Raynor’s notoriously blunt demeanor. Christina doesn’t do it on purpose, but she’s ex-military and that’s very, very apparent in the way she approaches people. There’s a reason why she has a PhD and not an MD after her name. Raynor is much better suited to managing employees and administrative duties than she is dealing with patients … She tends to make them cry.

It’ll be much easier on Bucky if Steve is the one to tell him.

Still, after watching him come apart in his lap so beautifully, Steve has to pause a few times to steel himself for this conversation. “Well,” he says, trying to think of something else to help put the omega in a good mood. “You earned your reward. Been good all day. You want to take the cath out now?”

Bucky sits back with wide eyes. “Really?” he says, brightening. “Yeah! Can we?”

“We sure can, Sweetheart.” Steve kisses his cheek. “Good boys get nice things.” Bucky blushes, and Steve chuckles about it as he swaps out to a new pair of latex gloves. “Okay, bear with me here.”

It’s a simple process. All Steve has to do is use safety scissors to snip the inflation valve off the tubing, and a second later Bucky’s making a tiny noise of surprise, and the small amount of saline liquid that’d filled the balloon comes dribbling out. “Oohh,” he sighs, relieved. “Oh God. Thank you. Fuck, that was so annoying!”

Steve hums sympathetically. “I can imagine.” Having an object in one’s bladder giving the constant urge to pee doesn’t sound like a good time to him, either. But that’s why it’s one of the consequences that Hydra utilizes. It’s a way to help combative patients accept that they’re no longer in control of their bodies. “Bet you’re not gonna give me trouble on your diapering anymore, huh?”

Bucky grumbles and tucks his head down. “Mmn.”

Steve’s lips twitch fondly. “I’ll pull it out now,” he warns. The first few times that they’d had to cath Bucky, he’d been a crying, resisting mess, but after three years of coming in and out of the ward, he knows the drill. Steve gets enough lube to coat the head of his cock, being sure to slip some all around the tube and push it into his slit as much as possible. “Mmkay. Relax your muscles. Annnd deep breath.” Bucky inhales, and Steve slides the catheter out.

“Ugh.”

“All done.” He tosses it in the medical waste bin. “Good job.”

Bucky exhales hugely, eyelids fluttering. He looks down at himself, and flushes when he sees that his penis has dribbled a little more in Steve’s lap. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and Steve shushes him.

“S’okay. It happens.” They both know that Bucky’s bladder control won’t return to normal for a couple of days, which is to be expected. Bucky seems self-conscious of having wet on him though, no matter how miniscule the amount. So Steve reiterates how it doesn’t bother him, even taking Bucky’s hand in his and pressing their joined hands to the wet patch that’s right at the waistband of his scrub pants. Bucky blushes massively, but his scent radiates comfort, which is the goal. “You’re a good boy, Bucky,” Steve tells him in his best soothing rumble, then just keeps talking at him like that, because it clearly helps Bucky to calm down and be happy.

Steve’s dick is mighty happy, too, though he’s dead set on ignoring it. It’s not like it’s unusual for him to get aroused in-session with patients. It happens. … But it happens a lot more frequently with Bucky than with anybody else. Steve’s been aroused ever since he first got into the double-sit chair with Bucky, and half hard since he started fingering him. Things are a little more pronounced now, and he knows his erection is obvious. It’s approaching a full-on boner, though thankfully still angled down and towards the crease of his thigh. His compression underwear are doing an admirable job of keeping things contained, but it’s still a thick and obvious shape under the pale green of his scrubs. “Um,” he says stupidly, seeing their entwined fingers so close to it. He hastily releases Bucky’s hand.

Over the years at this job, Steve’s gotten used to not acting on his own arousal, but he isn’t surprised that Bucky gets distracted by it. The boy is a sexually frustrated omega teenager, after all, and Steve’s the only alpha who’s ever touched him intimately, probably the only one who’s been dominant to him in any sort of organized or respectful fashion, too. He can’t expect the kid to have the same control of his faculties that a regular person would. That’s just not how omega bodies work. And Steve is a healthy, thirty-year-old adult alpha male, so it’s simple fact that when he’s aroused like this he’s gonna wind up clogging the air a bit for Bucky. He can see it happening already, knocking the kid a little woozy. “You okay, bub?”

His nostrils keep flaring and he keeps sucking his bottom lip compulsively as he stares at Steve’s crotch. He stops using his words and switches to little grunts and hums, starts making this needy little sound in the base of his throat that both medical literature and video titles on PornHub would refer to as a ‘keen’. His eyes go glazed and he makes that noise repeatedly while his backside weeps and his nipples pebble up beneath his shirt.

This, right here. This is why people make fun of omegas as being empty headed cocksluts. Not that Steve sees it that way—God no, he doesn’t. It’s a beautiful thing to him, to see Bucky go all soft and wanting, a natural reaction that tells him the omega is feeling pleasured enough and protected enough to let go. It means his body and brain have actually decided that it’s safe enough for him to be vulnerable like that. If nothing else, it’s a huge fucking compliment to Steve as an alpha. “Oh, Honey,” he coos, petting up and down Bucky’s sides. “You gettin a little soft, mm? Sinking a little?” Bucky whimpers and Steve hushes him supportively. “That’s okay, Buck. I’m here. Alpha’s here. You can let go for a little while if you need to.”

“... ‘pha,” Bucky slurs, latching onto the word, and Steve nods.

“Yeah, Sweetheart, Alpha’s got you. You want to lay your head down for a—”

‘Going soft’ usually only means whining and slicking and, well, going soft. It’s something easily contained and soothed, encouraged into a nap or a bit of cuddling. But that’s in healthy and well-adjusted omegas. Bucky veers in another direction altogether when he slides his hand over and starts aggressively cupping Steve’s erection through his pants.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Hey, hey. Uh-uh.” He tries to grab Bucky’s wrist but the boy evades him and his scent sours at what his dumbed down mind perceives as rejection. “Buck, now listen: you can’t touch me there.”

Bucky’s too far down already, and hearing this just makes him get more aggressive. He shoves forward, hand moulding back to the shape of Steve’s dick and squeezing insistently. “Nnn.”

A guttural sound of pleasure escapes Steve before he can cut it off, and then he’s on course correction. “O-okay bub,” he chokes out, gathering Bucky’s hands and guiding them away. “You know I can’t let you.”

Bucky whines mightily at being denied, rocking in his lap like a tantrum and trying to tug his hands free. His hips are jerking in tiny movements, and the strap support that’s under his thighs is definitely the only reason he’s not grinding directly against Steve’s crotch right now. “Nnn!” he whines, when he tries to tug his hands free and can’t. “Nnn!” He starts to get violent. He gets his hands free for a split second and manages to whack Steve upside the head before Steve regains control.

“Bucky,” he Voices, quiet but stern, “Stop. Don’t hit. I can’t let you touch my dick. You know that. It’s against the rules. Now stop. Alpha’ll be real mad if you don’t listen, right?” After Bucky finally tapers off and goes lax in surrender, Steve cautiously releases his hands. The omega grumbles unintelligibly and puts them on his shoulders instead of trying to get them anyplace Steve’s employment contract says they can’t be. His fingers curl hard at the bend of Steve’s neck and his nails do dig in a little meanly, but the point is he’s trying. Steve relaxes and praises him with a gentle, “Good job, baby. That was good listening.”

Bucky grunts a little more, and he seems to get his brain back online after a few more minutes pass by and he’s relaxed into Steve’s lap better. He doesn’t look as buzzed, looks like maybe he remembers most of the English language.

“You back with me?” Steve asks, when he notices him starting to try and hide his face in shame again.

Bucky nods, scrubbing his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know, sweetheart. You’re okay. You pulled out of that one real good. I’m proud of you.”

One of the things Bucky struggles with is the tantruming that he tends to shoot off into during or after release. ‘Excited Catatonia with Aggression’—Present in every edition of the DSM since III came out in the eighties. It’s somewhat like a heat frenzy, only with behaviors that can turn self-injurious and emotionally harmful in the blink of an eye. Steve is relieved that they were able to avert an episode this time. “Real good,” he repeats. “Have you been practicing your calm down techniques at home?”

Bucky squirms. “Mmn.”

“Use your words, bub.”

Bucky grumbles some more, and he keeps hiding against Steve’s shoulder, but eventually he does admit, “I do ‘em sometimes. … Sometimes in my room. At night.”

Steve feels his heart ping in with another dent. ‘At night’, he knows, just means when Bucky’s family won’t catch him doing it. When he won’t be shamed for rocking or sucking or stimming in some other way. Steve’ll never forget the first time he’d tried to send Bucky home with a few helpful items. The father had gone red in the face and dragged Bucky out the doors, and Steve had been unable to do anything but watch from the building’s west entrance as everything they’d given Bucky to take home with him was dumped right there in the parking lot.

Deep down, even way back then, Steve had known in his heart that Bucky wasn’t going to be able to stay with his family. Not if he was going to make it.

(And Steve really needs him to make it.)

“... Steve?” Bucky sounds shy and fatigued, which can happen when he’s fought off the emotional stress of a tantrum. “Can we stay here for just a little bit? Please?” He shuffles on his knees with a sniffle, pressing close for comfort. “Just for a little bit? You smell so good, and I don’t wanna leave yet.”

“Of course, sweetheart, yeah. We can do that. We can stay for as long as you want.” Steve really means it, because he knows he’s got to figure out a way to tell Bucky the bad news tonight. And Steve hates to think the worst of any patient, but he’s got a bad feeling that it’s not going to go over well at all. “Buck?” he prods gently, waiting until he knows the omega is paying attention. “Honey, can we talk a little bit?”

Maybe if he can get Bucky to talk it out, he thinks, get him to conclude on his own that going home isn’t the best option for him, then maybe Steve can present the change in custody as a choice. It’s wishful thinking, but he has to try. He doesn’t want to crush Bucky’s sense of self worth more than it already has been. Bucky already feels dejected and unloved, and knowing that his family has legally washed their hands of him isn’t something Steve wants him to have to deal with. It’s better if Steve can talk him around to the other side, make him ‘decide’ that he doesn’t want to go home to his family.

Steve knows Christina wouldn’t approve of the deception. And he knows if she found out, he’d be taken off Bucky’s case at best, professionally reprimanded at worst. He’d be considered compromised. And hey, maybe he is. Doesn’t mean he’s going to do things any different until somebody makes him. Bucky’s still his patient right now, and Steve is going to take care of him the way he thinks he needs. “So … um, I wanted to ask you about how things’ve been at home, lately.” Bucky tenses and Steve hushes him, bringing a hand up to cradle the back of his head and encourage him to press his face closer. Bucky takes the cue and snuffles into Steve’s neck, mouthing over the pulse point. Steve pats his back. “Has anybody been close with you?” he asks, near-pained because he thinks he already knows the answer. “Your mom maybe, or your brothers?” Bucky shakes his head and Steve feels awful. “Are you sure? Snuggling? Or, even just a hug when you need it? Some scenting?”

The last time Bucky had been admitted on-ward, the social services team had roped his folks into a session to try and better educate them on their son’s new special needs. Steve hadn’t been present—had been on vacation, of all things, Christ—but he’s heard that the parents did not appreciate the instruction, and they didn’t take any of the information to heart. Obviously.

“Mm mn,” Bucky’s saying, rubbing his mouth over Steve’s skin as he speaks. “I never ask. Don’t want ‘em to know. They’d just make fun’a me if I asked.”

Steve inhales sadly. “You need regular touch Bucky. Hugs, skin contact, lap time, something.”

“No,” he mumbles, sounding like the surly teenager he is. “You don’t get it.”

“Well explain it to me, then.”

“They’re totally ashamed of me. My dad hates me.”

Steve tuts. “I’m sure that’s not true, Honey. They may be uncomfortable about certain things—uneducated, or ill-equipped to help you. The counselors here have talked to you about it, haven’t they? You know: about how people can have implicit biases that they—”

“No!” Bucky gets angry and pulls away, sitting back on his knees and giving Steve a sharp look. “I’m embarrassing to them. They don’t want the neighbors to know! My brothers’ friends aren’t allowed to come over to our house to hang out anymore, so they hate me too, and just … Ugh! You just don’t get it, Steve. Not everybody believes like you guys do here. Lots of people just think that omegas are … they just think that we’re …”

“Honey,”

“Mm mn,” he sniffles, stubborn. “They think we’re useless, dumb. A waste of space.”

“That’s not true and you know it Bucky,” Steve says sternly.

“I don’t know shit,” he growls. “That’s how it is in the real world, Steve. And how’re they wrong, huh? I’m never going to be able to have a job, never gonna be able to take care of myself.”

“Bucky,” Steve pleads, concerned at the vitriol in Bucky’s voice. He should not be talking like this, and the fact that he is means that things at his home have been more abusive than Steve realized.

“—Just a waste of tax dollars. A drain on society. Waste of hardworking people’s tax dollars,”

“Stop.” Steve’s pissed when he Voices it, and it comes through loud and clear. Bucky shuts up right away. He blinks wide eyes at him, and Steve takes the opportunity to shut him down. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk like that again, Bucky,” he says, easing off from his Voice when he can see he’s gotten the kid’s attention. He puts his hands on Bucky’s hips and looks at him sternly. “There are people who think like your parents do, yes. But it’s not nearly the majority. I think you’re under the impression that a lot of people share those ugly beliefs.” He waits, and when Bucky says nothing to deny it, Steve huffs. “It’s not many. I’d say … ten percent of folks? Maybe fifteen, when there’s a Republican in the white house.”

“What? Really? …You’re not just saying that?”

Bucky looks slightly swayed. Bolstered, Steve pets his hands up and down Bucky’s sides, rucking the soft material of his tee shirt as he does it. “No, I’m not just saying that. Most people don’t think the way your folks do. Only assholes who watch Fox News parrot out the sort of vile shit you just did.” He raises a knowing eyebrow, daring Bucky to deny it. He’s met George Barnes a few times. He knows what type the man is. “You are just as important as any other person, Hon,” he promises, and when Bucky starts to sneer again, he’s struck by the distinct urge to smack him.

He digs his fingers in warningly at the boy’s waist. “Hey, listen to me, now.” Bucky stops sneering, and Steve sighs, trying to think of something he can say that’ll make Bucky realize he’s actually worth something. “Do you … Do you believe in God, honey?” he asks—not at all professional, but Steve’s gone past professional with Bucky for a while now, whether he wants to admit it or not. He’s heard Bucky make a few flippant comments in the past, about ‘God’ or ‘heaven’ or ‘prayers’ (usually in relation to morbid comments about wanting to die or off himself), so he’s taking a chance and going out on a limb here. “Hm?”

“God?” Bucky’s brow furrows. “I guess so. I mean my family never really goes to church except for—”

“I didn’t ask if you go to church,” Steve interrupts. “I asked if you believe in God, in one form or another.” He waits patiently for Bucky to answer him. When he does, it’s with a tiny nod and a mumbled,

“Yeah. I think so. … I do.”

Steve softens. “Okay then. Me too, by the way.” Bucky makes a weird face like he’s still unsure why Steve is talking about this, So Steve explains, “Think about it: Do you really think there’s any God out there who’d create a whole class of people that didn’t have a purpose? Ten percent of humanity that’s just a ‘stupid waste’?” He waits until Bucky makes a face in consideration. “Right. I’m Catholic, you know? My ma dragged my butt to mass every Sunday growing up. And I just wish you could’a heard the things I did, the things they preached. It was never ugly like what your folks’ve been telling you. Omegas are different from other people, but so are Alphas. Doesn’t mean we’re not just as good and important as anybody else. We just have different needs, and that’s okay.” He offers Bucky a cautious smile. “I mean, maybe it’s not a coincidence that we’re five and five of the population, huh?” He reaches up and cradles the side of Bucky’s face, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of a thumb. “It’s like somebody had this idea we’d be complimentary, or something.”

Bucky’s lips have parted, and he even smiles reluctantly at the soft teasing in Steve’s tone there at the end. He reaches up and covers Steve’s hand with his own. “I guess so,” he murmurs. “I mean, it kinda makes sense.”

“Mm.” Steve smirks. “It does.” He kisses his cheek and gives another little squeeze on his waist. “C’mon. Let’s go get cleaned up.”

Bucky is sullen at first when they exit the massage room, but when Steve makes it clear that he won’t be leaving Bucky’s side now that their lap time is over, the omega trails along happily enough. They wash up in the bathroom and change into clean clothes. Bucky doesn’t fuss at all when Steve helps him into a fresh diaper, but he does mumble, “I hate ‘em.”

Steve has just pulled up the soft fleece pants for Bucky. “Do you really? Or d’you just hate how embarrassed it makes you feel?”

Bucky chews his lip and doesn’t answer for a long minute, his lashes lowering and his cheeks darkening. “... The second one, I guess. Embarrassing.”

If you were my omega, Steve wants to say so badly. You’d never have to feel embarrassed about anything. Not for the rest of his life, because Steve would take care of him, make him feel like the treasure he is. Like he deserves. He licks his lips, overly emotional and trying not to let it show. “Hey,” he says softly, putting his hand over Bucky’s fleece-covered knee. “You know it’s a common thing, the wetting, right bub?”

Bucky nods sullenly. “I guess.” He’s still sitting on the changing table with his legs thrown over the side, and Steve steps forward to give him a hug. “Who’s ever gonna want to put up with me?” he says, and Steve’s heart just about fractures.

Me, he wants to say so badly, but he can’t. He holds the words back like bile in his mouth, hugs him tighter and says into his hair, “Lotsa people, Buck. There’s whole agencies devoted to helping omegas find their mates.”

“There are?”

“Of course. Half my job is making sure patients are set up to succeed in the world, once they get outta here.” He steps back and takes Bucky’s hand, and together they walk out of the bathroom and down the ward’s hallway. “That’s actually something you and I need to talk about.”

It’s dinnertime, so Steve walks them to the room where all the patients on C Hall eat their meals. He makes himself a coffee while Bucky goes to load up a tray with food from the line, then they sit together away from the other patients. Steve works up the nerve to have the conversation he’s been avoiding all day. “So,” he says. “When you get out of here,”

Bucky makes a face down at his tray of food. “Ugh.”

“Ugh?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I hate thinking about going home. They’ll come and pick me up, be jerks all over again, till next time.” He stabs vindictively at the little pile of peas he’s got. “I know it’s crazy to want, but … sometimes I wish they’d never come back, that they’d magically just forget about me and I could stay here forever.”

“Aw, you don’t want to stay here forever,” Steve coaxes. “In a mental hospital?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’d rather be here with you then back home with them.”

God, Honey. You’ve got no idea how much I want to keep you. Steve tries not to get overeager, but this is a good start to the conversation they need to have, so he goes with it. “Yeah?” he prods. “I’ve always been able to tell your dad’s a bit of a prick, but things are that bad at home?” He wants Bucky to talk about the abuse, then they can segue into discussing healthier options. “Buck?”

Bucky avoids looking at him, poking around his food and making patterns in the mashed sweet potatoes with his fork. “... Nobody makes fun of me here,” he says quietly. “I’m allowed to relax and … and do what feels good.”

Christ. Steve grits his teeth and imagines beating George Barnes’ face to a pulp. “Yeah Honey,” he eventually croaks. “Yeah that’s how it should be. Always. The fact that your folks make you feel that way, that they treat you the way they do … It’s wrong. It’s abusive. So is the way they’re always dumping you here and yanking you out, using it as a punishment. You do realize that?”

Bucky glances up at him, but he shrugs. “I guess so,” he mumbles.

“No, not ‘I guess so’, it is,” Steve insists. He nods at Bucky's tray. “Stop playing with your food. Put a bite of that in your mouth.” Bucky’s eyes get a little wide at the command, and then he flushes and responds positively, listening to Steve and eating a forkful of potatoes. Steve feels a warm thrill of satisfaction at being obeyed. “Good boy,” he praises. “Look, Buck. I want to talk about your options for when you leave here. You do realize that I’ll help you, right? If you put in a petition on grounds of abuse, I’ll sign it. You could choose where you live. You wouldn’t have to go back to your parents’ place. In fact I don’t think you should. It sounds to me like they make you pretty miserable.”

“What?” Bucky looks surprised. “But where else would I go? I don’t have a job or any money.”

“That’s okay. You know the state puts money aside for omegas, right? We can get you set up with what you need.”

Bucky looks wary, but he nods. “Yeah. They talked about it in life skills class. Welfare programs.”

Steve supposes that’s the sort of thing George Barnes talks trash about at home. “Yeah,” he says encouragingly. “You can apply for an apartment and an income. It won’t be a lot, but it’d be enough to live off of. You’ll get medical, housing, heat support.” Bucky’s face goes scarlet at the mention of his heats, but Steve presses on. “And there are jobs out there for omegas who want to work. You just have to know where to look. Like this girl I know from my church? She got a job working at a childcare center. Told me she loves it.” Bucky’s brow is furrowed as he takes in all that Steve’s saying, and Steve holds his hand out over the table, palm up. “C’mon, tell me what you're thinking.”

Bucky bites his lip but he does put his hand in Steve’s. “I don’t … I don’t know how to be on my own,” he admits. “I’m afraid. What if I mess up?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his hand. “You won’t mess anything up. You know, I have so many omega clients who do well. Almost everybody does, really, when they get out of here. And you wouldn’t be on your own. There’d be people helping you. You’d get a caretaker assigned from an agency. A good one.” He hates thinking of another alpha helping Bucky, scent marking his apartment and making him feel good. But that’s Steve’s problem, not Bucky’s. “Honey, I think your self esteem has taken such a huge hit from this when it didn’t really have to. Your folks have been saying nasty shit in your ears ever since you presented three years ago, and I’m sorry but that’s a damn shame. It’s fucked up.”

Bucky is looking at Steve like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and Steve knows why. He’s never really cursed in front of Bucky before, and he’s certainly never verbally trashed the kid’s family. But Steve is fed up. He just spent the last hour helping the most beautiful, sweet omega through a release, and knowing that the poor thing is so mixed up about his gender because of his asshole family absolutely burns Steve up. He’s had enough. Bucky deserves to feel good about himself and have a good life. Steve gives his hand another supportive squeeze. “Hey, why don’t we sit down tomorrow and make a ‘what if’ plan, huh?”

“... What’s a ‘what if’ plan?”

Steve smiles gently. “It’s where we think up options for what you might do, where you might go, if you want something different when you get out of here.”

“Steve, I don’t … I don’t know.” Bucky looks down, face screwed up in worry. In a tiny voice, he admits, “I’m not sure I can really take care of myself. Not like this.” He says it so sadly, and Steve doesn’t know what ‘like this’ means, but he can make a few guesses. Across the table from him, Bucky is looking rather miserable. “My parents’ll probably be by any day now to pick me up, anyway.”

Steve cringes. He finally forces himself to say, “Well, that’s um, that’s not really going to happen, actually.”

“What?” Bucky’s wide, hurt eyes coming back up to lock on Steve don’t make this task any easier. “What do you mean?”

“Um, you see, your folks decided to sign a paper when they came by this last time, saying that they agree to relinquish custody.”

Bucky’s entire face falls in a way that absolutely breaks Steve’s heart. “Oh,” he says, voice tiny. “They got rid of me?”

“They signed over custody, baby. I think they finally realized that it was hurting you more than helping, so they agreed to let us take care of you from now on. They’re finally trying to do right by you.”

It’s a complete lie, Steve is pretty sure. He knows Bucky’s parents and he’s certain that nothing about the situation was done for Bucky’s benefit, only their own. The Barnes’ simply didn’t want to deal with their son’s needs anymore. But Steve is trying to put the best spin on this he can, for Bucky’s sake. “It’s going to be okay, Buck,” he promises. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You know that, right?”

Bucky’s already pulling into himself. He physically almost seems to shrink, shoulders hunching and arms tucking in. He nods at Steve’s question though, and he doesn’t rage or fit at the news that his family doesn’t want him anymore. “Yeah,” he says, voice dull. “I know.”

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[mournthebird]

The Brand

Warnings: Hydra Trash Party, dehumanization, mentions of physical and psychological abuse, mentions of sexual assault and torture, body modification, medical descriptions, non-consensual surgical procedure, non-sexual nudity, conscious body mutilation, branding. Do not read if these make you uncomfortable.

a/n: Yay first writing post. I wrote this a few weeks ago in time to celebrate the 10 year HTP celebration but my work got busy and I couldn't finish it in time. It might seem rushed at the end and isn't the typical writing style I go with, but I wanted to try something new.

I have a lot of ideas for HTP, they won't be written in such a narrative way, they'll be more involved and not seem so empty when you read it. I wanted to practice this style of writing to get back into it. My future works will be more gritty I promise lol.

Not edited because I am impatient.

WC: 4618

If there was one thing that defined Hydra, it was their insatiable need to flaunt, to ostentatiously display their dominion over all they claimed. The agents of Hydra took a perverse pride in their control and indecorous displays of power, viewing them as a testament to their might and dominance. At the pinnacle of their assets stood the Winter Soldier, the first and arguably most potent weapon in Hydra's formidable arsenal. He was their most prized asset and possession, their most favorite plaything.

To Hydra, the Winter Soldier was nothing more than a weapon, an object to be wielded with ruthless efficiency. Or on certain occasions, he was seen as a toy, something to be played with by his handlers, depending on the day and the specific handler's whims. His existence was one of unending servitude, of being used and abused by what seemed to be a never ending pool of agents. There were times when Soldat liked to convince himself that he had grown accustomed to the pain, to the torment that was his existence. He liked to believe that he had seen everything, that there was no form of cruelty that could surprise him anymore. The agents of Hydra were nothing if not creative in their methods of torture, to put it mildly. 

Yet, as each day passed, each time he was awakened from the frigid embrace of cryostasis, he was starkly reminded of how wrong he was. Each new day he was graciously kept out of cryostasis brought with it fresh horrors, fresh cruelties that served to shatter his illusions of desensitization. His life was a grim reminder of the depths to which humanity could sink in its quest for power and control. 

He remembers more than what they would like, despite how many times they ‘put his brain in a blender’ as Rumlow would say. Shards of his past that were shattered into an intricate puzzle; the scattered pieces were handed back to him in a cruel game where they never quite fit together. Much of what he is able to recall stems from his intense, grueling conditioning at Hydra or the earliest, most brutal of his tortures. He has vivid recollections of the cold, unfeeling metal table and the burn of harsh straps binding him to it. His memory of those moments is hazy, his sight blurred by the glaring white light looming above, piercing his eyes and blinding him. Vague memories of the sun flashed in his mind, the wet streets of New York and himself as a child running through puddles as the sun shone down on him and provided warmth after the downpour. 

At that time, he still possessed a significant portion of his left arm, the remaining limb extending just above his elbow. But the people who held him captive, the people who sought to manipulate and control him, they couldn't allow him to retain that, could they? It simply wouldn't work, wouldn't align with the function of the arm that Zola had painstakingly and so preciously created.

Zola wasn’t the one to amputate the rest of it. The faces of the medical personnel were indistinct to him - were they doctors, or were they scientists? Did the specific roles they played truly matter at this moment? It was a question he didn’t find himself pondering for long.

He remembered tensing as he heard the sickening sound of his muscle being ruined by the small, handheld rotary drill as it raked through his flesh, the wielder running it up and down his arm as if he were cutting through dough. At first, the sensation of his flesh being ripped away so viciously didn’t register in his brain, but his eyes glanced down at his arm, and saw they were taking it in segmented pieces. Seeing it seemed to get his brain to work faster now. The hot vibrations from the bone saw sliding so effortlessly through his exposed humorous nearly made him want to vomit. His wide, icy eyes were glued to the tool despite how badly he wanted to tear his sight away, the inch long piece of raw bone fell off, hitting the metal table with a small *clink* sound. A cloud of pure dread flooded his already struggling mind as he realized what they were doing. Instead of a simple amputation surgery, they were taking their sweet time, ensuring he felt every bit of it in a cruel introduction. 

They only took away an inch of flesh and bone.

His anguished cries for mercy were coldly ignored, and the indifferent medical team didn't care that he was fully conscious during the gruesome procedure. Even now, years later, with his state-of-the-art prosthetic arm replacing the one he'd lost, he is haunted by phantom pains that serve as all too vivid reminders of that fateful day. The biting chill of the snow on his raw, open wound is something he can still recall with unsettling clarity, as are the sensations of the invasive surgical tools mercilessly working against him as he writhed in futile resistance against the unbending straps that held him firmly in place. In the quiet moments of solitude, he often has to take a moment to gather his thoughts, to refocus his mind, and remind himself that the gruesome ordeal is long past and that his own flesh and blood arm has been replaced with a sophisticated, very expensive piece of high-tech metal. Yet, the past refuses to be so easily discarded. His mind, an intriguing labyrinth of denied emotions and memories, continues to replay the ordeal, showcasing the fascinating, yet at times cruel, capacity of the human brain.

Unfortunately for Sergeant Barnes, that was all just the beginning of a seventy year long nightmare. His first session inside the seemingly ominous cryo chamber was a jarring experience that he hadn't expected. All he can remember is the sudden, abrupt sensation of being hurled into a sizable, and he's not too proud to admit, an intimidatingly scary device. He would soon learn it was a merciful gesture to be frozen, over the years wishing for it rather than being kept out for them to play with.

This chamber made of metal and steel only had a minuscule, circular window that seemed to serve as his only connection to the world he was leaving behind. Before he could even allow himself to succumb to the primal instinct of panic, the very air around him seemed to solidify. It was as if the invisible molecules of oxygen were suddenly turned to ice, encasing him in a frosty cocoon. He couldn’t even process his initial shock before he began to feel the icy tendrils of cold seeping into his body, freezing him from the inside out. He had mere seconds, fractions of timeless moments, to register the chill before his senses were overwhelmed and everything around him plunged into an abyss of pitch-black nothingness.

The tales of his time spent within the sinister depths of Hydra would surely elicit a shiver of sympathy from the devil himself - such was the magnitude of his torment. Every excruciating moment, every instance of his suffering was meticulously documented by his pitiless handler in that dreaded, damned red book. This was a book that he grew to loathe, a constant, tangible reminder of his puppet-like existence. It contained detailed instructions on how to manipulate him, how to control each string tethered to his spirit and body, turning him into a marionette dancing to their dark symphony. Every mission he was sent on, every dangerous venture he had accomplished was recorded in it. This included even the less polished operations from the early days of his career, when he was still learning the ropes and the art of subtlety.

His few failures, those moments of human error, were written in a cruelly conspicuous red ink. This was a color that symbolized his pain, his struggle, and his sacrifice, forced to pen down these failures himself. He would sit on the cold, hard floor of his bleak holding cell, his hand shaking as he held the inkless pen. This pen would then be dabbed into his body and would stain the pages of the book with dark, inky crimson, watched all the while by his unflinching handler.

He quickly understood that he was not valued as a human being, but was seen as nothing more than a tool for amusement, a commodity to be used and discarded, an object of entertainment for those who controlled him. His training, harsh and unyielding, began abruptly and without mercy, and with each passing day, he was forced to hone his abilities, to transform himself into a more efficient, more deadly assassin. He was taught the art of strict discipline, and the punishing consequences that followed if he failed to meet their exacting standards. Physical torment became a part of his existence, a brutal routine that he had to become accustomed to, but that didn't mean he was immune to the pain. Each strike, each wound was a stark reminder of his position. Hydra taught order through pain after all, and pain was nearly second nature to him by now.

But arguably, what was even more devastating was the mental torture he was subjected to. The psychological torment, the manipulation, the systematic breaking down of his spirit was a pain that transcended the physical. No amount of bodily harm could ever compare to the anguish of having his mind, his very sense of self, twisted and reshaped to suit their needs and desires.

He was slowly, painstakingly being reconstructed with fragments and shards that belonged to someone else, not him. As if the core of his very existence was being invaded, they were diligently, ruthlessly weaving pieces of brutality into the tapestry of his soul, fundamentally altering his essence. He was no longer the man known as Bucky, no longer James Buchanan Barnes, a name that once held so much significance. Hell, he couldn’t even recall his own name anymore, only the harsh, unkind labels they assigned him. ‘Soldat’...mostly. But there were other names, too, cruel and derogatory terms that were as far from his true identity as could be. His sense of self, his identity, who he was at his core, had been brutally stripped away, leaving him nothing more than a hollow shell of the man he had once been.

Over the years, he had found himself under the supervision of many handlers, the names and faces of most he could no longer remember. The current handler in charge of him was Alexander Pierce, who had remained his handler for the longest duration of time compared to the others. Pierce was the kingpin, the mastermind, the one who held all the reins, the dominant head of the Hydra. There were instances when Soldat was temporarily handled by either Rumlow or Rollins, but these periods never lasted too long. Despite his brutish demeanor and cutthroat attitude, Pierce was incredibly possessive of Soldat, almost obsessively so. He didn’t appreciate it when others caused harm to his possessions, like that mattered. And that was exactly what Soldat was to him, a mere possession, an object to be owned and controlled. 

Pierce did not view him as a person capable of experiencing feelings and emotions. In his eyes, Soldat was just a thing, devoid of any humanity. Soldat was at his mercy, a mere puppet under his control. He could dictate Soldat's every move, treat him however he pleased, and the asset wouldn’t dare to retaliate. There were fleeting moments, few and far between, seemingly minor delays where the asset would show a hint of defiance, a subtle insubordination that manifested itself in the way he might take an extra second or two before following an order. These moments of resistance, however slight, were met with brutal and harsh punishment, administered by the man who had been assigned to handle him. Pierce was notorious for his severe punishments. Rumlow, too, was cruel in his own right. He took perverse pleasure in blending physical and psychological torture, pushing the boundaries of what the asset could endure. But Pierce...the mere mention of his name by another agent in the presence of the asset, especially during those rare moments when the asset dared to be rebellious, would strip him down to nothing but a small, quivering ball, a mass of fear and anticipation as he awaited for his true handler to lay his harsh, punishing hand. 

Pierce liked to think of himself as the asset’s owner, not even just a handler. He liked playing mind games with him, ensuring his submission. He was a master of deception, delivering his taunts and insults with a veneer of charm and affability that belied his true intentions. He had a unique way with words, much like a bee that knows how to produce honey while also being capable of a deadly sting. He liked to create an aura of comfort and ease around the asset, luring it into a false sense of security. Just when the asset would start to relax and let his guard down, Pierce would shatter this illusion of safety. A backhanded strike would come out of nowhere, causing his head to jerk from the unnecessary force. Or he would give a sudden, painful tug to the asset’s chocolate locks, locking his fingers into the asset’s hair and yanking him around as if he were trying to pull his hair out.

These acts of cruelty were always accompanied by seemingly gentle words, and perhaps a caress to his head, creating a confusing and distressing dichotomy that further brought on emotional and mental confusion to the asset. Over time, the asset learned to be wary of Pierce's words, no matter how sweet they seemed on the surface. Kindness was always a precursor to cruelty, and trust became a luxury he could no longer afford. The asset began to anticipate the worst at all times, and unfortunately, this pessimistic expectation was almost always met.

Soldat found himself yearning for the majority of his day to be spent in the confines of the small, austere cell in which he was held captive. This was his preferred solace when he was not being subjected to the whims of numerous Hydra agents who took turns with him; their demands were a source of deep loathing for him. The task of satisfying such a multitude of people was not only mentally draining but also physically excruciating. Despite his body having been enhanced by the serum, it was painfully evident that he was not designed for the purposes for which they were exploiting him. No one would be. He could feel everything at an amplified level, and the agents cared not how he felt during the assaults. Sadistic and barbaric in their violent rutting, the asset was often left motionless in his cell, his breathing jagged and quick before dying down to the deep breaths of plagued sleep. 

The discomfort was inescapable: he found it impossible to sit properly due to the chronic pain from his backside, not only the constant throbbing and burning in his anus, but the welts and wounds scattered along his thighs and ass. He was forced to lean at an angle on one side of his backside instead of sitting upright in a normal manner. This odd positioning offered some degree of relief, but not much. His cell was void of any comforting amenities or distractions - it was a cage after all, not a home.

The walls of his cell, a stark combination of cement and metal, were expertly crafted to withstand the immense strength he possessed. This meant that even when he wasn't restrained in chains in the corner of the room, his attempts to break free would prove futile. The stone floors were unexpectedly damp, a surprising observation considering that the cell was completely buried underground, devoid of any direct exposure to the elements. He thought there might be a hidden leak somewhere, a fissure in the stone that allowed the intrusion of water. The thought of snow stirred a melancholic feeling within him. It had been an eternity since he had experienced the outdoor world, the simple pleasure of feeling the crisp winter air against his skin, the sight of pristine, untouched snowfall, or the peaceful silence that came with it. His memories of these sensations were fading, blurred by the harsh passage of time. He was trapped in an endless cycle of monotonous days and nights, to the point where he couldn’t even remember just how long it had been since his last glimpse of the outside world.

His train of thought was abruptly disrupted as the hefty, imposing door started to creak ominously open. The harsh sound of metal scraping against the cold concrete floor echoed throughout the room, sending an eerie screech that sent chills down his spine and made him suppress a shiver. Agent Rumlow stood imposingly in the doorway. Looming ominously behind him was a group of other guards, each of them armed with an assortment of menacing weapons. Among these were electric prods that he had grown to despise. The guards had a tendency to press them against his skin for prolonged periods, the sharp, unpleasant sensation something he could never get used to.

He wasn’t an animal. Right?

Rumlow began to speak, his voice carrying a smug undertone that was all too familiar to Soldat. It was a tone that grated on his nerves, driving him to the brink of madness. He found himself despising the self-assured, arrogant way Rumlow spoke, as if he was perched high on a throne that was untouchable, immune to any form of downfall.

"Rise and shine, we have a unique surprise prepared just for you today," Rumlow declared, sauntering over with a gait that oozed the arrogant confidence he always fronted. His steps were strong and assured, resonating a kind of authority that was hard to ignore. Soldat barely had time to process the situation before he felt the cold presence of the guards clustering around him. Almost mechanically, they secured a thick, intimidating metal collar around his neck and arms. They had done this many times, and were experts at securing them before the asset had time to react. 

Tiny rings punctuated the cold metal, attached to long, unwieldy bars. It was an apparatus designed for control, allowing them to maintain a safe distance from him while forcibly guiding him to move according to their whims and direction. The sudden and rough manhandling sparked a primal instinct within Soldat. He began to struggle against his captors, his body twisting and turning, writhing in the unforgiving grip of the bindings.

"Alright, that's enough. You should realize by now that struggling gets you nowhere," Rumlow sternly declared. He then turned on his heels, initiating their journey through the winding, oppressively dark corridors of the clandestine underground base. The team had forcefully guided him along, feeling the solid resistance he put up against his restraints. Despite his efforts, his legs continued to move forward in a mechanical fashion, carrying him onward to an unknown fate. The asset was exhibiting more resistance than usual, a defiance that was palpable in the tension of his body. Yet, Rumlow didn't pay any mind to this show of rebellion. He was well aware that after this ordeal, the asset would inevitably become much more compliant and manageable, stripped of his will to resist.

As Soldat was roughly manipulated through the threshold and into the new room, he wasn’t surprised that it held no distinct visual difference from the rest. The room was devoid of any unique color or material that would make it stand out from the other rooms he had already seen. The walls were the same drab shade, the floor was made of the same cold stone, and the air smelled just as musty. The only detail that caught Soldat's attention was Pierce, who was standing by a small, yet fully functioning smith’s furnace.

Pierce's back was turned to them, his arms crossed over his chest in a display of casual authority. He was engrossed in his observation of the red hot coals in the furnace, appearing to be in deep thought. The coals glowed with a mesmerizing intensity, casting flickering shadows that danced across the room. Tiny embers floated gently through the air, creating a surreal, fiery snowfall whenever Pierce moved around a long iron pole that was submerged in the heat. The pole, silver and gleaming, was halfway buried in the crackling coals, absorbing the heat that radiated from them.

Before the asset could even begin to comprehend the situation, he was forcibly stripped of his clothing, manhandled and roughly shoved against a harsh, unforgiving metal wall. His arms were yanked above his head with such force that it caused a painful strain on his muscles, particularly on the side where his cold, mechanical arm was attached. The pull of the metal limb was relentless, tugging insistently at the already stressed muscles of his back. They then made sure his ankles were securely bound, making it impossible for him to twist or turn his body, effectively rendering him helpless and restrained. His cheek was pressed firmly against the icy cold silver of the wall, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his flushed skin. His eyes, wide with confusion, darted around as he tried to make sense of his predicament, his brows knitted together in a deep furrow.

He was at a loss. He didn’t understand what they were doing to him. Could this be a part of his training? He had been subjected to just about everything, becoming accustomed to various forms of physical and mental torture. But this…he had no clue what this was. He was beginning to feel an inner battle, his brain suddenly felt too loud. He wasn’t used to hearing so many thoughts, the repetitive wiping and cryostasis ensured he was emotionless and focused on a single mission or task. He must be due for another brainwashing session.

Pierce appeared to be lost in a sea of deep thought. The weight of their impending plan lay heavy on his shoulders, a battle between rising to rule or plummeting into the unforgiving abyss of defeat was fast approaching. It was Hydra's chance to shine, to finally establish their supremacy. He seemed to be carefully considering the possible scenarios, weighing each outcome against the other. Although he held a firm belief in their imminent success, he was starkly aware of the risks involved. If they faltered, if they failed, there was a very real possibility they’d lose their most valuable asset. This was not a prospect he relished. As much as it irritated him, he wanted to ensure his legacy, a lasting mark of his leadership on Hydra and ownership of the soldier who became the fist.

In a moment of introspection, he reached out, stirring the metal rod amongst the glowing coals. He observed silently, captivated by the mesmerizing dance of the embers as they burst from the coals and elegantly floated down to the floor. They disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind nothing but their fleeting beauty and the whispering echo of their sizzle, a stark reminder of the transient nature of power and control.

In one swift, deliberate motion, he pulled the rod from the smoldering coals, the tip of it glowing yellow, a color that faded gradually into a vibrant orange as it traced down the length of the shaft. Pierce turned around slowly, his dark suit miraculously untouched despite him being in such close proximity to the blazing heat of the furnace.

With measured and unhurried strides, he walked over to the asset, his predatory gaze observing the man's body with a level of intensity that was almost wolfish. His countenance, however, remained stern and unyielding, betraying no hint of emotion. Pierce was good at that. He held out the rod towards the asset, the end that burned the hottest bearing the symbol that the asset served - the emblem of Hydra. Fear caught in the asset’s eyes before he could hide it, he found himself doubting whether they were really going to go through with this.

But was that such a thing here? This place, this Hell on earth. 

It wasn’t like he had time to react before he felt white-hot pain erupt from his lower back, right above the left side of his ass. The pain was excruciating, and he bit his tongue trying to hold in any sort of discomfort…but it was pointless. No amount of struggle could hold back the scream that left his scratchy throat. The rod melted his flesh and scorched his poor nerves, he could feel it in the tips of his toes, and he swore his metal arm felt hot. This was almost as bad as being wiped in that torturous chair, but at least after a few long seconds even that seemed to fade with his mind melding against his trigger words. 

This was different, it got worse as the seconds dragged on, and Pierce didn’t seem like he was going to pull it off anytime soon. He held the rod taut, pressing firmly into the asset’s scarred skin, not like the asset could struggle much with his restraints anyway. With a calculated mind and a discerning eye, he strategically found a spot that was devoid of many scars. He wanted the emblem to stand out, to show without any competition from the numerous other marks that littered the asset’s body. It would shine out prominently against the skin, the deep, bold mark of it. This emblem wasn't just any ordinary mark - it was a sign of ownership, a declaration of dominance. The thought of it, the sheer power it represented, brought Pierce an overwhelming rush of sadistic satisfaction.

When he finally pulled the rod away, it had all but cooled completely, so parts of the asset’s skin were ripped away. The cauterized wound reopened as the metal was torn off roughly, Pierce let out a small grunt from the gesture. He carelessly tossed the pole back into the furnace, now not caring for it. The asset could smell the remains of his flesh burning in the furnace, it made him sick. The asset felt genuine fear, even after the deed was done, he couldn’t see it but the feeling was so agonizing he didn’t want to look at his new branding. 

In an agonizingly slow pace, he was methodically detached from the wall by the nameless, faceless agents. As the restraints were removed, his body gave way, too weak to support his own weight. He crumbled to the floor, his body convulsing and shaking as if he were in shock, a reaction to the branding he had been subjected to. Unlike before, the agents didn’t bother with the formalities of restraining him to move him in the same manner. There were no thick, oppressive collars or tight bindings this time. Instead, they carelessly slung his limp arms around their shoulders, and he was unceremoniously dragged out, back to the cold, harsh reality of his cell.

He must’ve been deemed harmless by now, a muzzled, drugged dog without the will to fight. His mind was clouded, foggy with pain and fear by the time he was tossed back into his holding cell, discarded like a worthless ragdoll they had grown tired of. The asset felt his fear of Pierce, the orchestrator of his torment, multiply tenfold. During that horrific branding, the barbaric and dehumanizing torture, he remained as even as stone…Pierce didn’t utter a single word.

He didn’t have to. 

..........

Thanks for reading.

-🕊

#my writing #hydra trash party #winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #winter soldier whump #brock rumlow #dead dove fic #darkfic

[yourmidnightlover]

the sun

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: after the events of the snap, you find out news that's both heart wrenching and warming. what happens five years later when bucky's back?

warnings: death, mourning, pregnancy, childbirth, canon-typical violence (not much but just adding to cover all the bases), loosely based on end game and infinity war (as in ignore my mistakes lmaooo), if i failed to mention any warnings PLEASE LET ME KNOW!

wc: 2.6k

a/n: dude idk why i've had an urge to write such heart wrenching angst lately. i'm actually in a decent place rn. i tried to cut this fic down bc originally it was SOOOO long i felt like a lot of it was just filler and i feel like shorter fics of mine tend to do better... ANYWHO! this does have a happy/hopeful ending so no worries! also picturing this beefcake for this story is AGHHHHHHH!

you never thought two lines on a stick could ever break your heart the way they did.

tears clouded your vision as you gripped the counter, trying not to crumble or succumb to your grief.

6 weeks ago, the avengers lost. everything.

half of the world, gone in a moment.

in one moment, your world collapsed. seeing bucky fade to dust right in front of you...

sobs wracked through your body as you crumbled to the ground.

this was supposed to be a happy moment. there should be tears of joy, not sobs of sorrow. your heart should feel full of love, not like there's a super-soldier sized hole in it.

"y/n," nat's voice rang outside the door, giving you a moment to yourself.

"just-," you tried to level your breathing before she opened the door, knowing but not understanding the grief you were feeling.

she wrapped her arms around your body, tucking your head into her neck as she gently rubbed your back soothingly. steve leaned against the bathroom door, glancing on the counter to see what they had all expected.

a positive pregnancy test.

you were having bucky's baby.

without bucky.

you gripped his dog tags that you had been wearing since the funeral. they were the only thing that could truly ground you.

they brought back happy memories of cuddling in bed, the cool metal shocking your skin for only a moment before realizing that it was only bucky and smiling at the memory.

god, it hadn't even been two months.

how were you supposed to do this alone?

"we're here for you," steve's voice called from the doorway, as if he could hear your thoughts. "you'll never be alone. not in this... not ever." he shook his head, his brows furrowed in a serious, straight line.

eventually, your sobs subsided. you stood with nat from your seat on the ground, wiping your own eyes mustering up a pathetic smile before she left you and steve to work out your grief together.

"we didn't even know it was possible," you shrugged. "it's like he sent me them..." you placed your hand on an invisible bump before facing steve, his teary eyes reminding you that he had lost his best friend, too. "he sent us this baby."

you reached your hand out for steve to hold. he took it gratefully and pulled you into his arms, hugging you tight and letting only a few tears slip his waterline before pulling back.

"if you'll let me, i want to be there for you for everything," his chin wobbled. "buck would kick my ass if i let you go through this alone." a genuine laugh left your lips for the first time in nearly two months.

"i would be so grateful for that," you nodded as you let go of his arms. "part of me still can't believe that it's real. it's like part of me still expects him to walk into the compound from a long mission or something..." you shook your head. "i know that sounds so stupid."

"it's not," he shook his head with a smile. "it's what i wish was true, maybe it's your subconscious trying to preserve your mind?"

"maybe," you shrugged before continuing, "i should probably talk to tony and bruce, huh?"

-

you knew you were around eight weeks along.

according to the doctors' tony had enlisted, however, you were already 12 weeks along, which was impossible.

bucky had been gone on a mission at that time... but it's whatever. you got to hear the heartbeat. steve went with you, too. you both bawled together. you kept three copies of the ultrasound and he kept two.

banner had already offered to do some testing on the dna of the baby, noting that the serum would likely affect the pregnancy (as it probably already has).

you had talked to tony about retiring from the whole superhero gig for the time being. you needed to mourn and prepare for a new life simultaneously. tony had promised to provide anything you needed at the drop of a hat, and he sure as hell delivered.

within no time, your pregnancy was being measured at 20 weeks while only being pregnant for 12. banner was concerned for your body's ability to keep up with the rapid rate of growth of the baby. he had you on a strict, hefty diet with two different prenatal vitamins in attempt to help your nutrition.

in spite of your best efforts, you were always exhausted and in pain. but you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. this was bucky's baby. you didn't care how much pain you went through when you had half of him growing inside of you.

you couldn't walk for long without feeling like passing out, which banner chalked up to low iron. steve had grown progressively more worried for you and the baby the longer the pregnancy went on.

as a result, he had moved into the spare room that was in your and bucky's house. truly, it just made it easier for him to help you finish up the nursery anyway.

he was very handy about it all, painting, building furniture from scratch, the whole deal.

"i've been thinking... and if it's a girl, i want to name her evangeline james barnes," you informed steve as you ate the steak he had been making for the past few weeks of your pregnancy, as ordered by dr. banner. that with carrots, broccoli, potatoes, and for dessert strawberries, blueberries and raspberries over ice cream. "and if it's a boy, cyrus james barnes. evangeline means good news, and cyrus means sun."

steve placed his hand over yours, "i think buck would've loved them." he smiled warmly as you downed the food in a few minutes.

you had begun showing soon after you found out you were pregnant, but now, it felt like it was impossible to hide. nat had been wonderful about helping you keep up with the changes your body was going through, getting you new maternity clothes every week.

she even made sure to get you every single craving that wasn't in accordance to banner's hefty diet. not that he didn't want you to eat more, he thought it was best you did! but he also wanted to make sure that with all that you did eat, your body got as many nutrients as possible.

just to be safe, he kept you on other vitamin supplements anyway.

you couldn't help but imagine what bucky would say or do about everything now.

he would hold your body closely, pressing firm kisses to your bump every chance he could get while whispering some sickly sweet sayings to your unborn child, words that would melt the winter soldier's cold exterior.

he would whisper words of encouragement any moment you felt worried about your abilities to be a mom. he would say how beautiful you were, in spite of being bloated in places you didn't know could bloat.

he would be wonderful, and in your mind, he was still alive and vibrant. well, as vibrant as bucky ever was, at least.

truthfully, that's the only way you were able to keep going on like this. steve was wonderful, but you couldn't help but want the love of your life by your side as you tried to navigate this new chapter.

in a couple more weeks, you were projected to be at 32 weeks. bruce and tony were talking with your doctors about the safety of inducing so early, both for you and the baby.

oh, and you wanted the gender to be a surprise.

and within the week, you were having your baby.

steve and nat were by your side during the birth, whispering encouraging words and compliments of your strength.

"i need him!" you screamed in pain as you held one of each of their hands, sobbing in agony. "i need james! i need my bucky! i can't do this alone, i can't-i can't!"

"you can," nat reminded you. "this baby needs you," she held your face to look at hers. "bucky is a part of this baby." you swore you could see tears in her eyes before turning to face steve.

"remember what you told me when you found out you were pregnant?" he didn't bother wiping the tears from his face. "bucky sent you-sent us this baby. he knows you can do it." you sniffled before nodding at your two best friends, pushing with one last scream and a second later, you had...

"cyrus james barnes," the nurse called to you. "it's a boy, congratulations mom."

-

the next few years went by quicker than you could've ever imagined.

crawling, first words, first steps...

you missed bucky. not a day passed where you didn't miss him.

but, having cy helped a lot. he looked just like his father. dark brown hair, icy blue eyes, a cute little nose... not to mention his father's stubbornness.

you made sure he knew who his father was. you took him to the museum often, showing him the statue of his father and his background in the world war, him saving the world so much. you told him how you fell in love with him.

how you fell for the quiet man before ever really talking to him. how you were partners on a long-term, undercover mission and that's where your love ignited from the sparks.

not that cy understood any of what you told him. you just felt it was important to know that his parents loved him, and each other dearly.

you never took off his dog tags, either.

steve was a huge help the whole time. he kept working for the avengers, so he was gone often, but he provided a good male role model for cyrus. after all, he was his uncle steve. he already taught him how to throw a ball, albeit a little softball, but it counts!

you made sure to document everything that went on in yours and cyrus's life.

banner had said that cyrus was growing at an exceeding rate, but nothing to be concerned about. in fact, cyrus was turning five in almost half a year, meaning the anniversary of bucky's death, or disappearance or whatever you called it, was coming up.

then, you got a call from tony and banner.

it all happened so quickly, from testing to planning to the execution. pepper watched cyrus for you while you went back with steve, scott, and tony to get the tesseract.

of course, the men being men had to come upon a few hiccups, but eventually, after going as far back as the 70s, you brought back the tesseract.

the only thing is that nat never came back...

next thing you know, bruce is snapping his fingers and clint is getting a call from his supposedly deceased wife. your eyes fill with tears, hands searching in your pockets for your phone to see if you've gotten anything yet.

is it possible he wasn't brought back? he was the first to... disintegrate. die. maybe that meant something in the eyes of the stones?

then, you felt a buzz in your hand.

although, you didn't have any time to try to grasp what that meant, because more aliens came to earth.

shocker.

after yet another war, one that you weren't even prepared for, after losing more people, again. after losing tony...

but amidst the chaos of the aftermath of the fight, with screams of joy and shock and grief surrounding you, tears streaming down your face, your eyes met the blue ones you only saw in your son.

he slowly walked towards you as the tears sped up. you didn't even realize when your feet began running towards him.

when his arms wrapped around your waist, you finally felt the home you thought you had come to terms with never feeling again. your arms wrapped around his neck, your face buried in his shoulder as you breathed in the scent of gunmetal that had overtaken him in the battle.

"oh my god," you cried into the leather of his jacket. he lifted you off the ground, your legs wrapping around his waist as you felt his smile on your cheek. "i can't believe you're really here."

"i'm here, doll," his hands cradled your head so tenderly. "i'm not ever leaving again. never."

you pulled back before your eyes widened in realization. "you've gotta meet someone, jamie."

his brows furrowed in confusion, just smiling and nodding along with whatever you said.

within the next few hours, simply being held by bucky before steve stole him away with a hug, you finally brought him home.

"so, steve moved in," you started as you pulled your car into the driveway, turning to see bucky looking at you with an incredulous look. "you'll see why." you reached to hold his hand before he brought yours to his lips, pressing a kiss there.

you told him to wait in the car as you went inside to relieve the babysitter for cyrus. after giving him some cash, he went outside, knocking on your car window to let bucky know he should make his way inside.

upon entering, he saw you sitting on the floor with a little boy with striking blue eyes that seemed so familiar to him. his nose, too. his lips though, they were all yours. he had a slight grin plastered on his lips, one that matched yours to a t.

"daddy?" suddenly, it all clicked.

his heart, his mind, his fucking soul, everything made sense now. the pain, hydra, the mind washing, the torture.

meeting you. falling in love. dying?

his son.

he started walking closer to bucky before the steady walk turned into a run. bucky knelt down, wrapping the boy in his arms, cradling his tiny frame in his arms protectively. his son.

"cyrus james barnes," you said with a teary smile on your face. bucky, without breaking the hug with his son, looked up at you with a smile that matched yours. "cyrus means 'sun', and i thought it was fitting. he brought me so much light and hope after you..." you choked up before he stood up with cy in his arms, walking towards you before wrapping you in the big, family hug.

"i love you so much, both of you."

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #james bucky barnes #marvel #sargeant barnes #bucky #sargeant james barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #james barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes whump #bucky x avenger!reader #bucky x fem!reader #dad!bucky

[questionableratatouille00]

𝘐 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘺 (𝘖𝘳 𝘋𝘰.)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You’d never understood why Bucky never seemed interested in physical intimacy. When you find out, you realize it goes deeper than you ever thought.

Note: For my ‘Don’t Touch Me’ square on my @marvel-smash-bingo card!

Warnings: rape/non-con, sexual abuse, nightmares, ptsd, Hydra Themes, implied Hydra Trash Party, insecure!reader(?), crying, angst.

[Series Masterlist]

Your sex life was not bad in these last few months you’ve been dating Bucky. That wasn’t to say it was particularly good, either.

You hadn’t had sex with him at all. You hadn’t even got past a little bit of making out. And there was nothing wrong with that, either. Maybe he was just shy. And he was a real quiet guy when he was around anybody but you, so you knew that that was a possibility.

He was also born in 1917, so there could be just more of an awkwardness around the topic for him. You obviously had no idea what Sex Ed was like in the 1930s, but you knew that it definitely wasn’t great.

Maybe he just wasn’t interested in sex at all. And that was perfectly fine, too. He could be asexual. Or gray-asexual. Or demisexual. And you were by no means a homophobe. If he wasn’t into it, he wasn’t into it and that was that. You would certainly not be upset or—God forbid—angry over something like that.

But the thing that plagued your mind after he ran off somewhere after kissing you for a little too long was the why. He’d never said a word about sexual attraction—you’d never had that conversation before. You didn’t really know how to bring it up.

Part of you wondered if you were the problem. Was he just not attracted to you? Was there just one tiny detail on you that completely made him not want you in that way? Fuck, did you smell bad?

You pushed the thought away. But you did know that you needed to have this discussion with him. Mainly in case that last reason was it.

As if right on cue, he walked into the kitchen of your apartment.

“Hey, doll.” He smiled, wrapping his arms around you and swaying you from side to side.

“Howdy howdy. I didn’t hear you come in.” You grinned. “You’ll give me a heart attack one day.”

“Sorry,” he replied sheepishly.

The rest of the night went on as usual. At least, until halfway through the night—perhaps early morning—when you were awoken by the sound of muttering.

Now, to be very honest, you thought about muttering ‘shut up’ back, before you remembered that you were a real person and not a dinosaur like you’d been dreaming about.

You sat up, looking over at your boyfriend. Another bad dream.

You kneeled above him, opening your mouth to say something to wake him up. And once again, as if on cue, he woke up. He sat up quickly, bonking you in the head with his own skull.

“Fuck—“ You hissed as your eyes watered slightly. “Bucky, you’re okay, you’re okay, it was a dream, it’s over.” You attempted to reassure him as you reached out.

“Don’t touch me,” he pleaded. “Don’t touch me. Please.” The way he said it made your stomach flip.

“I’m not.” You promised. “I won’t. I won’t. You’re okay, you’re safe. It’s me. Jus’ me and you.”

He seemed to relax at that as he laid back down. And then—very surprisingly—fell right back asleep.

Normally his nightmares were more of a major thing, so this was certainly a surprise. You frowned, before you yourself eventually fell back asleep.

The next morning, you woke up alone, with the faint smell of breakfast coming in through the room. You walked out of your bedroom and to the kitchen, greeting your boyfriend.

“Mornin’,” you hummed.

“Good morning, doll. Did you sleep good?” He asked innocently, as if he didn’t remember the night’s…revelations.

“Yeah.” You murmured back. And then you decided to finally grow some balls and ask.

“Bucky? Can I talk to you about something serious?”

“Sure.” His brows furrowed slightly. “Always, hon. What’s goin’ on?”

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me?”

He practically turned to stone.

“What?” He croaked out.

“There’s nothing wrong about it! I’m just—it’s stupid. I’m sorry, I’m being an asshole. Never mind—“ You wanted to simultaneously beat the absolute shit out of yourself and bury yourself.

“No, you’re not.” He cut you off. “I—should’ve told you earlier. About this. It’s—it’s not you, I promise. I..I want to have..sex with you and all of that stuff. I do, really. It’s just—there’s..some stuff.”

Your brows furrowed as you took on a concerned and empathetic expression. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s—it’s okay. I do. It’s important to me that I tell you.” He explained. “But—it gets kinda heavy. Are you okay with..hearing all of that?”

You nodded. “Yes, babe. I am.”

“When I was—when I was the Winter Soldier, HYDRA would torture me. You know that. They’d…’punish’ and ‘train’ me in ways that..fucked me up. Clearly. One of those ways was through sex.” He admitted, fiddling with his hands.

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t really know what to say. Or to do, even. Did you comfort him? Say anything at all?

“I know you would never do that to me. I promise—I’m positive and comfortable in the fact that you wouldn’t ever do anything to me without my permission.” He assured you, making eye contact. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that I can say ‘no’ and can make my own decisions without any form of punishment.”

You nodded slowly.

“But it’s just—it’s hard, y’know? Like, how I get all..jumpy and ‘PTSD-y’ on the Fourth of July because of the fireworks. It’s like that, but with..sex, and being naked and stuff like that. It doesn’t have anything to do with the Fourth of July, just like it doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s just..a thing that happens in those circumstances.” He explained. “I don’t—I’m sorry. I don’t want to be like this, I promise.”

You could see his nose was getting red and his eyes were beginning to water.

“I don’t want to be broken.” He blinked away some tears, wiping the ones that escaped his eyes with the side of his hand.

“Baby, no. Oh, baby. No, you’re not broken. Honey, you’re not. I promise.” You comforted. You opened your arms for a hug and he wrapped his arms around you.

When he was ready, he continued. “It was mostly men. There weren’t any women in HYDRA up until like..2010. But sometimes they’d sell me—and I mean literally sell me—off to certain powerful women for a variety of purposes. And I didn’t have a choice.” He murmured.

“I know, baby. It wasn’t your fault. None of that was ever your fault.” You said softly.

He nodded slowly. “I do..want that. I want to do that with you, it’s just—it’s hard.”

“I know. Thank you for telling me. And we can take it slow. And if you realize you’re not into it at all—no shame. No judgement. Not from me.” You promised.

He nodded. “Dr. Raynor—when she was my therapist she..she uh, pushed on the subject.” He confessed. Your brows furrowed.

“She what?”

“I was mad about it then. And I still think she could’ve gone about it in better ways, but she gave me something useful, so..at least there’s that.” He hummed. “She suggested showering and taking baths together. For..non-sexual intimacy.”

“You wanna try that?” You met his eyes, the beautiful blue eyes that captivated you.

He nodded slowly. “If you're comfortable with it, yeah.”

“Okay. We can try that, babe.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you.” He murmured. You’d heard him say it before, you’d worked your way up to it, but neither one of you really wanted to hold back that feeling from each other.

“I love you too. No matter what.” You swore.

A/n: two Oneshots on the same day? Shocking, I know. Really wanted to bring hydra trash party and reader insert fics together. This was low key inspired by me and an ex (we’re on good terms dw), and it feels very important to me.

Please reblog if you enjoyed!

Sequel here!

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#marvelsmashbingo #bucky barnes whump #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #hydra trash party

[buckrecs]

been feeling a little down lately and was wondering if you know some fics where bucky comforts reader?

Bucky Comforts Reader

masterlist | req masterlist

Hold Me by @buckyalpine

Bucky comforts you when you’re having a bad day.

Sad by @softlyspector

The reader, who has struggled with depression all her life, slips back into that deep sadness. Bucky is worried and tries his best to help.

Bad Day Comfort by @wkemeup

Eclipse by @wkemeup

When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface. 

Nightmare by @sleepypanda27

Bucky comforts you after you have a bad nightmare.

Sad by @sleepypanda27

When you aren't feeling your best, Bucky is right there by your side.

Heartstrings by @sleepypanda27

When Y/n thinks that she is not good enough, Bucky proves her otherwise.

Late Night Talks by @buckychrist

When a night takes a turn for the worst, there’s only one person in the world you want to talk to, and you find him laying down in the bedroom next to yours.

eyes on the screen by @kinanabinks

bucky comfort where we watch some sitcom like family guy and just chill with some kisses at the end.

I’m Here by @foreverindreamlandd

Bucky supports the reader during a depressive episode.

Dropped Pens & Bee Stings by @foreverindreamlandd

Reader is having a day where nothing seems to be going her way. Nothing some TLC from her mans Bucky Barnes can’t fix.

Together by @sgtjbuccky

In where you’re feeling like the world is collapsing against you, and everything you do in life is never enough. You feel inadequate to everyone around you, but Bucky is here to remind you that you’re the greatest there is. 

Nobody Else by @the-bau-quinjet

Reader is stressed about college and Bucky is there to help.

under the weather by @dirtychocolatechai

Failure to Launch by @thenhewaswrongaboutme

You go radio silent for a day, and Bucky comes to check on you. He doesn't know exactly what you need, but he tries his best to help.

Imagine by @t-lostinworlds

“hey... you've been crying.”

#bucky barnes fic rec #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes smut #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes whump #bucky barnes hurt and comfort #bucky barnes modern au #bucky barnes x avenger!reader #bucky barnes x insecure!reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Means to an End | Bucky Barnes x Reader

This is some hurt / comfort, cause you know that’s my fave. I saw a post like, a year ago, about this and of course I can’t find it now. But it’s been in my brain since then and I absolutely had to write something for it, since I still think about it all the time. 

Warnings: blood, Bucky injuries, talk of his past, angst

Hushed voices emanated from the hallway. They bickered and cursed at each other, one taunting while the other cautioned. Yeah, that sounded like Sam and Bucky. The two swatted at each other as they turned the corner and came into view- something was up.

“Sam, I swear to god-” Bucky said, but you cut him off. You launched your body into his and wrapped him in a long-overdue embrace, welcoming him home. He groaned as you collided with his battered form, but still managed a pained “hey, baby,” through his grimace. You didn’t like the sound.

“Is everything okay?” you pulled away, examining the large scrape on his cheek. Sam tried to chime in, but Bucky elbowed him in the ribs.

“I’m fine, doll. Just a little sore, you know?” he gave you a light kiss, “happy to be home, though.”

“Can’t imagine why you’d be sore…” Sam teased. He’d recovered from Bucky’s attack and had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Maybe it’s because you-”

Bucky shot him a warning glance.

But Sam was used to his colleague’s / partner’s / friend’s antics. “Oh, scary. So scary, Buck,” he laughed. “I was just gonna say, I bet you’re sore because you jumped outta that plane. You know, without a parachute.”

You pulled your arms from around Bucky’s neck, “You did what?”

“And show her your new racing stripe!” Sam goaded. “Show her!”

You narrowed your eyes at Bucky, “what’s he talking about? What ‘racing stripe’?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and muttered something about killing Sam. He unzipped his leather jacket and removed it with another groan. And as he slid his right arm out of the sleeve, you laid eyes on his ‘racing stripe’. An angry red wound scraped into his flesh from shoulder to wrist.

“Oh, Buck… this looks like- is that road rash?” you reached for his arm but quickly recoiled, afraid to hurt him.

It looked irritated and painful, and the surrounding skin flushed permanently red. Dried blood and pieces of gravel stuck to the nasty scab, and Bucky winced with each movement of his arm. He avoided eye contact as best he could. He knew how much you hated seeing him hurt, how upset you’d be about this massive injury. And he couldn’t bear to see it in your eyes.

“How’d this happen?”

No answer.

“Yeah, Buck,” Sam said. “How’d this happen?”

Bucky sighed. He played with his dog tags and let them clink against his metal fingers. He’d never lie to you, but didn’t like telling this type of truth. He mumbled the words at a nearly imperceptible volume.

“What?”

“Things got out of hand…” he said again, louder this time. “And I ended up under a truck.”

Once again, Sam jumped in. “A big truck. Kind of like an eighteen-wheeler. Going fast. Really fast. On the highway.”

Everything inside you crumbled as you imagined the concrete grinding away at Bucky’s flesh. It made you shudder. You knew there was a dark red stripe somewhere on that piece of road, Bucky’s blood staining the asphalt. The instant ease Bucky’s homecoming granted you quickly turned into thick pools of dread. Despair. Your chest ached. Between that and Bucky’s stunt with the plane, you couldn’t believe he made it home. But the alternative was too horrifying to imagine.

Bucky waited for you to get upset. The entire flight home, he dreaded telling you about the mission. He knew how things like this affected you, how unhappy you’d be when you saw his latest injuries. His pain often became your pain, and you worried. You’d worry yourself sick if he let you.

But you didn’t chastise him or cry, much to his surprise. “Okay, let’s um…” you examined his arm once again and felt your stomach flip. “Let’s get you upstairs. We need to clean this up.”

Bucky didn’t like the way you walked past him toward the elevator. He noted your slumped shoulders and tense jaw. Usually, you would’ve taken him by the hand and led him upstairs. When he returned from a mission, you wanted to touch him as much as humanly possible. Hand holding, hugging, kissing, cuddling- you couldn’t get enough. But this was different. You kept your hands to yourself and your eyes down, even as Bucky stood across from you in the small elevator.

He couldn’t recall a time when you’d been this mad at him. And he was scared- scared to lose you.

“Alright um, take a shower first, I guess,” you said when the two of you made it to your room. “And then I’ll give your arm a look.”

Bucky did as he was told, but didn’t get the usual sense of calm and relief in the warm shower. His massive abrasion stung under the hot water, and anxiety needled at his chest. He hated disappointing you. Hated knowing that he’d upset the one person he promised to take care of. Part of him wanted to stay in the shower as long as possible to avoid your heartbroken glance. But he knew he had to face you. To apologize for trying to hide the truth.

But when he got out of the shower, the tension rendered him speechless. He threw on a pair of sweatpants and took a seat on the edge of the tub at your request. He eyed the rigidity in your shoulders as you used tweezers to carefully pluck and dislodge pieces of debris from his wound. You dropped each bloody chunk of road into the waste basket, grimacing every time. Small pieces of gravel and even broken glass lay embedded in Bucky’s skin, and it was your job to complete the sickening scavenger hunt.

“Baby, I’m sorry…” Bucky said after a while. The silence threatened to drive him crazy, and he needed to make things right. “I wasn’t trying to lie to you. I just know you don’t like seeing me hurt, and-”

“It’s not about that,” you said as you dug another piece of gravel from his wound. You kept your eyes on your task, never meeting his gaze.

It wasn’t what Bucky expected you to say. He took a moment and racked his brain, “then I- why are you angry, doll?”

A massive huff left your chest, like you’d been holding your breath since the moment he returned home. “Because being angry is the only choice I have”.

With that, you turned away from Bucky and rested your head in your hands. The bloodied tweezers fell to the floor with a metallic clink, shooting tiny droplets of blood across the tile. Dark storm clouds rolled over you and thunder clapped inside your chest.

“What do you mean, baby?”

“If I’m not angry, I’m- I’ll fall apart.”

Bucky watched you struggle to keep your composure. An internal debate rose within him as the urge to comfort you surfaced. You always loved his warm touch in times of turmoil, but this was different. You were mad at him, you hadn’t touched him since he got home- save for the cleaning of his wound.

But he ached to comfort you. And so he rested a hand on your back and softly called your name, but it only seemed to make things worse. He felt your heaving breaths and rapid heartrate in his palm. You were far gone, and it was all his fault.

“Can you talk to me, doll?” He scratched lightly against your spine like you always did for him when he got lost in his mind. His hand called you back to the present, saving you from drowning in the storm.

“Every time I go on a mission- whether you’re coming with me or not- you make me promise to be careful,” you said. “To not take any unnecessary risks. To come home safe.”

Bucky nodded.

“And I tell you the exact same thing.”

He nodded again.

Your voice broke, “But you don’t keep your promise.” You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “You’re always jumping off overpasses or running into gunfire without an escape, without backup. And then you come home half-dead and bleeding and it scares the hell out of me.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say, how to fix the situation. “I’m sorry, I- I do what I have to do…” he said quietly. “I do whatever it takes to complete the job-”

“No,” you finally turned to face him. “You go way above and beyond. You put yourself in danger on purpose. You throw yourself into near-death experiences and treat your body like it’s disposable. You have no sense of self-preservation.” You held up a hand, silencing Bucky’s rebuttal. “I know, you have the serum. And that’s great. But that doesn’t mean you have to push it to its limit. Are you trying to see just how badly you can hurt yourself before it won’t heal you anymore?”

Tears streamed freely down your face. “You tell me every time I leave for a mission that you need me to come home to you in one piece. Well, I need you to come home to me- and not in a body bag.”

Bucky remained silent.

“How would you feel if I jumped out of a plane without a parachute? Or hung on to the bottom of a moving truck?”

Bucky shook his head, “that’s different. I’m a super soldier, I can’t-”

“It doesn’t matter! I bet you wouldn’t want me doing those things even if I had the serum. Right?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

“Right, Buck?”

Finally, he nodded.

“So why is it okay for you to put your life at risk- serum or not? You always say you can’t imagine living in a world without me, but you don’t think about how every mission you go on brings me closer to a world without you.”

It was then that you fell apart. You collapsed against Bucky and slid to the floor, your body finally giving out. You sobbed and heaved until your chest burned- and you feared that someday soon, you’d be crying like this over his casket.

He whispered apologies against your hair for what felt like hours until you finally cried yourself out. And cursed himself for being so reckless.

“I’m sorry, baby. I don’t try to pick the most dangerous option, I just-” he grimaced, “it’s what I’m used to.”

You pulled your head from his chest and gave him a quizzical look.

Bucky sighed. He hated blaming his less than stellar behaviors on his past. It felt to him like a crutch, like an excuse. But it was the truth, no matter how unsavory.

“I mean, when I was the-” he gritted his teeth. “When I was at Hydra, the only thing that mattered was finishing the job. That was the priority, not my safety. Not my well-being. I did what I had to do.”

Of course. The puzzle pieces fell together and showed you the picture of Bucky’s past, the reasoning behind his actions. And suddenly, you hated yourself for getting so upset.

“Shit, Buck- I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

“Baby, it’s okay. I completely understand what you’re saying…” He pulled you a bit tighter and hummed in approval as you nestled into his chest. “My brain just goes into autopilot on missions. I revert to my old ways of operating- and if that means throwing myself through a brick wall or jumping off a bridge, I just do it. I don’t question it or rethink my options. It’s almost like I don’t have control. I can’t- I don’t think of myself as anything other than a means to an end. A weapon.”

“You’re not a means to an end,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “Yeah, you’re an agent and you’re good at what you do. But that’s not your identity. You’re your own person now.”

Bucky shrugged. He struggled with his self-image, his self-worth.

“Buck, you’re everything to me. You’re the only person I’ll ever want- you’re the love of my life.” You rested your palm against his bruised cheek, “So if you can’t think of yourself as anything other than a weapon- think about how much I love you, how destroyed I’d be if something happened to you. Think about me. And maybe that’s selfish of me to say but I don’t care. I need you.”

You sat together for a long quiet moment. Bucky wiped at your tears and pulled you into his body once more- neither of you knew what to say. But the silence ate away at him. He hated upsetting you, hated knowing what he’d put you through. He knew how much he worried about you on missions- and you were the one who kept your promise to be safe. He couldn’t imagine the anxiety you experienced upon hearing the stupid shit he’d done.

“I’m sorry…” he pressed a kiss to your hair. “It’s not fair to you for me to pull stunts like this. I’d feel the same way if you did the things I did. The anxiety would kill me-”

“Yeah,” you said, “It’s been eating me alive. You have no idea how much you mean to me, how important you are. I need you to treat yourself with care. Because you’re not disposable, Buck. And I don’t know what I’d do without you. ”

He apologized again and again- for having tunnel vision, for taking risks, for putting you through hell. “I promise I’ll be smarter.  I’m gonna do better, I won’t do that kind of thing anymore. I swear.” He leaned down for a kiss, but quickly pulled back, “And I’ll actually keep my promise this time.”

After another long moment of silence and tears, you got to work on his arm once more. Bucky thanked you time and time again for your gentle care, for your patience. It took longer than either of you thought to dig every piece of highway out of his skin. But you did it without hurting him or making him bleed.

“Alright, let’s get you into bed, sarge.”

Bucky groaned as you helped him up, and let out another pained sound when he collapsed into bed. But his sore muscles and battered body didn’t stop him from pulling you into his chest. He held you with an almost bruising intensity, reveling in the feeling of being reunited with his best girl.

“I was being really stupid…” he said with his eyes closed. “And selfish.”

“It’s not your fault. You just do what you know. I can’t blame you- I just want this”, you nuzzled your head against his chest. “I want to keep you for as long as possible.”

“And I want to keep you till my time’s up,” he said. “I’m not gonna risk it anymore. I can’t believe I let myself jeopardize this.” He held you a bit tighter, like he feared you’d disappear. “You’re too important. This is too important.”

Bucky swearing off death defying stunts eased your anxiety. You made him switch positions with you and pulled his head into your chest with gentle hands. He let out a long sigh, one of exhaustion and contentment and peace. He yawned against your skin, and you knew he’d soon be out for the night.

But before he fell asleep, he found the energy to make one last promise. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore…” he said. “From now on, I’m gonna make Sam do all the hard stuff."

————————————

Tag list: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes s @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy @mrsdrysdale18 @lonewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @purpleshallot @duchessoftheheart @seitmai @itvy5601 @hisxsoulmate @dailyreverie @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine @masteroflightningz @evangeliamerryll @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions s @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi i @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky

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[lavenderpanic]

Chapter FIFTEEN of I Am Ash From Your Fire up now!!

Two chapters, just a few days in a row? What?? Crazy.

#bucky barnes #stucky #steve rogers #stevebucky #fanfiction #captain america #marvel fanfiction #catws #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #i am ash from your fire #iaafyf #winterbones #brock rumlow #bucky x brock #steve x bucky #whump #bucky barnes whump #fanfic

[lovelybarnes]

meeting cats- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader warnings: creepy date, some angst, rejection, ghosting, sad reader, duck the dog is not a warning but i want to let you guys know duck the dog is in this one about: requested!! Could you write something kinda angsty, bucky is occupied but reader thinks he ghosted her. maybe he has a dramatic reentry like he sees her at a bar on a new date or somethin a/n: this is called ghosted in my files but i decided fuck it and called it what it was

the click of your door as it locks seems to echo the one that settles in you, a comforting sort of satisfaction blanketing your warm shoulders, blurring the sharp lens with which you live; it makes edges kinder and worries fall away. a deep sigh escapes your lips, eyes squeezing shut as your lips bite back an even wider grin than the one you sport now.

your lips still tingle from the kiss your date had pressed against your lips, head in a daze as you bring a predictable finger up as if you would feel the prickling through the pad of your index. your lips pull into the curve you tried to help, teeth sinking into the skin of your fingers as you let yourself sink into the sweet honey of your excitement.

your dog cocks his head at you from his bed in the living room, murmuring a soft aroo in question, as if asking you what was wrong.

“oh, duck,” you whine, pulling yourself away from your door, eyes opening again as a shaky breath leaves you. “i think i’ve met him. i know i’m going to sound insane after a few dates—” duck blinks at you and pushes a small whimper past his throat. “but oh my god, he’s wonderful.”

duck finally hops off of his bed to bound up to you, stretching before pawing at your leg as you fill up a glass of water.

“he’s funny and sweet and kind and so beautiful,” you ramble, bending down to pick up your dog. “he makes me shy but not in that unpleasant ‘i can’t breathe or speak in front of him’ way. he held my hand and brushed away the hair from my eyes and told me i looked beautiful, and—” you pause, carrying duck over to the dining room table, hoisting him up as you point at the flowers in a vase.

“he got me flowers. my favorite, somehow, and told me they were from this flower shop he goes to every week when he gets a bouquet for the animal shelter.”

duck aroos in approval.

“i know,” you exclaim exasperatedly, hugging him close to your chest. “and he has a cat. and he talks to her too. he said she approved of me because she bonks his hand and purrs when he says my name now. how does this man exist?” you ask, bouncing gently on your feet.

duck’s ears flop. “i know it’s too soon but we’ve been on three dates and they’ve all been magical and he called me ‘his girl’ today. i blacked out for a moment, i think.”

duck nuzzles his head against your shoulder, comforting you.

“i really like him, duck,” you admit in a terrified whisper, meeting his large eyes. “oh, shit.”

-

your nail rests between your lips, teeth grazing at it in frustration as you glare at your phone innocently lying on your dining table. duck nudges your hand with his nose with a sad little huff.

“he hasn’t called,” you whisper. “why hasn’t he called? it’s been almost five days now.”

swallowing, you lower your eyes to your lap, beginning to rub circles into duck’s temples.

“he said he’d call. he told me he couldn’t wait to hear my voice again while i was standing right there.”

there’s a burn in your eyes that makes your lids flutter, the movements of your fingers faltering in your disappointment. “i’m so stupid,” you groan sadly, bottom lip jutting out. you scan the unread messages you’d sent him over the last few days.

“did i send him too many messages? i only messaged him twice…” you contemplate. “what did i do wrong?”

your mind runs over the events of the best dates you’d ever had, scrutinizing the way you smiled—too wide?—and laughed—too loud?—even doubting the lame puns he’d laughed at anyway.

“maybe it’s work,” you reason with yourself, fiddling with your nails. you stop suddenly. “he does work—” you pause when you realize your defense is something you’ve made up. “i don’t know what he does.” duck cocks his head at you. “i assumed… he kept mentioning the shelter and how his favorite subjects were math and science when i asked, but he never…”

duck coos, nudging you with his nose.

you blink as realization crashes into you. “i don’t know anything about him. i don’t know what he does or if he even has friends because he keeps referring to ‘stevie ‘as was, and he avoided family questions, and…” you drift off, face hot as it falls into your hands. “he could be a serial killer and i would have no idea… what did we even talk about?”

you poke around in your brain for helpful information, but the only thing there are the sweet childhood stories he’d confessed through laughter and kind eyes, mumbles of stevie through a frustrated shake of his head, and the antics of his cat explained through smiles. you come up with a few other names and recall his mother’s apple pie recipe and beloved garden, but no workplace or job, not even a last name or an i live around here.

“this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “was he not sure about me during our first dates and was this one just the dealbreaker?” you wonder aloud, shame prickling at your skin. the saccharine high you were still riding from your date becomes sour, and as you remember the dates, the moments that you’d fawned over become overexposed, concentrating on the smudge of your eyeliner and the crinkles of the dress you’d fallen in love with, the stray hairs you’d dedicated time to setting in a specific place suddenly too messy, bucky’s laughter tinged faked, the pull of his smile strained.

the truth of your dates smears enough that you can’t tell it apart from what you’d made up, and you glance at your phone again, excitement curdling as you eye bucky’s contact name.

“two days?” you ask duck, finding his large eyes already on you sympathetically. your lips push up at him, your hands cupping his little face. “two more days and then he’s for sure ghosting me,” you confirm, kissing duck’s head.

you sigh softly, nuzzling your face against his fur. “i really hope he messages back,” you mumble, observing the already wilting flowers bucky had gifted you. the vibrant colors have dulled in the days, petals surrounding your vase. “please don’t be ghosting me,” you beg quietly.

your phone vibrates, and chagrin pricks your nose at the excitement with which you check if it’s bucky. your friend’s offer to go out tomorrow stares back, disappearing after a few seconds and leaving only yours and bucky’s conversation—or, really, your unread messages underneath yours and bucky’s conversations. 

you push your tongue against your cheek, nails tapping gently on your phone. “two days and one more text,” you decide.

-

you’ve never been ghosted before.

or, more accurately, you had never been ghosted before. but you suppose it’s a ritual, although you wish it hadn’t been by the one guy you can’t seem to stop thinking about.

you sent him two text messages.

the first had been typed and sent in a frenzy of drunk panic where your brain had convinced you he was near death in a hospital somewhere and you’d sloppily composed can you please just tell me if you’re okay? i’m getting worried. and sent it out.

no response, but the gray read underneath it did said enough.

then, an okay lol composed in your embarrassed daze, sure he’d blocked you already. it was a weak attempt at another chance that you didn’t want to admit you were dying to give him, desperate for him to take it.

sent still reads underneath it, and you heave a sigh, rubbing your eyes. “wonderful,” you mumble.

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and remember your glittery buzzing when you would get ready for your dates with bucky, your excitedly nervous smile as you winked at yourself and admitted that you were looking forward to seeing him again.

you straighten your shoulders and raise your chin, taking a deep breath.

“don’t be pathetic,” you instruct. you groan loudly and slap your cheeks. “don’t be dramatic.”

you dive for your phone when it lights up with a message, only to come up disappointed when you realize it’s one of your friends, boasting about a man she met at her job and insisting on how much you had to meet him.

your fingers have acted in muscle memory and typed out a refusal before you can think twice, but your eyes meet your reflection in the mirror just before you press send, nose raising, face hardening. you delete the message and decide that if bucky doesn’t want you, you don’t want him either.

your friend schedules your date for tomorrow and you sigh, already beginning to feel the regret trickling in as you remember the awkwardness of first dates, trying to not let the amount of time it took you to find someone as easy to be with as bucky get to you. your eyes drift to the wilted flowers on your counter—new ones, a few colorful ones that you bought yourself in effort of cheering both you and your apartment up, but they’re enough to remind you of the ones from bucky that you’d thrown away.

you square your shoulders and remind yourself that the messages you’d sent bucky still sit in his inbox, unanswered.

huffing at his imagined offense, you move to pick out your outfit for tomorrow.

-

it only takes you three minutes of nodding weakly at the egotistical ramblings of your blind date for you to wish you’d never agreed to it.

too long of your life in, and it’s frustrating to realize exactly how much you’d liked bucky. he’s there, behind your date’s shoulder, behind the bar—everywhere—cocking his head and raising an eyebrow at you as if to say him?

yes, him, you want to snap. and then maybe you want to kiss him.

you can’t help but think back to the dates you’d had with bucky, compare the place you’re in and the flowers that this date apparently thinks ridiculous. you begin to mold your boredom into angry words that you’ll send your friend after this date is over, and then eye the clock, trying to convince yourself that this man cannot possibly talk about himself for that much longer.

the universe is determined to make your love life as miserable as possible, though, and you discover that he can.

quietly, fired up from the leftover frustration, your brain curses bucky.

you don’t bother to hold back a grimace once your date moves on to his spectacular ex-fiance, only continuing to sip your water, regretting it wasn’t something stronger.

bleary-eyed now, you skim over a familiar chiseled face behind your date, but your eyes snap back immediately when you realize who those defined features belong to.

blue crinkles in excitement when it meets your eye, beginning to take confident strides toward you, only for eyebrows to pinch in confusion as he eyes the situation. 

bucky stutters to a halt in the middle of the bar as he takes in the drink in your hand and the man in front of you, whose fingers begin to inch toward your thigh suggestively.

“oh no,” you whisper, lips parting gently as you look at anything but bucky. you can’t help but think how unfair it is that the moment you try to move on, the reason for your attempt walks right in and gazes up at you with the most innocently confused eyes you’d seen.

your date doesn’t notice your troubles, which makes the hand crawling up your leg all the more acrid. you clench your jaw and stop him with a thin smile, not noticing as bucky shakes himself out of it.

“i don’t think this is going to work out,” you push through clenched teeth as your date takes your rejection as encouragement, squeezing your thigh sharply. “please don’t touch me.”

“c’mon, just a good time, then?” he offers, leaning closer.

you back up. “no thanks.”

his eyes catch on something behind you, brows joining as he follows something that drapes heavily on your shoulders. you want to be startled, but the smell of bucky snaps something familiar in you, urging you to relax into the crook of bucky’s arm before you can be startled that you can recognize him without turning to look at him.

“there a problem here?” he asks.

“no,” your date—you’re sure he had a name—answers curtly. “at least not until you showed up. we’re on a date here, buddy.”

bucky purses his lips. “i don’t think you have a date with my girlfriend, pal.” his arm brings you closer, glinting in the light. your date—mark!—catches sight of it and stammers, eyes flickering from bucky to you to his arm. “will you give us some alone time now?” there’s a mocking edge to his words, bladed with thinly-veiled threat.

mark agrees with a nod, sliding off his chair and slinking out the door.

you stare at your feet once there’s no reason for bucky to keep his arm around you, itching to remove it before the little progress you’d made was erased completely.

“thanks,” you say finally, forcing yourself to slip underneath his arm and off your chair. you open your purse to get your wallet out to pay for the drinks mark left unpaid, only to get outpaced by the quick way with which bucky opens his wallet and slams money down on the counter. you huff, meeting his eyes frustratedly before you put down your own money, nudging his toward him. “i can pay for my own drinks, thanks.”

bucky’s brows knit together, lips parting when you turn abruptly to walk out of the bar. he takes a second to realize what’s going on, grabbing what you’d laid on the bar to hand it back to you. “are you mad at me?” he asks once he’s finally caught up with you.

“oh, am i not being sunshine and rainbows enough? is that what it was?” you retort, scoffing. “sorry.”

“what?” bucky wonders, speeding up when you do. you push open the door and step out, leaving it to slam on bucky’s face, but you grab onto the handle at the last moment with an annoyed crease between your brows. he huffs as he jogs to catch up, wrapping loose fingers around your arm. “wait.”

“why should i?” you ask him, finally turning to meet his eye, but your gaze is cold, unlike the last time he’d seen you.

“because—” he cuts himself off, nose crinkling as he has some sort of realization, his hand falls away. “why am i explaining myself? i should be mad at you.”

you stare at him incredulously, scoffing loudly. “excuse me?”

bucky nods indignantly, his eyes boring into you. “last thing i remember is you kissing me at the end of our date, tellin’ me how much fun you had and how much you wanted to see me again, and now you’re on a date with someone else?”

your features pucker, eyes slanting. “yeah. and last i remember is you telling me you’d call. or text—just, anything.” you jam a finger into his chest, upset. how dare he? “you told me ‘i can’t wait to hear your voice again’ when i was closing my door!” you do a poor imitation of him, crossing your arms and scrunching your brows, your voice dropping exaggeratedly as you bob your head mockingly. “and then no contact for a week!”

“hey now—” bucky starts, extending a hand, but you stop him, your parroting dropping into disappointment, anger fizzling into sadness. his eyes search you worriedly, beginning to reach out to you.

“you told me you wanted me to meet your cat,” you remind sadly, unable to stop the pout that pinches your lips. “and then you… ghosted me. didn’t even open my messages.”

bucky stares at you blankly, blinking in confusion. “i do want you to meet my cat,” he insists.

“sure. that’s what you’re saying when you ghost people,” you retort humorlessly, beginning to turn again, but he holds you back gently.

“you keep saying that—ghosting? what is that? when did i do that?” you move to scoff again, but the honest confusion draped across his face catches you off guard.

“you’re serious?” he nods. “it’s all over the internet—it’s when someone just cuts off all communication with someone without reason or warning. for example, leading someone on with wonderful dates and promising to call and then never contacting them again—or replying to their concerned messages to check if they’re alive.”

“i didn’t—i didn’t mean to do that. to ghost you. i was… on a work trip,” bucky explains, fingers vining down your arms.

you roll your eyes. “really? i thought that at first, actually, but then i realized how little you actually told me. like, what is it that you do exactly, because i never quite caught it on our various dates.”

“it’s…” bucky pauses uncertainly. “complicated.”

“stupendous,” you cheer sarcastically. “what about your friends? do you have any friends? where do you live?”

“that’s…” he struggles to find the words.

“complicated?” you finish for him, nodding. “of course it is. i’m leaving now.”

you’ve walked through the door before he can intercept you again, but bucky sidesteps in front of you just as you spot your car. “please don’t leave. i honestly didn’t mean to do… that… to you and my life is…” he frowns. “uncertain and complicated all the time. you’re not. i didn’t—i don’t want to force you into this because you didn’t know who i was when this started and i liked that, but—”

“what are you talking about?” you ask in disbelief, your annoyance burning at the bottom of your stomach. as if it wasn’t bad enough that he ghosted you, he was now forcing you through a faux explanation to make himself feel better.

bucky’s lips contort with internal struggle until his shoulders slump, shutting his eyes for a second before he speaks up.

“my name is bucky barnes. my best friend is steve rogers. i work as a sort of… agent. i live in the avengers tower because i help them out sometimes. i was away on an impromptu mission last week and that’s why i didn’t answer you or see your texts.”

you stare up at him for a few moments, eyes flickering between his features. finally, you huff. “steve rogers is stevie? captain america? the avengers tower—a mission?” you repeat, shaking your head disappointedly. “how stupid do you think i am?”

“i don’t think you’re stupid,” bucky tells you.

“so what you’re saying is that you’re what? an avenger whose bestie is captain america?” you retort.

“well, i wouldn’t say it like that.” bucky shrugs. “i’m not an avenger, but i’ve known steve my entire life. will you just give me a chance to prove it to you?”

you frown, scanning him, arms crossed defensively. “how?”

“to start with—” he reaches around you to grab your phone, wagging it in front of you. “why not consult google? great app.”

you settle a glare at him, plucking your phone away from his fingertips. “i don’t use google. privacy and all that.”

still, you type something in, clicking your screen until your eyes bore into it, gaze flickering from your phone to bucky. he attempts an awkward smile.

“wow, that’s really not edited,” you remark, holding your phone up to your face. his forced grin drops unamusedly, gently lowering your wrist. his face softens, his thumb rubbing shapes into your wrist.

“do you believe me now?”

your eyes drop to the floor, tongue pushing against your cheek. “so you were really on a mission?”

“got the bruises to prove it.” a cold index finger rises to tilt your chin up, urging to to look at him.

“what about leaving me on read after i asked if you were okay?” you point out.

“i’m not supposed to have my phone on missions. i opened it to answer you but then i got shot at,” bucky explains, and then tilts his head at you. “i’m sorry i didn’t tell you anything. you didn’t know who i was, somehow, and i liked that. i didn’t want to risk things with you, and that was selfish of me.” he purses his lips, fingers falling away. “there’s still… a lot.”

“do you mean the winter soldier?” you ask, words careful, attention hesitant.

his eyebrows furrow. “i thought you didn’t know who i was.”

“i didn’t know his face,” you explain. “i’ve only read about him and i’m aware that he is a different person than james buchanan barnes. i’m not dating the winter soldier, i’m dating bucky.”

he eyes your face for a moment before cracking a small smile, looking cheeky. burly and huge as he is, you can tell he’s flustered too, but he smothers it with a teasing nudge of his shoulder. “so we’re dating, huh?”

you grin sheepishly, looking away from him. “if you want.”

bucky smirks at you, pulling you to him by the wrist he was still holding. “yeah, i want.” you can feel his lips curl sweetly underneath yours, fingers tucking in the money you’d left into your back pocket. when he pulls away, it’s with glittering ocean eyes and crinkles next to his eyes. “so when can you meet my cat?”

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[jinxquickfoot]

@badthingshappenbingo Prompt: No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Find the fic on Ao3

Sam would like to go on the record that he is not on board with this plan, thank you very much.

He’s always been more of a soldier than a spy, and these days he’s not sure he’s even decent at the former. He’d had to learn fast during his time chasing Bucky and the years after the Accords, taking his lead from Natasha, but the sneaking around has never come naturally to him.

“Maybe because you call spy work sneaking around,” Natasha had teased him. He misses Natasha. If she were here, she’d probably have a much better plan. Or at least the ability to convince Bucky and Zemo that this one sucks.

Sam’s also not above admitting that watching Bucky cozy up to the man who brain-washed him when he hasn’t replied to Sam’s texts for months is a gut punch. Breaking Zemo out of prison was one thing. Having private conversations when Sam is in an airplane bathroom is quite another.

He’d emerged back into the plane cabin to a hastily ended discussion between the two of them. “What?” Sam had demanded. “Swapping more music recommendations?”

“It’s nothing,” Bucky had muttered. “Don’t worry about it.”

Which of course, had made Sam very much worry about it.

Ever since it’s become public knowledge that Steve left him the shield, everyone has had an opinion about it. The US government apparently thinks it should be with some blond-haired blue-eyed golden boy. Zemo thinks it should be destroyed. Bucky thinks it should be protected. And Sam…

Sam doesn’t really know what to think at all. Which is perhaps the least Captain America perspective he could have.

“I’m not saying Steve was always right,” he’d said to Sarah after he’d been mulling over what to do with the shield for a week. “But he at least knew what he stood for. That never wavered.”

Sarah had watched him closely over their kitchen table. “Things were always a lot less complicated for Steve Rogers than they will be for us,” she reminded him. “You were gone for five years. The world’s different, Sam. There’s no harm in putting off that decision while you wait for the dust to settle.”

Sam’s not sure that’s right, but he knows better than to correct his little sister. “And what do you think I should do?”

Sarah weighs her next words carefully. “Steve did a lot of good, but every time he won as Captain America he lost someone as Steve Rogers. And I think that if I could have my brother home instead of off playing hero, I wouldn’t hate that.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t take up the shield.”

“I’m saying,” Sarah emphasizes. “Even if you did, maybe it’s not about trying to be Steve.”

Steve wouldn’t have hesitated. He wouldn’t have waited to make a decision this important. And he certainly would have figured out how to get Bucky to talk to him without donating the one thing Steve left him to a museum. Or at least, he’d meant to donate it to a museum. Now Walker has it. The person his country apparently wants Captain America to be.

To be fair, considering that Sam is now arriving in the criminal capital of the world with the man who almost succeeded in ruining the Avengers for good, maybe the Powers That Be hadn’t made the worst call in the world. Not to mention that he’s doing so with a plan he would just like to remind everyone, again, that he is not on board with.

Not on board with breaking Zemo out of prison (Thanks for the heads-up, Buck), not on board with playing dress-up with someone named after a big cat, and certainly not on board with Bucky pretending to be the Winter Soldier.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Bucky reminds him for the hundredth time. A (very small) part of Sam doesn’t even mind, at least Bucky’s talking to him. “It will work.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Well, it’s not not what I’m worried about.” He jerks a finger at Zemo as he disembarks his jet. “We’re really following the orders of the same man who tried to have Steve and Tony kill each other?”

“An event that occurred well in the past,” Zemo reminds them, adjusting his coat as he approaches them. “The appearance of the Winter Soldier is guaranteed to attract Selby’s attention. Once we secure a meeting with her, she will tell us where Karli is sourcing her super-soldier serum.”

“Yeah?” Sam challenges him. “And how are you planning on getting her to tell you that?”

Zemo shrugs, unbothered. “I will be offering her something of great value. She will not be able to resist.”

“You plan on telling us what that is?”

“Sam,” Bucky cuts him off. “We need to find the serum before Karli hurts more people. This is the best way.”

“The best way, or can you just not think of a better plan?”

Bucky glowers at him. “Can you?”

And, since Sam apparently can’t, he’s forced to pull on his heels and set off to Low Town.

It’s cold where they are, his bright costume doing little to keep the chill out. He fiddles with the many layers, trying to become the man who would choose something so damn loud, the way he’d seen Natasha slip into character so easily. Well, he’s no Black Widow, and it’s not happening.

He gives up trying to fix the suit. “We have to do something about this. I’m the only one who looks like a pimp.”

Zemo huffs beside him. “Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp.” He pulls out his phone, bringing up a photograph. “You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mac, aka the Smiling Tiger.”

“He even has a bad nickname.” It comes out more sour than he’s anticipating. He knows he’s not really bothered about the impractical shoes and the too-thin suit, though. No, it’s more that he’s all too aware of Bucky walking on Zemo’s other side, staring straight ahead without a word as they walk. Sam takes the phone, peering at the image. “Hell, he does look like me, though.”

Okay, so maybe Zemo does know what he’s doing. Still doesn’t make Sam feel any better about bringing the fugitive who blew up the UN along on the Sam & Bucky Adventure Hour.

“You smell this?” Zemo nods to the multi-colored lights of the city.

Sam has been smelling it for a while now. “Yeah, what is that, acid?”

“Madripoor,” Zemo corrects him. Their hired car is driving towards them up the bridge, sleek and black with tinted windows. Must be nice to have enough money to not beg for bank loans. “No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There’s no margin for error.”

A fleet of armed motorcyclists flanks them into Low Town. Sam eyes them warily, weighing if he and Bucky would be enough to take them on if Zemo decides he’s not on their side after all. Sam’s not exactly used to fighting in such close quarters, but he could probably make do. Not to mention that he’s got the former Fist of HYDRA watching his six. At least, he hopes so. He’s very much regretting words about going on very long vacations and never seeing each other again right now.

“You good, man?” he asks, voice low. Bucky is still doing his staring thing, not so much watching out the window as looking blankly into the distance. Getting into character, maybe. Sam’s not sure that’s a good thing.

Bucky cuts his eyes sideways, but he doesn’t look annoyed (for once). “I can do this.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Before he can get a proper answer, however, they’re pulling into Low Town, and it’s show time.

Sam can hear the music well before they get out of the car. It’s a pumping, relentless beat that vibrates the ground as he steps into the purple and blue neon lights. The colors wash away the features on the partygoers’ faces, leaving them expressionless silhouettes. Money and drugs change hands, automatic weapons always on display without a hint of law enforcement. Sam follows Zemo’s lead, Bucky watching their back as they traverse the acid-smelling streets until they arrive at their destination.

Zemo speaks then, and Sam’s Russian has never been stellar, but he knows exactly what words are coming out of Zemo’s mouth. “Ready to comply, Winter Soldier?”

Sam wants to punch him. Bucky is free, he shouldn’t have to hear those words ever again. But when Bucky replies, his voice is void of emotion. “Ready to comply.”

The intention of the exchange becomes apparent seconds later, as the people around them begin to whisper and stare. Great. Sam remembers he’s also undercover, scrambling to fix his face. He pretending to be someone who is used to places like this, he can't be caught gawking like a tourist.

Zemo takes point, arranging their meeting with Selby through the bartender, and Sam is (for the first time) happy to let him lead. When the bartender asks if he wants his usual, he has a moment of internal panic because what the hell does a dude called the Smiling Tiger sound like before deciding a curt nod would be the safest bet.

That sentiment is immediately corrected as the bartender retrieves a snake and starts cutting it open.

“Ah, Smiling Tiger.” Zemo gestures to the snake innards as though they’ve just been offered an ice cream sundae. “Your favorite.”

Bastard, he knew. Sam is going to get him for this later. After he gets him for mind-controlling Bucky, manipulating one of Steve’s closest friends into attacking him, and killing eleven people by bombing the United Nations.

Zemo clinks classes with him. “Cheers, comrade.”

Steve would have never done this.

That thought is slimier than whatever the hell ends up in his shot glass. He gets it down—No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it—and tries to suppress the urge to puke all over the bar top. He manages a strangled sound instead he hopes he turns into a sound of satisfaction and then, for reasons only God understands, his body decides to throw the bartender a thumbs up.

However, none of that makes him as sick as watching Zemo order the Winter Soldier to attack like a dog, or by the blank look on Bucky’s face as he complies.

Zemo leans back against the bar, looking completely unbothered as Bucky slams a guy into the floor. “Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.”

Sam’s going to murder him. That is, if the multitude of people cocking guns in this bar doesn’t shoot them all first.

He grabs Bucky’s arm—to pull him off the guy he’s going pinned against the bar, to grab him and run for an exit, to just offer some goddamn comfort to wipe that awful, expressionless mask off his face, he’s not sure—but Zemo leans over to whisper in his ear. “Stay in character, or the whole bar turns on us.”

It’s at that moment he’s sure this was a mistake, and it’s a moment that’s far, far too late. No turning back now, not unless he wants to take half a dozen bullets home with him. And as much as he wants to pull Bucky out of the nightmare of having Zemo control him again, even if it is only pretend (he hopes), he doesn’t want to leave Sarah without a brother for the second time either.

Zemo says something else in Russian, enough for Bucky to release the throat of the guy he’s holding, and the room seems to breathe as one. The bartender nods at them, as though they’ve just answered a question correctly. “Selby will see you now.”

With the attention off of them, Sam takes the opportunity to drop his voice low and ask, “You good?”

Something Sam can’t interpret flashes across Bucky’s face, before the mask is put carefully back into place. He doesn’t answer him, either. Sam really hopes that’s just because Bucky’s much better at keeping his cover. Either way, they’re having a long talk after this, one he’s not going to let Bucky run away from.

They’re led into the backrooms, Sam bringing up the rear this time as Bucky keeps a close watch on Zemo’s back. They pass stacks of cash and guns prepped for shipping, and Sam gets the ridiculous urge to grab the 260-pound super-soldier he’s tailing and throw him behind him. Or maybe just grab his fancy Wakandan arm and run after all.

He does neither. He trails obediently behind, following this plan he didn’t make and didn’t agree to, that places a friend (yes they’re friends, Bucky, admit it) in a position Sam had promised their mutual friend he would never be in again.

The voice reaches him before Sam can see who it belongs to. “You should know, Baron. People don’t just come into my bar and make demands.”

“Not a demand. An offer.” Zemo sits, as comfortable here as he was in his own private jet sipping champagne. Bucky lines himself up behind him, ever the faithful bodyguard, which leaves Sam to enter last. He takes in the armed man twice his size guarding the door, before his gaze falls on the woman who had spoken.

She looks to be somewhere in her sixties, hair chopped short and styled, her clothing clearly more expensive than her employees’. “A lot has changed since you were here last.” Selby takes them all in, eyes lingering for a moment too long on Bucky before she returns her attention to Zemo. “By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?”

The question is loaded, but Zemo steps elegantly out of the blast range. “People like us always find a way, don’t we? I’m sure you’ve already figured out what I’m here for.”

People like us. An arms dealer and a terrorist. The kind of people Sam works with now, apparently.

Selby raises a finger, still looking at Zemo, so Sam jumps a little when the next question is directed at him. “You’re taller than I’d heard, Smiling Tiger.”

She flicks her head towards him, and Sam decides a stoic nod is probably better than trying to speak right now. She stares him down, and for a moment Sam is sure he’s messed this up—surely Zemo would have told him if the Smiling Tiger was chatty?—before Selby smirks and makes a purring noise at him. Ew.

She snorts, turning back to Zemo with a broad smile like she’s just told a joke. “What’s the offer?”

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum.” Zemo stands, and Sam’s heart rate picks up as he crosses the room to Bucky. “And I give you him.”

It takes everything in Sam not to react. Or at least, react strongly. He’s sure the expression his face just made has given them away—soldier, not a spy—because this was not the plan he was informed about. If he didn’t agree to any of this to begin with, he doubly didn’t agree to using Bucky as a bartering chip.

Zemo’s hands are on Bucky’s shoulders, tracing a line across his spine, and Sam has to remind himself that launching across the room to break his fingers would probably get all of them shot.

“Along with the code words to control him, of course,” Zemo adds. “He will do anything you want.”

Those fingers Sam so desperately wants to break climb higher, grabbing Bucky by the chin. Sam can’t decide what horrifies him more—the delighted, almost hungry look on Selby’s face, or the resigned one on Bucky’s. No surprise. No reaction.

He’d known this was coming.

Sam’s memory jumps back to exiting the plane bathroom, sure he’d just witnessed the shutting down of a conversation he wasn’t privy to. They’d gone behind his back. Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend, had decided to make a pact with the man who’d used him as a chess piece to topple the Avengers over the one who had searched for him for two years.

He clamps down on the rising anger, he cannot break character, not here. He’ll give Bucky a piece or ten of his mind later. It horribly occurs to him then that he does not know when later is. Surely to make this bluff work, Bucky has to stay behind? And then, what, break out of Low Town by himself?

Yeah, Sam is going to murder him right after Zemo, the idiot.

Selby leans forward on the couch, significantly more on board with the situation than when they’d walked in. “Now that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately. But I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ll need to test your generous offer.”

Zemo does that stupid head tilt thing, feigning confusion. “Please, elaborate.”

Selby sticks her finger in Bucky’s direction. “All sorts of rumors about that one. That he’s been rehabilitated.” She spits out the word like it’s garbage. “The States pardoned him and everything.”

“American propaganda,” Zemo answers smoothly. “You know how attached they are to their war heroes. They could not have Captain America’s closest ally being branded a serial killer.”

Selby isn’t convinced. “If you want the location of the super-soldier serum, I’m going to need some proof you’re not selling me a faulty product.”

Zemo acknowledges her words with a nod. “Fair enough.” He switches to Russian. “Soldat na koleni.”

Thank god no one is paying attention to Sam anymore because he full-on flinches when Bucky’s knees hit the floor. He doesn’t use his hands to reduce the impact either, that must have hurt, but Bucky doesn’t even blink. With a sick feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the snake guts residing there, it hits Sam that Bucky is far too well-practiced in this. Don’t show pain, don’t show humiliation, don’t show anger. Just complete the mission.

“Cute,” Selby remarks. “But party tricks aren’t worth much when you're the one holding his leash.”

Zemo tuts her. “Ah, now you know I cannot hand over the code words without something in exchange.”

Selby sits on that for a few moments, gaze focusing on Bucky. There's hunger written all over her face, and what Sam wouldn’t give for the ability to Doctor Strange them a portal out of there. “The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor,” she says finally. “Dr Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank. Or condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum but things didn’t go as planned.”

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?” Zemo presses.

“Oh, the breadcrumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is going to cost you, Baron. And before you get all cute don’t think you can find Nagel without me.” She cocks her head (way too much head tilting going on tonight for Sam’s tastes) and considers Bucky. “Tell him to come over here.”

Zemo barks another order, and Sam waits for Bucky to stand. He doesn’t. Without even being prompted, he fucking crawls over to Selby’s feet.

Steve is going to clamber out of the 1940s just to slug Sam in the face. Sam had promised that yes, Steve could go live the life he never got to, Sam would keep an eye on Bucky and make sure he was safe. So how the hell did Sam let them get here?

Selby takes her turn grabbing Bucky by the chin, way tighter and rougher than Zemo had done. He lets her wrench his head up, eyes focused somewhere around her knees, and Sam has the awful thought that the Soldier probably wasn’t allowed to make eye contact with his handlers.

“The Fist of HYDRA,” Selby muses. Her other hand runs through Bucky’s hair, tugging on it. He doesn’t wince. “I liked the long hair better.”

“It was impractical for battle,” Zemo answers. If any part of him is bothered by this, he isn’t showing it. Sam wonders just how far Bucky had agreed they could go while Sam was out of earshot in that damn bathroom. If he’d even set a limit. Again—idiot.

Idiot or… just someone who doesn’t believe they deserve better.

Selby stands abruptly, and Bucky’s abused chin drops back to his chest. “Russia’s bogeyman,” she continues as she makes her way over to one of the back shelves, retrieving a long, flat box there. It clinks and clatters as she tugs it towards her. “Known to complete any mission, under any conditions.” She flips the lid open, considering the contents. “If I’m going to trade Nagel’s location, I’m not doing it for a broken toy.”

And she brings out a pair of brass knuckles.

Oh, hell no. They’re not doing this. Sam isn’t watching this. He starts forward, only for Zemo to cut him a sharp look. It lasts a fraction of a second, too quick for Selby or her men to notice, but it’s enough to freeze Sam in his tracks. Right. Stay in character or they all die. Both of them are so getting an earful about letting their Captain in on their little plans after this.

But you’re not their Captain, are you? a nasty voice whispers in his head. You turned that title down. Maybe that’s for the best.

Yeah, Sam doesn’t really think letting your friend get beaten right in front of you in an arms dealer’s lair is Captain America-approved behavior.

Selby slips the brass knuckles over her fingers with practiced grace, looking far too excited for Sam’s comfort level. He tries to swallow the rising nausea. Bucky can take a few hits. He shouldn’t have to, but he can. Then they’ll get Nagel’s location. They’ll find out where the Flagsmashers are sourcing the serum. They’ll (hopefully) save a lot of lives.

It’s that last thought he clings to as Selby smashes her fist into Bucky’s jaw.

Sam is going to be thinking of that crack of metal on bone until he’s in his grave. For his part, Bucky barely blinks. He absorbs the blow without even a sound, before returning his head to his original deferent position. Then Selby swings at his other cheek.

To save lives, Sam thinks desperately. Bucky signed up for this because he knew it would save lives. If Sam interferes now, all of this was for nothing, and they’re probably all going to get shot.

For a petite older woman, Selby must be hitting the gym between weapons deals, because she continues to pummel Bucky’s body without mercy. Arms, lower back, ribs. And every time, Bucky takes it, expressionless, and then places himself right back in her line of fire.

Sam never thought he’d be relieved to hear Zemo talk, but it’s music to his ears when he finally steps in. “As you can see,” he says. “His programming is perfectly maintained. I am not so foolish to try and trick one of the most influential names in Madripoor.”

Selby grins, clearly enjoying herself. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Baron. But I’m not quite satisfied yet.” And she returns to her little box of tricks.

Sam uses her momentary distraction to lock eyes with Zemo. Enough, he tries to communicate.

Stay. In. Character, Zemo radiates back and, great, Sam and Zemo are on can communicate with just a look terms now.

Sam takes a deep breath, trying to maintain his I am a stoic criminal persona. A little bit more. Bucky volunteered for this. Sam didn’t, but there’s not much he can do about that now. He can play the long game, endure some pain in service of the greater good. It’s what Doctor Strange pulled on Titan, and it inevitably saved half of the universe.

And lost Sarah her brother for five years.

That greater good mindset is immediately tested when Selby raises a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire out of that box.

For the first time, Bucky reacts. It’s so subtle that Sam’s sure everyone else misses the tiny flinch. Everyone else except Zemo, that is, who is still staring at Sam, commanding him not to mess this up. Well, Sam’s never particularly enjoyed taking orders.

Selby takes her sweet time making her way back to where Bucky’s kneeling, the colored lights glinting off the razor-sharp barbs. Sam forces himself to still, reminding himself of all the logic that’s been keeping him rooted in this spot. If he breaks character, they don’t get information on the serum. If he breaks character, Karli continues to make super-soldiers. If he breaks character, all three of them are going to get shot at.

Selby raises the bat, preparing to take her first swing, and it happens.

This time, even Zemo seems to miss it. It’s so quick, Sam would have been sure he was seeing things if he wasn’t watching Bucky’s every tiny move. Bucky’s eyes dart to the side, looking right up at Sam, and Sam sees it. Not resolve. Not a warning for Sam to stay out of the way. A plea.

Help.

He’s moving before he’s even registered how dangerous this is. All he knows is that he can’t be a spectator anymore.

He goes for the man on his right first, lunging for the automatic rifle. He has surprise on his side, the man yelling out in shock as Sam wrestles him for his weapon. The room explodes around him, yelling and gunfire, as Bucky launches upright, smashing his fist into the bottom of Selby’s jaw. Good.

What’s not so good is the armed man on the other side of the room turning his gun on Sam.

There’s no time to get out of the way. Sam’s body freezes, tensing for the hit. Bucky’s seen it too. He lunges towards the gunman, but Sam can already tell he’s not going to make it in time. Hopefully, he’ll get out of here alive. Maybe even tell Sarah that Sam died being a hero and not an idiot.

A shot rings out and he flinches, but the pain doesn’t come. The gunman’s chest bursts in a spray of red, collapsing to the ground, and then there are hands tugging him to the exit. “Come, Sam. We cannot linger.”

Sam wrenches himself out of Zemo’s grasp. “Bucky! Let’s move!”

More shots are fired by the mysterious sniper, giving them an opening to run to the exit. Bucky’s managed to acquire a gun of his own, covering them as they run for the door. He looks like hell, blood and bruises covering his face. No doubt there are more injuries too, buried below the surface.

Bucky notices him looking. “I’m fine, Sam.”

Sam can’t quite read his tone—if he’s exasperated or straight-up furious with Sam for ruining the plan—but he has bigger fish to fry. “That other shooter.” He turns on Zemo. “Another plan you didn’t let me in on?”

“Not mine.” He sounds distinctly put out by the thought as he pulls out his phone. “But we have a real problem now, so leave any weapons and follow my lead.”

After what he just tried to pull with Selby and Bucky, Sam wants to do anything but, but Bucky almost immediately lowers his pilfered gun to the floor. “Zemo knows Madripoor,” he reminds Sam. The words reveal his bloody teeth. “If we’re getting out of this, it’s his way.”

Getting out of this turns out to be getting shot at as they sprint through the rain-slicked, neon-lit streets, and Sam’s footwear is not designed for dodging bullets. Bucky’s not doing much better, his myriad of injuries slowing him down even with the serum.

“Come here.” Sam dives sideways, throwing his arm under Bucky’s and half-hauling him onto his shoulder.

“I’m fine—”

“If you tell me you’re fine one more time I’m telling Dr Raynor on you. You’re slow, this’ll help, let’s move.”

They stumble into a side alley, the roar of motorbikes hot on their heels. Two behind them, one approaching. They’re being hemmed in.

Another figure approaches—Zemo, gun out, ready to take out one of their enemies. But before he can fire, a crack of a bullet erupts from one of the upper-floor windows. Another two cracks, and the pursuers behind them also fall.

Zemo approaches them, gun lowered, looking as confused as Sam feels. “Seems you have a guardian angel.”

“Well, this is too perfect.”

They all spin towards the new voice. A figure in a hood with her gun raised stalks towards them, slightly out of breath but determined as she points her weapon at them.

“Drop it, Zemo,” Sharon Carter says. “You cost me everything.”

.

An hour later, he’s showered and perched on a couch that feels like it costs more than his and Sarah’s house. The Smiling Tiger clothes are gone, and he’s swaddled instead in a soft turtleneck pilfered from Sharon’s closet. Bucky’s vanished elsewhere in the apartment, and the only reason Sam hasn’t chased him down yet is because he saw him scoop up Sharon’s offered first-aid kit before he ditched them.

Sam takes in the fancy apartment, the stolen art, the brisk and icy way Sharon carries herself. Not exactly what he pictured from the woman who once helped Captain America on a noble quest. “What’s going on, Sharon? You don’t ever want to come back home?”

Sharon offers him a drink. Sam knows he shouldn’t, but he takes it anyway. Anything to soften the images of Bucky passively kneeling at Selby’s feet. “They’ll lock me up if I ever step foot back in the States,” she explains, her tone resigned. “Madripoor doesn’t allow extradition.”

Sam exhales, a fresh wave of guilt rising to the surface. First, he lets Bucky get the shit beaten out of him, and now he’s being confronted with a reminder of another one of Steve’s friends he let down. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call, but after the Blip and the chaos I just—”

Sharon cuts him off. “You know the whole hero thing is a joke, right?”

He freezes with his hands clutched around his drink, the chill from the ice cubes seeping into his fingers.

She makes one herself, double the size of his. “I mean, the way you gave up that shield, deep down you must know it’s all hypocrisy.”

“He knows. And not so deep down.” Both of them turn to see that Zemo has appeared in the doorway, looking entirely unruffled by that night’s escapades.

Sam turns on him. “You planned to trade Bucky to Selby and, what, didn’t think to give me a head’s up?”

Zemo shrugs, unbothered. “You would not have agreed and we would have wasted time arguing. James was more than willing to acquiesce and it would have worked had you not interfered.” He fixes Sam with a long look. It’s not angry. If anything, it’s curious. “Tell me, what did you hope to gain from stepping in? We do not have Nagel’s location. Your friend suffered pain for no reason. A strong leader cannot end up in such middle ground and hope to live a long life.”

A sharp laugh makes them both look at Sharon. “The entire world’s a middle ground,” she argues. “You know that more than anything, Zemo.” She cocks her head to Sam. “Looks like our new Cap is still learning, though.”

“I’m not Cap,” Sam mutters. “I gave up the shield, remember?” And after tonight, he’s seriously questioning Steve’s judgment in giving it to him in the first place. “And tonight wasn’t a waste, we got a name. Wilfred Nagel.”

Sharon’s cold smile slips away. “Nagel works for the Power Broker.” She says that as though it’s the end of an argument.

Sam disagrees. “We need your help, Sharon. I can get your name cleared. I’m sorry I didn’t try earlier, really, I should have—”

“You haggling with my life?”

“Not like that.”

“I don’t buy it. You pretending you can clear my name. What, because I made out with your bestie once upon a time, you think it's your job to rescue me?”

“Steve has nothing to do with it. I want us to help each other because I consider you a friend.”

Sharon stands, pouring herself another drink, and Sam is all too aware of Zemo listening to their every word. No doubt looking for more holes in Sam’s armor to use against him later. “Funny,” Sharon comments. “How I’m only your friend when you need something from me, and not when I’m being exiled by my own country for helping save your ass.”

“That’s… not an unfair comment,” Sam admits. He stands, setting his own drink down. “Okay, maybe it is hypocrisy. But I’m willing to try if you are.”

“I don’t trust charity.”

“It’s not—” Sam cuts off, frustrated. What is it with the people from Steve’s life not being willing to accept his help?

“She wants a deal,” Zemo offers from behind them. “Not pretty words, Cap.”

Sam jabs a finger in his direction. “You don’t get to call me that. And stay out of this, you’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“I’ve done damage?” Zemo lounges against the couch, totally at home amongst the opulence. “Need I remind you why we need to strike a deal to find Nagel in the first place.”

“We are not doing anything,” Sam snaps at him. He turns back to Sharon. “I don’t make deals with friends. We help each other out.”

Sharon snorts. “Well, thanks for all your help the past year, Sam.” She takes a long sip. “How’s this? I’ll throw out a few hooks, see what tips I catch on Nagel’s location. You take him in, you weaken the Power Broker, and that strengthens my position. How does that sound?”

“Cold,” Sam replies.

“It’s a cold world.” Sharon finishes her drink. “I have a meeting with clients in an hour. You’re welcome to crash here to let Bucky recover.” Her eyes slide over to Zemo. “Although that one is being locked in his room.”

Zemo shrugs, nonplussed. “Fair enough.”

All Sam wants is to collapse into one of Sharon’s super-soft beds and sleep, praying that he doesn’t dream of brass knuckles and friends he’s let down. But he still has work to do, and rest can wait. He makes his way to Bucky’s room.

He doesn’t get a reply when he knocks on the door. “Buck,” he calls out. “It’s me. Can I come in?” No response. “I’m going to take silence as a yes. Three… two…” Nothing. As quietly as he can in case by some miracle Bucky’s asleep, Sam eases the door open.

He’s not asleep. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, shirt long since discarded, and Sam winces as he sees the bruises blossoming on his pale skin. “They’ll heal,” Bucky says before Sam can comment. “Barely be there by tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t hurt now.” Sam pads his way over to the bed, gently shutting the door behind him. For the first time in a while, they’re alone. No Zemo, no Sharon, no Dr Raynor. Just the two of them. “Did you at least use the icepacks?”

Bucky doesn’t reply, which is an answer in itself.

“Come on, man.” Sam reaches for the first aid kit, only for Bucky to shake his head. “It’ll help. You’re allowed to get help, Buck.”

Bucky is quiet for a long moment before he murmurs, “Don’t like ice.”

Oh, shit. Sam replaces the ice packs. “Right. Makes sense.” He rakes his eyes over Bucky’s various injuries again, and takes the plunge. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky shrugs it off. “You’re just trying to help. Even when it’s annoying.”

“Not sorry about the ice.” Bucky’s jaw is a mess of black and purple. “About what happened with Selby. That… that shouldn’t have happened.”

Bucky looks as though he’s tasted something sour. “We could have gotten the serum location.”

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” Bucky twists his fingers together, turning the knuckles white. “Could have done some good, for once.”

Sam frowns at that. “What do you think we crossed the pond into Asia for? We’re here to stop Karli.”

Bucky shrugs that off. “Just one more on the list.”

“List?” Sam looks around the room, and spots Steve’s notebook on the bedside table. “The names.”

Bucky shrugs again.

Pieces are starting to come together. “Buck, come on, you know all that talk about making reparations is just government bullshit. You have nothing to make up for. You didn’t have a choice.” Unlike Sam. He had a choice to step in earlier, with Bucky tonight, with Sharon a year ago. He hadn’t. “You know it’s bullshit, right?”

The next words are almost a whisper. “I don’t know, Sam.”

Sam forces himself to take a couple of breaths so he doesn’t take his frustration on Sharon’s luxury bedding. “This is why you should have texted me back.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

The ghost of a smile appears on Bucky’s face. It would put Sam at ease if it didn’t stretch and contort the bruising there. “Makes me miss the forties. Easier to avoid people.”

“Hey.” Sam turns serious again. “You going to tell me why you sided with Zemo over me?”

Bucky shifts, uncomfortable. “That’s not what happened.”

“No? Dreaming up schemes with your new bestie and not letting me in isn’t what happened?”

“You wouldn’t have gone along with it.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t. So instead you dropped me into a plan I had no idea was happening when we were already in the lion’s den.”

Bucky considers that. “Okay, maybe keeping you in the dark wasn’t a good idea.”

“Maybe?”

“But we needed Nagel’s location. It would have worked, Sam.”

“And how would it have worked? We leave you behind with Selby? So she could do even worse to you? No, no way.”

“Sam—”

“I should have stepped in before she hit you even once, Buck. That’s on me.” He feels the fresh sting of Sharon’s words. You know the whole hero thing is a joke, right? “Alright, maybe it blew our cover. I don’t care. I couldn’t watch anymore.”

The words seem to slam into Bucky like a train. He blinks rapidly, as though trying to translate them into English. “Sam…” The word is a croak.

“I mean it. We’re never doing that again. I’m not watching something like that again.”

Sam’s not sure what he’s expecting. A brush-off, probably. For Bucky to dig his heels in, growl out one of his classic I’m fines, to be hurried out of the room so Bucky can mope in peace. The last thing he expects is for Bucky’s eyes to go shiny.

He goes very still, as though trying not to startle a stray cat. He can almost hold the window of opportunity for them to actually talk in his hands, so delicate that one wrong word is going to shatter it. So he doesn’t risk saying anything. Some of his most productive meetings at the VA have been when he hasn’t said a word, and just gave the vets space to speak.

“When I was with HYDRA…” Bucky swallows, darting a nervous look at Sam as though he’s worried he’s going to bolt from the room. No way. Sam’s going to put down roots in this very nice carpet until Bucky’s finished talking. “They, um… they did a lot of bad stuff to me. Really, really bad.”

Sam’s all too aware. He’s seen the files. Even then, he’s sure the worst of it was never recorded.

“And there was always someone…” Bucky swallows again, gripping the bedsheets in an iron fist. So much for protecting Sharon’s bedding. “There was always someone in charge. A scientist or a handler, it didn’t matter. There was always someone to deal out pain.”

Sam forces himself to take a deep breath. And Bucky has spent the past few months being told he has to make reparations for this.

“But that was okay,” Bucky continues. He’s picked a spot somewhere near Sam’s socked foot to stare at. “Well, not okay, but there was a part of me that could understand it. Especially early on, before I was all…” He waves a vague hand around his head. “Before they figured out the Chair, and I was still me. Whoever was working on me that day, it was easy to label them as evil.”

They were, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t dare break his silence. He knows Bucky doesn’t talk to his therapist, not really. He’s not sure how much he told Steve. But this story feels fresh, raw, as though it’s the first time Bucky’s said it out loud.

“They weren’t even what broke me, in the end.” Bucky’s voice is hoarse. “Because it was easy to label them as bullies. Steve’s word.” A beat of grief crosses his face. “They couldn’t get to me, because it was just pain. I could take pain.”

Sam takes in Bucky’s injuries anew. Just because he can take pain, doesn’t mean he should. Still, Sam decides to save that lesson for another day.

“No, what actually got to me was…” Bucky chokes up on the words, and still Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. “There were always other people. Not the people doing the torture or the surgery. Other people just… just watching.”

Sam’s almost afraid to breathe now in case he causes Bucky to shut back down again. The man’s gone back to clutching the sheets, a haunted look on his face that’s definitely going to enter Sam’s nightmares along with those brass knuckles.

“They didn’t care.” The words are so low they’re almost inaudible. “They’d just be observing, making notes or comments, while I was screaming two feet from them. Or, sometimes, they wouldn’t be paying attention at all, and that was even worse. I’d be bleeding on their shoes and they’d be talking about the weather.”

A chill penetrates Sam’s core. Turns out he’d been right about the worst parts of Bucky’s imprisonment not being in the files.

“So, with Selby…” Bucky bites his lip, finally managing to look in Sam’s direction, even if he’s not able to meet his eye. “Thank you. For not just watching. Even if it did really screw up a perfectly good plan that would have—”

Sam’s composure finally breaks. Careful not to jostle any still-mending bones, he slides across the bed to throw his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky goes rigid, and for one terrifying moment Sam’s sure he’s messed this up after all, before all the air seems to drain out of Bucky at once and he slumps against Sam’s chest.

“I’m sorry I watched for as long as I did,” Sam murmurs in his ear. He recalls the look Bucky had thrown him as Selby had brought out the bat. Help. How many times had he looked at his captors that way, praying for someone to step in, for just one person to say stop, this isn’t right, to end it? “She shouldn’t have hurt you. It wasn’t right.”

His response is the tiniest hitch in Bucky’s breath.

“It wasn’t right,” Sam repeats, willing those words to soak into Bucky’s skin. “I should have stepped in sooner. Steve wouldn’t have even let her throw the first punch.”

Bucky leans away from him then. “No, he wouldn’t have,” he agrees after a beat, and Sam feels his heart sink. I mean, the way you gave up that shield, deep down you must know it’s all hypocrisy. Sam doesn’t know, deep down or not. He just knows that if he’s trying to be Steve’s replacement, he’s failing miserably.

Then Bucky continues. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing, though.” He seems to gather himself. “The moment there was trouble, Steve would be there throwing punches. And that includes before the serum. Punk.” Bucky scrapes a hand across his furrowed brow. “The whole incident with Stark and the Accords happened because he jumped in without considering other options. We had a chance for the plan to work, with Selby.”

“We still ended up getting shot at."

“We got a name,” Bucky reminds him. He stares straight ahead, apparently searching for the right words. “I’m just saying… maybe it’s not a terrible thing. That you’re willing to look at all the options. Steve’s sense of justice was one of his greatest strengths, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t bite him the ass too.”

“Maybe,” Sam allows. “Seems everyone has an opinion on who Captain America should be except me. I know you’re mad at me for giving up the shield, but I just… it’s complicated. Trying to follow in Steve’s footsteps.”

Bucky picks at his pants leg. “I don’t think he meant you to,” he says finally. “He gave you the shield because you’re you. Not because he thought you were going to be just like him.”

Sam sits with that. “Me taking up the shield would still be insanely complicated.”

“I know,” Bucky says softly. “And we should have thought of why. Steve always had a habit of seeing the world as how he thought it should be, not how it actually was.” He glances at Sam. “Maybe someone who’s more of a realist is an advantage.”

“Careful, Buck, you’re getting awfully close to a compliment there.”

Bucky lets out a low laugh, before his brow furrows again. “It’s your choice whether you want to take up the mantle or not,” he says finally. “And I know everyone is telling you what you should and shouldn’t do.”

“You about to be one of them?”

Bucky shrugs. “All I know is, after nearly a century of this,” he gestures at his body, “exactly two people have stepped in instead of just watching. Steve. You.”

Something swells in Sam’s chest. Not pride, and not confidence, but he feels a little more like he’s on stable ground than before. “I’m not promising I’m going to take up the shield.”

Bucky draws in a shuddering breath. “I know. I’m just saying… I don’t think Steve was wrong about you.”

Sam reaches out to gently take his wrist. “Maybe. He wasn’t wrong about you either. But also…” Words are rising to the surface that taste a little of rebellion, but something in Sam tells him they’re right. “Who cares what Steve thinks? He’s not here anymore.”

Bucky starts, as though he’s never considered that idea before. Sam’s right there with him—this is new to him too. It lifts a little of the weight that’s been hanging around his neck since he’d first told Steve the shield felt like it belonged to someone else. Steve had an idea of who the next Captain America would be. And so apparently did the US government, Sarah, Karli, Walker, Zemo, Sharon, everyone. Sam could take on their perspectives, he could listen to what they had to say, but at the end of the day, he could choose what kind of hero he decided to be. Not a joke, not a hypocrite, and certainly not a bystander when someone he cared about was getting hurt.

“We’re a mess,” Sam says out loud, and Bucky lets out a surprised laugh. Sam squeezes his wrist, standing. “Sharon’s hunting down Nagel’s location. When she gets it, let’s make a plan to get him together, okay? I can’t be your partner if you keep things from me.”

“Who says we’re partners?” Bucky flops back on the bed, looking like he’s laid down a little of the weight he’s hauling around too.

“No one,” Sam fires back. “That’s an impossible idea.”

“I agree.”

“Ah, so you can agree with me.” Sam stands, hovering in the doorway. “Can I get you anything?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Just need to sleep it off.”

“Alright. See you soon, Buck.”

Sam steps out of the bedroom. He still doesn’t feel like Captain America. But maybe he feels slightly more in control of things than he did a few hours ago. And if Bucky’s finally opening up to him, and he can get Sharon’s name cleared, and stop Karli from hurting anyone else…

It’s a long road ahead of him. But at least he knows he doesn’t have to walk it alone.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb card #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws #sam wilson #bucky barnes #helmut zemo #selby #sharon carter #whump #whump writing #bucky barnes whump #sam & bucky #marvel #mcu #no holds barred beatdown