As you may have noticed I havenât been active and havenât been posting for a long time at this point. Iâm sorry to say that I have decided to log off of Tumblr as I donât enjoy the platform anymore.
Iâll let the profile exist so the content Iâve posted wonât disappear, maybe one day Iâll feel different about this site again. However it wonât be any time soon. Thanks for understanding, I wish everyone I had contact with and every reader a wonderful future :)
I have been super apprehensive about putting this out there. I have a very hard time asking for help but right now I need help.
We, my family, needs help.
As most of you know, with my endometriosis, I haven't been able to work. My brother is the only one in the household with a job after my mom lost her own job a year ago. I have tried to supplement with my Patreon and am editing my book as fast as I can to self-publish but I'm not making as fast a dent as I hoped.
Why am I asking for help?
The past few weeks have been very turbulent in my personal life. My mom was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and while she is very lucky in that surgery, a few weeks of radiation, and medication for the next five years will be all she needs to hopefully make a full recovery, the hospital where she will be treated is two hours away.
While accessible, this means trips to and from said hospital for doctor's appointments and once she has surgery, she will have to get radiation for almost two months, every day, Monday-Friday.
With only my brother bringing in a paycheck to cover household bills, having the money to pay for gas, meals, and other expenses when the time comes feels like a dark cloud over an already bleak situation.
I really hate making this post because asking for this kind of help has always felt like an impossible debt to repay. Anything you can do to help would be invaluable to me and my own. Thank you for taking the time to read.
If you cannot help, thanks for reading anyway and I would appreciate any prayers or good thoughts sent my mom's way.
summary: Owner of a bar full of criminals, maybe you shouldnât be surprised when youâre the sole witness to a hydra hit. In comes Detective Barnes, the quick-witted, flirtatious cop who somehow became a regular at your misfit bar. When he takes it upon himself to ensure your safety off the books, you learn to rely on someone else for a change and find you donât mind it at all. Not when itâs him.
pairing: detective!bucky x reader
word count: ~71,000
warnings: descriptions of violence, smut (parts will be marked with *), torture, a very flirty/protective bucky (bc it counts as a warning ok)
a/n: ok so this series is legit my baby so please be kind and show it love if you feel it đ¸Chapters and drabbles below the cut!
I loved reading this series! It brought a nice balance between canon and au, cute moments between everyone! All characters so interestingly involved in the story! It was very very good!
Summary: Â The gossip that buzzes around in the teacherâs lounge is that sweet, sensitive, divorcĂŠ Steve Rogers is hot-for-teacher. His daughterâs first-grade teacher, to be exact.
Steve Rogers x Reader
â
This has been such a great read! With happiness, angst just enough (not too little and not too much), steamy moments and pining!!! It has been really good, and we do love a happy ending over here!
my favourite thing is when enemies to lovers are getting heatedâŚand their faces end up really close⌠and theyâre making solid eye contactâŚand then one of them is just like⌠*gaze drops to lips*
summary: Steve Rogers is really pretty and it's hard to think straight when you look at his face; Based on the song Gorgeous by Taylor Swift (request by @bent-not-br0kenn and anon)
pairing: steve x reader
word count: 4k
warnings: steve is one fine man đ
a/n: this was written for the wonderfully amazing @msmarvelwrites's Taylor Swift lyric inspired writing challenge ! hope you enjoy my surprising attempt at fluffy cheesy steve goodness đCongrats on 2k!!!
Ocean blue eyes looking in mine
I feel like I might sink and drown and die
Steve Rogers stands at the head of the conference room with the smudge of dry erase marker on his hand and a bullet point list of names on the whiteboard behind him. You know he must be talking about something important because heâs got one hand on his hip, the other holding up his weight against the table. His features are stern, his brows forming a low line as he speaks, but you can't hear a word of it.
Noâ you're too focused on the way his hair lifts away from his face, combed back and reminiscent of his youth in the Army. Formal and dated, but itâs light and airy and begging to be messied through the tips of his fingers. Itâs darker than when you first met him, a shade away from the perfect blonde painted on posters at the Smithsonian, of the Captain America in the wartime movies. His cheekbones are high, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and his lipsâ lips so full and pink, you watch every shape they take with each word he speaks.
But it's his eyes that take you under. Ocean blue so effortless in their current, they draw you in with the belly of an undertow and you know without hesitation you would drown gladly if he would just look at you a moment longer. Allow you the privilege of water to your lungs.
Steve Rogers is just simply... gorgeous.
He straightens his back, his lips pressing into a short pout and heâs no longer speaking, you realize. His brows narrow, his gaze fixating on you and his lips move again. They take the shape of your name and youâre so lost on the way his mouth curves around your syllables you donât realize how quiet the room has become.
Steve shifts then, a smile pressing on his cheeks; the right corner of his lips curve ever so slightly higher than the other as he lets his chin fall to his chest. He shakes his head, shoulders bouncing subtly. He's the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. The sunlight from the open window casts in and touches over his skin, illuminating him in an ethereal glow as if he wasnât already built of the heavens themselves. He starts to laugh to himself and you bite on the edge of your lip to keep yourself from mirroring his grin.
âYou still with us, Y/n?â Steveâs voice breaks through and itâs like whiplash as youâre suddenly jolted from your trance.
You spring up in your chair, brushing a hand over your hair to push down the loose ends that had sprung up in your daydreaming slouch. Your heart beats terribly as you look around the room to find the other agents watching you with a curious look in their eyes. Only Sam Wilson wears a devious smirk and he manages a wink at you before you can kick his shin under the table. He grunts, leaning down to massage the muscle and narrows his eyes at you in warning. You bare your teeth.
Then, embarrassed, you turn back to Steve. âSorry. Iâm here.â
Steve doesnât take any offense as he simply waves you off and returns to the debrief as if nothing had happened at all. The marker squeaks as he rights another name on the list, circling it three times until the color begins to fade to a subtle grey. Itâs not the first set of words youâve exchanged with Steve, but it still feels like you've just taken a dive out of the quinjet. It feels that way any time he so much as acknowledges your existence.
Most of the agents you know straighten their spine when he walks by. They put more weight on the machine or run a little faster around the track. Theyâre eager to impress him, to appeal to the well decorated war hero and earn their rank in his presence. They idolize Captain America, may even be a little afraid of him.
But itâs the man behind the shield that scares you the most.
Itâs the way he smiles to himself when he doesnât think anyone is watching, how he sometimes hides it behind the wall of his coffee mug but the lines by his eyes still give him away. Itâs how he jogs a little to catch the door before it can close, just so he can hold it open for you as you walk by. Itâs because heâs an impossible man built of unparalleled strength and power and he still blushes when Natasha teases him, still draws in his little notebook on the bench down by the lake, still has the same compassion and selflessness he carried in his youth.
Itâs not Captain America you see when you look at him. Itâs Steve Rogers.
You only realize you stopped paying attention again when the room starts to clear out and you look across the table to find Samâs lips pursed together in a knowing look. You nearly kick his shin again before he jumps up away from your reach and quickly skirts out of the room.
âHereâs the highlights,â Steve chuckles, sliding a folder down the table to you.
You reach out and catch it before it can slide off the end. You open the folder and quickly browse through the bullet notes Steve must have written for himself. The most you can gather while youâre not distracted by the near cursive delicacy of Steveâs handwriting is that thereâs a new arms dealer taking root near Philadelphia.
âDonât worry too much about it,â Steve adds as he finishes gathering the rest of the reports. âIâll fill you in if Fury ends up putting you on assignment. I know youâre usually more of the search and rescue type than stakeouts and organized crime, so I doubt youâll end up with the case anyway. Fury just thought we should make everyone aware if we have a new Kingpin on our hands.â
You nod, your lips parted just slightly. You didnât know Steve had any idea what you did within SHIELD, let alone your area of specialty. Sure, you were Natashaâs primary point of contact when she dug up the information that eventually led him to find Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, but you donât expect he knew that.
âThanks, Captain Rogers,â you say, the waver in your voice giving way to the nerves shaking under his gaze.
âHey, come on. Itâs Steve.â That charismatic charm returns to his face as a smile etches up into his cheeks. Itâs genuine and a little shy and made entirely of the scrawny kid in Brooklyn that your heart starts to beat tenfold.
âThanks... Steve,â you try again and at the sound of his name in your voice, he manages to smile a little wider.
The room falls silent around you and for a moment, you find yourself drifting into the shades of blue in his eyes, unable to form another word as long as youâre lost in the waters. Rising and flowing. Pulled by the current and drifting out to sea. Steve doesnât make an effort to turn away and you nearly forget to breathe entirely, water filling your lungs, when you hear a short knock on the door.
In the doorway, a woman stands wearing a visitor pass around her neck, the tag hanging near her waist where taunt skin peaks through the top of her jeans. Sheâs stunning â the kind of beautiful one only sees airbrushed in magazines, but there she is, under harsh florescent conference room lighting, and she looks like she was born of Olympus.
âReady, Steve?â she calls sweetly and your heart drops through the floor.
He gives her a short nod as he crosses the room to her, drawn to her as if his body moves of its own accord. Her hand touches his forearm; perfectly manicured as her fingertips press into the muscle and they grin at one another as if you werenât there at all. You try not to let your heart fracture, but you could feel the edges begin to crumble.
âHey,â Steve says, grabbing your attention. He grins, laughing so sweetly is starts to mends the fractures in your heart. âDonât get too lost in that head of yours, alright? Iâll see you around. Have a good night, Y/n.â
He says it so sincerely that you canât help but smile, even with this impossibly beautiful woman on his arm.
âYou too, Captâ Steve.â
The woman tugs eagerly on his arm and he gives you a final wave before they disappear from the room. When the silence takes over again, thereâs a near buzzing in your ears. Mocking you. Taunting you.
Steve Rogers is a daytime fantasy â a man you know you have no unearthly chance with. So, you settle to admire him from your distance where itâs safe and protected and your heart canât be broken. At least not any more than it already had. You try not to allow yourself to want more.
But stillâ it creeps in.
***
You donât know why you bother going to Carterâs show. You can barely hear yourself think over the thump of the loudspeakers and the base resonates deep into your chest; an unsettling vibration in time with the electronic beats from Carterâs turn table.
You glance up at him from your position at the bar and he doesnât so much as glance in your direction. Heâs too busy catering to the group of women at the center of the dance floor. You have half a mind to be jealous before you remind yourself that itâs not Carterâs attention you really care for anyway.
Carter was the DJ at the party Tony had thrown for a very reluctant Bruce Banner the previous week. You met him at the bar during his break and he offered to buy your next round, not realizing how plainly youâd been staring at Steve Rogers from across the crowd for most of the night. Carter was nice enough and you were still pining over an Adonis way too out of your league to so much as notice your existence, so you halfheartedly agreed when he asked you to come see his set.
As you adjust your stance against the bar, wincing at the tug of the sticky club floor against your shoes, you find yourself regretting your decision to come. You signal the bartender for another whiskey on ice as you set the empty glass on the counter. Thereâs more than just a slight buzz in your head and youâre thankful that even SHEILD Agents get a day off every once in a while.
Another hour goes by and Carter is far too enamored with the woman shouting up song requests from the dance floor, so you set some cash on the bar and leave. It makes you question why you even bothered with him, but then an image of Steve crosses your mind and you remember. You can't get that man out of your head and itâs starting to feel borderline pathetic.
The wind hits you worse than a brick wall and it takes a moment to adjust your eyes to the darkness. The club had colorful strobe lights and neon signs hanging on the walls so itâs almost jarring to be surrounded by the quiet comfort of brick walls and a starless night. When the door closes behind you, you can still hear the vague thump of the music through the cracks. You rub at your temples.
It takes a few steps towards the subway before you realize how many drinks the bartender had replaced before you found the nerve to leave. Your ankles wobble a little on your heels and you quickly grab onto the banister at the end of a brownstone's stoop. Your vision starts to double, swaying in circles, and you clench your eyes tight enough to see the stars missing from the sky.
âY/n?â a voice calls from across the road. âIs that you?â
You look up, but the figure it too far away. All you can see is a vague outline of a man as he quickly jogs across the street, holding up a hand to an oncoming car to block his path. You chuckle to yourself. What little patience he must have to demand a moving vehicle to break for him.
When he approaches, his hands quickly easing you upright and holding you steady, the air nearly leaves your lungs entirely.
Steve Rogers has his hands cupped on the sides of your face; his brows furrowed in concentration as his eyes roam over your exposed skin. His lower lip is tugged between his teeth, full and pink, as he slowly returns to your gaze. Thereâs concern in his eyes, you realize â a beautiful drop of caution amongst the rippling tide of blue.
âMâokay,â you tell him and you wince at how slurred your voice comes out.
He sighs, relief pressing a smile to his lips. Thereâs a slight indent from where his teeth had been. âHaving a good night, huh?â
You think about lying to himâperhaps, telling him about Carter and the promise of his early rise to fame. You think about pretending like Carter was interested in you for more than a quick distraction at Bruceâs party and that he hadnât forgotten that he invited you to his show tonight. You wonder if maybe Steve will care at all.
Maybe he wonât. Maybe, you should tell him that itâs been miserable and all you want is a cone of ice cream piled high enough that it would be statistically impossible to eat the whole thing before it melts all over your hand. Maybe, you should tell him that you want him to come with you, that you think about him all the damn time, that heâs so unfairly pretty that you can barely think when heâs around. Maybeâ
âY/n?â Steve chuckles, tapping you sweetly on your forehead. âYouâre zoning out again.â
You groan, throwing your arms in the air dramatically. âItâs not my fault. You're justâyou're just soââ
Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. âYeah?â
You start to pace, a little off balanced, but Steve is never too far away and you can sense him watching your every step, ready to catch you if you start to fall. The alcohol has long made its way to your head and you can feel the warmth of it burning in your skin. Itâs comforting and freeing and a momentary thought crosses your mind to stop talking but you push it aside.
âYouâre justâ so gorgeous!â you practically shout. âI can-- I can barely say anything to your face becauseâlook at your face, Steve! Youâre gorgeous!â
He starts to laugh. His arms fold over his chest as his head falls and you realize then that he thinks youâre teasing him, that you are not so impossibly serious you can feel the intensity of it down in your bones. He presses himself off from the wall heâd been leaning against and reaches for you.
âAlright doll,â Steve grins. âLet's get you home.â
You jump out from his grasp and he gives you a strange look. You pout your lips, feeling mildly childish but he wasnât listening to you.
âYouâre infuriating, you know that?â you quip and Steve canât help the smile that wonât seem to leave his cheeks. It starts to ache.
âMe?â he challenges teasingly. âWhy?â
âBecause you did this to me, Steve,â you reply sternly through your drunken haze. âYou made me feel this way.â
Steve pauses. âWhat way?â
âThis way!â you tell him though you offer no further explanation.
Steve doesnât seem to understand, but he gives you a short nod as if he does and he starts to guide you towards the taxi you hadnât noticed heâd flagged down. The weight of your body starts to feel too heavy for your bones and you sink into the back seat with ease. Steve climbs in behind you and instructs the driver as he carefully adjusts your seatbelt for you.
The alcohol lulls you easily to sleep. You barely register the shoulder you lean upon or the hand gently brushing the hair from your eyes. It blends into the distance along with the blur of bright city lights as you drive home.
***
You feel the pulse of a blinding headache before you even dare to open your eyes. You groan, turning over on your bed, covering your eyes with your forearm to block the stream of sunlight in from your windows.
When you finally allow yourself to face the light, youâre surprised to find a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on your nightstand stable. You donât recall having the energy to put it there the night before andâwell, you donât recall much of anything after you fell asleep in the cab next to Steve.
Wait.
Steve.
âShitshitshit--â You quickly throw the blankets off the side of the bed, only to find youâre dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The breeze of the AC unit hits your exposed skin and goosebumps begin to prickle on your thigh. You groan, a heat of embarrassment burning through your chest as you stumble into the hallway.
As if on cue, you find Steve standing in the kitchen pouring his coffee. He smiles as he sees you emerge from your bedroom and he raises the cup for you, setting it on the counter. Reluctantly, you follow the intoxicating smell until your hands are wrapped around the base of the mug and you offer him a short nod.
âHow are you feeling this morning?â he grins, taking a sip from his own mug as he leans against the counter.
âHumiliated,â you grumble. You miss the way Steveâs smile falters slightly, his brows narrowing in concern. âIâm so sorry, Steve. I donât even know what to say.â
âNothing,â he says quickly. âIt was nothing. I just got you home is all. You were pretty entertaining before that. Wanda was the one who got you to bed, helped you change... if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
âOh,â you reply, though it doesnât seem to lessen the weight on your chest. You sigh. âI imagine your girlfriend wasnât too happy about you having to deal my drunken mess last night.â
âGirlfriend?â Steve raises an eyebrow.
You shrug. âYeah, the uh... Aphrodite incarnate from the debrief last week...â
Steve laughs, a wash of relief on his face though you still feel tight as stone. He sets his mug on the counter. âLainyâs not my girlfriend. She works for the VA. She was helping me with a speech the mayor roped me into giving on for Veteranâs Day. Sheâs just a friend... trust me.â
Steve shifts in his position, his smile softening as he looks at you. You canât help but feel examined under his gaze and you're certain you look absolutely terrible. You donât have to look in a mirror to know your cheeks are imprinted with the pillow case folds, your hair is uncombed and disheveled, and thereâs dark circles under your eyes. Not exactly the picture of beauty, and stillâSteve won't stop looking at you.
âThereâs been someone else, anyway,â he says simply and you try not to let it show when your heart clenches.
âOh, thatâs um... thatâs nice.â Itâs halfhearted and barely believable, but you say the words anyway because you know itâs the right thing to do. You know there was never a chance in this world that Steve Rogers â carved from the marble of the Gods â would so much as look in your direction. You know this. Still, it hurts.
âYeah,â Steve sighs dreamily. âSheâs incredible. I canât stop smiling when sheâs in the room and itâs becoming a real pain for me, you know. Itâs like everyone can see how enamored I am except her, but I wasnât sure how to talk to her before. I didnât know if I was crossing a line or making assumptions or abusing my rank, but I think Iâve got an idea of how she feels now. I think she likes me, too, so maybe itâs worth a shot, right?â
You nod through the sharp clench of your jaw. It burns terribly and you canât even bring yourself to look at him. Instead, your gaze fixates on the countertop, counting the lines and scratches in the surface.
âI mean,â Steve pauses, âsheâsâ sheâs just soâgorgeous.â
Your eyes snap up to Steveâs and heâs grinning impossibly wide, but all you can feel is the drop in your stomach. You barely notice how the lines form so sweetly by his eyes, light brightening through the ocean blue waves, sun reflecting on the waterâs crest. You donât see how adoringly he watches for your reaction, his growing anticipation as he bites on the edge of his lip, still unable to ease his smile for even a minute.
âAre you making fun of me?â you ask slowly, nervously, but he shakes his head.
âQuite the opposite actually.â Steve reaches for your hand and you watch, stunned, as your fingers effortlessly mold into his, like liquid to one another, perfectly made. He sighs, almost as if the feeling itself is made of relief in his body. âI like you, Y/n. I really like you. And Iâd- I'd like to take you out. On a date. If youâd- uh- if youâd let me.â
You blink, certain you must still be asleep.
âPlease say something before you get lost in your head again,â Steve begs and you can hear the nerves in his voice. He's still smiling at you, but thereâs a hesitation there, an anticipation. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced. His gaze flickers quickly between your eyes and to your intertwined hands. Heâs actually... nervous.
âY-yeah. Okay.â Itâs all you can say. Your heads spinning too quickly for anything else and you know it had much more to do with Steveâs hand wrapped in yours than the wicked hangover youâre currently nursing.
âGreat!â He leans in and quicker than you have a moment to process, presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. It's warm and soft and lighter than air, but it lingers. It takes the breath from your lungs and you barely notice as he lets go of your hand. âEight tonight, okay? Iâve got a place in mind. Best Rocky Road ice cream youâve ever had, I swear it on my life.â
You laugh, nodding along. Youâd happily sit on the couch in the living room with him if he asked. Youâd follow him to the ends of the Earth. Stillâall you can do is nod helplessly. Your cheeks start to ache and you realize itâs from how long youâd been smiling. You touch your fingertips to the worn muscle and Steve watches with such pride on his face, it catches you by surprise.
âEight,â you confirm and it makes Steveâs eye light up.
Somehow, heâs more beautiful this way. Nervous and sweet and adoring.
And stillâ gorgeous.
---
Thank you so much for reading! â¤ď¸ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account â¨
Pairing: King!Thor x Reader     Word Count: 6,990
Warnings: language, talks of death, angst, talks of sex,
A/N: This is seriouslyâŚI mean, I donât even know where this came from. Credits to @darkficsyouneveraskedforâ because Roo gave me the idea and I kinda ran with it. Like omg, yâall. Blame Roo. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo Dialogue from Thor Ragnarok has been used in the beginning of this story.
Please do not REPOST my stories anywhere. Reblogs are most welcome!
Started reading this fanfic a WHILE ago and only now had the time to reread and finish the available parts and honestly⌠ITâS SO FREAKING GOOD!!! Thereâs drama but not too much, just enough to make my heart ache but still be able to patch it all up. I LOVE!!!
because i am a simple woman, i have created yet another uquiz. for this one, you are going to answer some questions about writing and i will tell you what type of book you are.
a horror or mystery book that pushes on the boundaries of the genre.
These books are daring - but each in their own way. All of them want to be unique - to tread in waters that their predecessors have never dared. These books leave you in stunned, horrific awe. They can be wonderfully intriguing, and wholly terrifying, and they are proud of that distinction. They are quiet books, lurking in the corner of a bookstore, a little nondescript, waiting for a lucky person to pick them off of their shelves. They are adored and their fans pick through them, analyzing every bit. They inspire and they frighten. But mostly, they wait to be seen.
Summary: Your dreams of kissing your small town life goodbye are about to come true when an unexpected detour leaves you stranded. Meeting the handsome local mechanic has you rethinking your plans. Perhaps happiness is less about where youâre headed and more about the people you meet along the way.
Song Inspiration: Sleep on the Floor by The Lumineers
summary: There's a reason why Bucky loses control when there's a threat to your life. He's seen the consequences firsthand. From your capture at Hydra, to the rescue and the healing, to the moment he loses himself on the mission that lands him in a holding cell - Bucky will protect you with his life.
pairing: bucky x reader
word count: 7.3k
warnings: torture, gruesome violence, kidnapping/rescue, trauma recovery, PTSD, (you asked for this!!), bucky is stupid in love, protective!bucky is a gift to us all
a/n: this is the prequel/companion piece to Flight Risk, which I highly recommend reading first! Some parts of this may feel confusing without the initial storyline.
read Flight Risk here first!
It was four minutes past your check in time.
Bucky sat hunched over on his bedroom floor; one hand curled tightly around his phone, the other tapping the screen to keep the image of the New York skyline illuminated under the clock. He could feel the panic rising in his chest â the physicality of nerves within the racing of his heart, the quick intake of breath, the slight strain inside his ribcage.
He tried to draw his attention away from clock in favor of the small glimpse of your outline hidden in the corner of the image. It wasnât obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but he could make out your shadowed figure amongst the sunrise, how you'd hung your arms over the barrier as if you might touch the colors in the sky and pull them down to your embrace.
Heâd taken it after a long night of avoiding the demons in his dreams, fighting sleep until it wore on his body. You must have heard his restless pacing that night because you slipped inside his room at the first glimpse of light and wordlessly tangled your hand into his.
You led him to the roof and reminded him that the world still carried beauty and grace and a kindness in its gentle moments. He didnât need much convincing. Not with the memory of your hand clasped in his own, the echo of your smile lighting up along your face as you pointed to the beautiful array of colors hovering over the city. It was a good memory. A comforting one.
Until the clock turned 8:05 and Bucky was thrown right back into the panic creeping into his veins.
Youâd never missed a check in before. Not once. And you knew how crucial they were, especially on solo missions.
Bucky wasnât privileged to the details of your mission, but he knew enough. Heâd noticed the way you looked at him before you left; how your gaze had trailed over the mesh of scars on his shoulder, how your fingers lingered over the plates of his left hand, the remorse and anger infused into your features. He didnât have to question Steve to know it was Hydra youâd be facing.
The knowledge alone was enough to make the last two days unbearable as he waited for you to come home. But you called when you were supposed to. 8:00 sharp each morning. Not a moment later. You only had thirty seconds before the call became traceable but it was all he needed. A short glimpse of your voice through the crackling speaker, a gentle reminder that you were still alright. It was the only thing that allowed him a momentary sense of peace.
But it was 8:07 and Bucky had checked the service connection on his phone twelve times. You still hadnât called.
âCome on,â he mumbled to himself, tapping on the screen again. âJust call, sweetheart. Donât do this to me.â
8:08.
Bucky swallowed back the bitter taste of copper. He hadnât noticed the blood on his tongue or the teeth marks on the inside of his cheek. He forced out a steady breath, trying to ground himself but it was too shallow, too shaken.
A knock tapped against his bedroom door before it crept open. The cry of the hinges felt like nails against a chalkboard â piercing violently through the silence in the room. Steve stood in the frame as it opened, a pained look on his features.
âDonât say it.â Bucky clung to the image of you on his phone, his hand curling so sharply to a fist the glass on his screen began to crack. His stomach was already ten stories below.
Steve sighed, hanging his head. âIâm sorry, Buck.â
And for the first time that morning, the picture faded to black.
***
âYou lost her?â Bucky growled, repeating Furyâs explanation for your sudden disappearance.
It had been nearly 48 hours since your coms went dark and Bucky hadnât slept since. He was barely keeping himself upright â standing only by the force of rage and caffeine in his system.
âThe tracking system on her suit was disabled, Barnes,â Fury said as he leaned a hand against the table. He was too calm, too steady. He gestured to the board of vague information about your mission and a printed image of your badge photo hung to the wall. Too casual. Too clinical. As if you were nothing more than the marks SHIELD targeted in the field. It made Buckyâs blood boil.
âWeâve got our entire team of analysts tracking her as we speak,â Fury continued with a shrug. âThereâs not much else we can do.â
âYou could send a team to look for her!â Bucky shouted, silencing the room. Steveâs hand was on his shoulder in warning, but Bucky shook him off, unable to settle the fire consuming through his body. âYou could lift a damn finger to help one of your best agents beforeâbefore she comes home in a body bag! You could fucking give a shit!â
Bucky slammed his hands against the table, startling the line of analysts quickly typing away at their computers. The room stilled; all eyes cautiously turning to him, afraid to so much as breathe in fear set off the Winter Soldier. Buckyâs face was red, his gaze so sharp it could have cut through the tension of the air itself. When he pulled his hands back, there was an imprint left behind on the conference room table.
Fury crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. âYou done?â
Bucky clenched his jaw. He didnât trust himself to speak without being thrown into the holding cells in the basement of the compound.
âThe second we have a location, Captain Rogers has been cleared for an extraction team,â Fury said as he picked up a folder placed in front of him, slowly flipping through the pages without so much as looking in Buckyâs direction. âDonât make me regret your place on that team, Sergeant Barnes.â
Still. There was no relief.
***
Bucky watched the security footage a dozen times. Grainy and pixelated in the distance, a camera had caught sight of you outside of a cafĂŠ in Brussels. Hands in your pockets, a cautious glance over your shoulder, a quickening in your step. You were being followed.
It switched to an ATM footage from across the street. Only moments must have passed between the footage, but it was enough. Your image was too blurry to catch a decent look at your face, but he could tell from the sharp contrast of red spilling down from your nose and the limp hang of your body as you were dragged into the alley that you were unconscious. It was the only footage they had and Bucky had committed it to memory before Steve could drag him away from the screen.
Five days. It had been five days since Bucky sat helplessly on the floor of his room and waited for your call. Five days since you were taken.
Not even the hum of the quinjet could drown out the voices in his head. They were screaming at him. Reminders that he would not get to you in time, that heâd find your body in a heap of blood and your skin long discolored and cold. Telling him that heâd missed his chance to hold you the way he craved, to touch you, to love you.
âLanding in five,â Sam called back to the team from the pilotâs seat.
Bucky nodded, centering himself. His needs didnât matter. Heâd live happily in the shadows of your life if it meant you survived this. Heâd never admit his feelings aloud, heâd be grateful for the moments he shared with you on the roof at five in the morning and movie nights on the couch and loving you from a distance. Heâd give anything.
When his boots touched the ground, a darkness cooled over him. Whether it was the soldier returning to the surface or something else entirely, Bucky didnât care. All he knew was that you were somewhere within the Hydra base barricaded in front of him and he would rip through brick and body, flesh and stone, blood and armor, until he found you.
He shot down four Hydra agents from the roof before he took his first step.
***
The path to your cell was coated in blood. It was on the floor, sprayed to the walls, dripping from the tips of Buckyâs fingers. It slipped between plates of metal and stained into his skin. Violence etched into his body as if it were all he was made to do. Violence that he might put to decent use if it meant saving you from this hell.
He didnât allow himself a moment of rest, not a single second to breathe as he barreled his shoulder to the door caging you inside. It was the only room heavily fortified with a dozen guards protecting the entrance now laid in a mess of their own blood, unmoving limbs entangled upon the concrete.
When the hinges began to snap, Bucky summoned whatever remained of his strength and shoved his way inside. He could still feel the throbbing in his arm, the nerves screaming at him where metal met flesh, but it was nothing in comparison to agony he felt upon seeing you.
Wrists bound above your head, chains linked from the ceiling and blood trailing down from where they cut into your skin. Your head hung low onto your chest where he could not see your face, your body slumped down on your knees. Suit torn and carved marks exposed where blades had cut through the fabric.
Bucky sprinted through the open door, skidding on his knees in front of you. His hands darted to your face, thumbs desperately wiping away the mess of blood and dirt, pushing aside the damp wash of your hair soaked deep in red. He choked back a sob as he touched over the swelling on your face; the evidence of bruising and infection. His fingers grazed over your neck, shaking as he checked for a pulse.
It was subtle and faint, but godâit was there.
âIâve got you,â Bucky said, reluctantly releasing your face to remove the cuffs from your wrists. Gingerly as he could, he clenched his left hand around the chain and squeezed until it snapped. Your arms swung down onto his shoulders and Bucky held you to his chest, catching your body before you could touch the concrete below.
You whined at the sudden movement and Buckyâs heart skipped.
âY/n?â he tried, hesitant to pull back enough to look at your face again, terrified heâd imagined the sound. But then, you began to stir in his arms, your chest rising heavy with each breath, and you began to push at his chest weakly.
âN-no, please...â Your voice was barely a whisper. Faded with strain Bucky didnât not dare to imagine. You hardly had the strength to put pressure against his chest, let alone fight your way out of his embrace. But there was panic in your veinsâyour fingers trembled as they pressed over his heart.
âY/n, itâs okay. Itâs me,â Bucky eased as gently as he could. You were too out of it to know whose arms were around you, whoâs chest you were laid upon. âItâs Bucky. Youâre safe, sweetheart. Iâm here.â
You stilled. Eyes slowly blinking as your hands gripped into the fabric of his suit. You couldnât focus, your gaze fixated on his chest. Blood dripped down over your forehead and into your eyes and Bucky longed to reach out to brush it away, but he knew you needed this moment to come back into yourself, to see him and know that he was real. To know another monster would not ever lay their hands upon you again.
When you met his eye, the numbed expression upon your features began to crack. Your lips formed around his name as if you didnât have the strength to speak it aloud and all he could offer you in return was a nod, a tear slipping down his cheek. A strangled sob broke through you and perhaps the water might have washed some of the blood on your skin if you had any to spare. It seemed youâd been starved and dehydrated amongst all the beatings you endured.
With the little strength you had left, your arms wrapped around Buckyâs neck, clinging to him. He could feel every tremor in your body, how delicate you felt against him as if the last five days had worn you down to nothing. Bucky clenched his jaw so tight he tasted blood.
âIâm here, sweetheart. Iâve got you,â he repeated against your ear, breath catching in your hair. He stroked his hand along your spine, wincing at the catch of fabric where your captors had carved in his absence. âYouâre alright now. Youâre okay. Youâre safe now, honey.â
Desperate to get you away from that room, Bucky tucked an arm under your knees, the other around your back, and pulled you against his chest. He rose on shaken legs, unable to take a second glance back at the stain of deep read in the concrete where you had been. He didnât dare acknowledge the low swing of the chain hanging from the ceiling or the shards of cuffs sticking into the gathering of blood.
He felt it the moment your body gave out. Youâd gone limp in his arms and Bucky started checking for the subtle exhale of your breaths with every few steps. Perhaps it was a blessing, to allow you an escape from this pain, from the horrors of whatever youâd faced in that room. But Bucky was still here, still holding you, still watching over you.
Heâd die before he let you return to that room.
***
Bucky didnât know how you were keeping it together so well. There was a bandage wrapped around your wrist; hiding away the red and vile burn, the oozing infection and bubbled blisters. It covered the mark of a skull and the six tentacles curled under its bonesâthe Hydra insignia theyâd branded upon your skin. Bucky was nauseous at the very thought of it alone and yet you smiled at him through the bruising on your face, through the cut down the center of your bottom lip.
âAre you sure youâre alright?â he asked for the third time in as many minutes. He held open the elevator door as you stepped through. It would be your first night back in your room after a week spent in the med wing. Helen had only cleared you an hour earlier and Bucky wasnât sure he was ready for you to be without the comforting beep of a heart monitor over your bedside, the reliant rhythm reminding him that you were still there with him, still safe and alive.
âIâm looking forward to my own bed, Buck,â you laughed, pinching his side.
Bucky tried to return the smile, but there had been a time he wasnât sure heâd ever hear such a sound from you againâsomething filled with such light and joy, even amongst the darkness etched into your skin.
âOkay, well...â Bucky sighed, fumbling with his hands at the threshold to your bedroom. âPromise youâll call if you need anything?â
You set a hand on his forearm, offering him a sweet smile. He closed his eyes at the sensation of your touch, how easily you allowed it to linger.
âOf course, Buck.â
As you stepped into your room, it didnât slip his notice that you hadnât close the door until it latched. Instead, a steady stream of light crept in between the cracks, allowing an outline of your shadow to still be seen from the living room beyond your door. You were afraid to close yourself inside, to lose the connection to the outside world and maybe... to him.
Bucky glanced to the couch nestled only a few feet away from your room. His bedroom shared a wall with you, so he knew heâd be able to hear if anything went wrong in the middle of the night. Hell, he didnât expect to get much sleep anyway, but if he took the couch, he might be able to listen for the things not even his enhanced hearing could decipher through the drywall.
Your steady breaths as you fell asleep. A gentle twist over the sheets. The even pace of your heart. Reminders that you were as fine as you claimed and he had nothing to worry about.
But as Bucky settled into the couch, passing the time by counting the speckles in the ceiling tiles, the sounds he heard from your bedroom did anything but comfort his concern. They broke his heart.
Muffled cries into your pillow. The harsh break of a whimper in your voice. The frequent tossing and turning to escape the demons Bucky knew too well.
Slowly, he made his way to the door, pausing at the threshold. He wasnât sure if this was a line he was allowed to cross, if youâd welcome his presence under the threat of nightmares and Hydra. He wondered if you might look at him in fear, if you might see him and think only of machine Hydra created. But then you started to cry out, thrashing against the bed, and Bucky didnât allow himself another minute of hesitancy.
âY/n?â he called gently, inching towards your bed. His hands hovered over your body, paralyzed by the series of cuts and bruises coating your exposed skin.
âSweetheart? Wake up for me,â Buck urged, his heart straining as he noticed the reflective lines over your cheeks. âPlease, Y/n. Youâre okay. Youâre safe. Wake up.â
Cautiously, Bucky allowed his fingers to graze over your shoulders in an effort to draw you from your nightmares kindly, but he should have known Hydra would not allow for such tenderness.
Your body jolted forward on the bed, swatting away Buckyâs hands as if the feathered touch has left behind bruises and blood and wound deep enough to catch the white reflection of bone beneath the rubble.
Your eyes were blown wide, tear tracks down your face. Your whole body was shaking, trembling so terribly the bed post tapped against the wall. The mask of calm and strength and survival youâd been wearing for the last week crumbled under the weight of what Hydra had done to you and when you met his gaze, you shattered.
âDonât let them take me back there,â you gasped as a sob threatened to drown you, barely able to catch your breath. âDonât let them take me, Bucky. Please... Donât...â
Buckyâs heart lurched and he rushed towards you, gathering you into his arms and gently pulled you back into the warm embrace of the bed. He held your trembling frame against his own, holding you tight enough to prove to you that this was real, that you were safe within his arms.
âI wonât let anyone hurt you,â he eased, soothing a hand in circles along your spine. Tears wetted the thin fabric of his shirt as you clung to him. âIâm right here. I promise you, sweetheart. No one's going to take you from me.â
It took almost an hour before you found your breath again and your cries softened. Even as your body relaxed and gave way from the shaking, Bucky couldnât let go of the clench inside of chest, couldnât let go of the wet spots on his t-shirt and the wounds over your arms he so carefully tried to avoid. He wouldnât dare allow himself to look at the wrapped bandage over your wrist.
You fell asleep in his arms, your nose pressed to the crook of his neck, the constant reminder of your warm breath against his skin.
Bucky didnât sleep much at all.
***
Bucky could feel himself pushing at the boundaries heâd sworn were enough.
In the weeks after your rescue, Bucky could hardly stand to be away from you for longer than a few minutes at a time. Heâd tried to give you space, lingering towards the edges of the room when you worked on building muscle again with Natasha at the gym, when you made waffles in the kitchen with Sam, or sat on the porch overlooking the lake as you read.
Every so often youâd lift your eyes in search of him, a brief moment of spontaneous panic, but youâd settle the moment Bucky smiled at you, when the realization of his near presence seemed to be a relief to your worries.
As the scars on your body began to heal, the bruising fading from the constellations of colors it carried, the cries in the dead of night coming fewer and far between, Bucky knew something had shifted between you.
Heâd spent weeks sleeping on the couch outside your bedroom until one day, he woke to find you curled up on the couch beside him â tucked into the little space at the edge of the cushions, your arm draped around his waist to keep from falling to the carpet. After that, heâd started the night in your bed.
You never spoke of what happened in that cell and Bucky never dared to ask. The details didnât matter, he supposed. Nothing could be worse than the nightmares he imagined in his head and he knew it would not ease your pain to tell him the story behind every scar. Still, Bucky often found himself grazing his fingers over the scarred burn on your wrist, covering the Hydra symbol with his palm and soothing the sting of the mark as best he could.
This line between you was a dangerous one. Sitting so close to you on the couch that the length of his thigh touched over the expose skin beneath your shorts. Fingertips lingering over your shoulder blades when he adjusted your stance in the ring. Watching the gentle rise of your chest as you slept easily through the night. These small, impossible moments when Bucky realized he would walk through the valley of death itself before he allowed any harm to come to you again.
It was four months after you returned home that Fury started to ask when you would be ready for field ops again. Your body had regained the muscle it lost, the scars no more than faded discoloration to your skin. You were smiling again and learning how to navigate the shadows at night, but giving yourself back to the demons who had torn you to pieces was no something you thought you could endure.
âI donât know whatâs wrong with me,â you huffed, sinking back into the pillows. The bowl of popcorn shifted on the bed and spilled into your lap.
Bucky lifted his head, the imprint of your pillows still fresh on his cheeks. He paused the movie and sat up. âThereâs nothing wrong with you, Y/n.â
âI should have been back in the field by now,â you groaned, your meeting with Fury clearly still fresh on your mind even hours later. âSteve gets beat within an inch of his life and heâs back out there in a matter of days!â
âSteve is a super soldier and a stubborn adrenaline junkie,â Bucky argued as he pinched your side, trying to draw a laugh of out you. âBesides, he heals faster than you do, sweetheart.â
But then, you brushed at your eyes and Buckyâs smile fell. He removed the popcorn from between you and held his arms open. It didnât take much for you to fall in against him, and still, he savored the sweet press of your weight against him.
âI should be stronger than this,â you sighed, the heat of your breath against his neck.
Bucky clenched his jaw. He knew that for every few steps forward you took, there was still a weight on your ankles pulling you back. He knew because heâd felt the drag of the chains himself. He knew what it was like to relearn what it felt to be safe, to be cared for. He knew the self-doubt that it carried, the guilt, the shame. It was never a feeling he wanted you to understand.
âYou are strong,â Bucky said with as much conviction as he could muster because godâhe did mean it. You pulled back enough that he could see the doubt in your eyes and he doubled down. âYou are, Y/n. The strongest woman I know. You survived, sweetheart. Can that not be enough for now? Can you not grant yourself the kindness to recover at your own pace? Have some grace for yourself. I need you do that for me.â
Your lips parted, stunned. Slowly, you nodded and allowed him to guide you back into his arms. Neither of you said a word as you nestled back into the bed and Bucky resumed the movie. But he felt the trace of your fingertips over his chest, the ease of your heart as you began to relax again. Quiet murmurings of appreciation.
***
âI did it!â you shouted, sprinting across the hall with a smile so wide on your face it almost knocked Bucky out entirely. You jumped into his arms, your feet lifting off the floor as he spun you around. He could feel the echo of your laugher against him, the implicit joy and relief and hope radiating off of your body.
âIâm so proud of you, sweetheart,â Bucky laughed. âHowâd it go?â
âPretty sure Sam and I pissed off Steve pretty bad, but the mission was a success so he canât be too mad about it,â you grinned. Beamed. Brightened.
God, Bucky was such a goner.
It was your first day in the analystsâ room. You wanted to be part of the team again, to contribute enough to make up for your lack in the field â though Bucky tried to convince you there was nothing to atone for. Youâd always been good with computers, so Steve suggested you be the teamâs eyes in the sky. It was enough to get you smiling again, to feel like you were making a difference.
You liked to be needed, youâd told him. You missed the feeling of being a part of something bigger than yourself, to put good back into the world as you were trained to do. This allowed you to do it from the security of the compound â safe within steel enforced walls, a blanket draped over your lap, music playing softly in the background as you hacked into systems hundreds of miles away and teased Steve mercilessly through the coms.
You only wanted to feel needed again. By the team. By the world.
Bucky would always need you. Whether you were an Avenger or if you dedicated the rest of your life to pajamas and waffles. He'd always need you.
***
As the months passed by, you began to settle into your new role. Thrilled to be working with the team again and learning how to find comfort from behind a keyboard and dimly lit screen. Your voice in his ear was the only thing that finally allowed Bucky to agree to go on missions again.
Youâd been the one to push him towards itâinsisting that he didnât need to put his life on hold, especially since youâd found a new normal again. Heâd nodded weakly as his gaze traced along the stubborn burn on your wrist that didnât have the decency to heal the way the rest of your scars did. Youâd notice, as you always did, and gently covered the brand from his view.
Bucky made you promise to meet him at the landing bay when he came back. It wasnât enough to have you on the coms guiding his every move, a teasing glance up at every security camera youâd hacked into until he caught your laugh through the speakers. It would never be enoughânot until he could confirm with his own eyes that you were still as safe as heâd left you.
Youâd sprint down to the landing bay at the first sound of the quinjetâs engines, shoving aside agents curious enough to catch a glimpse of the Avengers as they disembarked. You could hardly contain your excitement, shifting nervously on your feet until youâd eventually spot him.
It would only be a moment â sweet relief and reprieve and youâd jump into his arms. Youâd tell him you missed him and all about the new movie you wanted him to watch. Heâd be aching and sore but it wouldnât matter when you were wrapped in his arms.
Perhaps that was why heâd been avoiding this conversation.
Bucky stood in the frame to your bedroom. He still wore creases on his cheeks from the lines of your sweatshirt, his hair a little messy from hours spent on the couch. He wrung at his hands, dragging metal over flesh until it burned red because he didnât know how to meet your eye. He could feel you watching him, a concern softening your features as you crawled of the bed, set the popcorn on the table, and walked to him.
âIâve been assigned to a mission,â Bucky admitted reluctantly. âIâll be gone awhile. A few weeks at most.â
You nodded, though your jaw was clamped tight. It was the longest heâd ever been away from you, even before the hell you endured. He tried to argue his way out of it, but Steve needed him. It wasnât supposed to be a heavy combat mission anyway, and Steve promised he could call you for his check ins since you wouldnât be on coms with him on this one. Natasha already agreed to be his stand in for movie nights. He hoped it would be enough.
And stillâhe could see the disappointment through the smile you pushed out.
âItâs okay, Bucky,â you told him, the light not quite touching your eyes. âYou can go. Iâll be fine. Iâve been fine for a while, actually.â
He knew. He knew how much progress youâd made, how little the nightmares woke you screaming these days, how you no longer jumped at sudden noises, how you laughed more than you cried. He knew and he was so immensely proud of you that it ached.
But heâd hoped you ask him to stay. That you might tell him you needed him. He would have defied Steve and Fury and anyone who dared to stand in his way if only you asked.
His fingertips reached for your wrist, gingerly turning it over to touch the burn mark discolored over your skin. Angry and swollen after all these months, the Hydra emblem still a constant reminder of the pain youâd endured. Bucky grazed his thumb over the edges and though he knew it no longer ached at the touch, it left a different kind of torture in its place.
It was enough to solidify his decision to go.
âIâll be back as soon as I can,â was all he said.
You smiled. âI know, Buck. Iâll wait for you on the landing bay.â
Bucky sighed, clinging to the image of the smile that would press up high into your cheeks, the giddy yelp of excitement, the skip in your steps as you raced to him. Always to himâas if he were something worth waiting for, worth running towards. It never crossed your mind to run away, to shield yourself against him. Perhaps it was why he loved you so much.
***
âSomethingâs wrong,â Steve warned, taking a second glance back down the empty corridor.
âI thought you were the one that said we shouldnât expect trouble,â Sam raised an eyebrow, still typing away at the computer. âThis isnât a combat mission, Steve. Intel extraction only, remember?â
Steve shook his head, unconvinced. âIt shouldnât be this easy.â
âMaybe we should just take the win and stop questioning it,â Bucky shrugged. He fidgeted with the clicks on his rifle, tapping his fingers over the comforting metal. âGets us home faster, doesnât it?â
It had already been almost a week since he last saw you and he wasnât trying to extend this mission any longer than it needed to be. They were on track to get home within the next few days â already weeks earlier than anticipated. All he could picture was the look of surprise on your face when he walked into your room, not even giving you the chance to meet him in the landing bay.
He imagined you jumping up out of the bed, the popcorn spilling into the sheets, the reflection of the television the only light in the room. Youâd jump into his arms and his ribs would ache from the nasty punch he took the day before, but he wouldnât mind. He just wanted to feel you again.
âBarnes wants to get home to his girl. Huh, Cap?â Sam snickered. It was impossibly irritating how easily he found the time the mock Bucky without missing a single keystroke.
âLeave him alone, Sam,â Steve chuckled, failing miserably to keep a straight face. âItâs sweet.â
âItâs painful, is what it is!â Sam groaned. âYou going to tell that poor girl youâre stupid in love with her yet or are you going to drag your feet for another month?â
Bucky gritted his teeth. âSheâs been through hell, Sam. Wasnât exactly an appropriate time to confess my feelings while sheâs having panic attacks in the middle of the night and changing bandages over thatâthat goddamn brand on her wrist because it keeps getting infected!â
Steve sighed, his teasing grin quickly slipping away in favor of something softer. âItâs not as bad as it used to be, Buck. She hasnât had a nightmare in weeks and that burn scarred over months ago. Sheâs not as fragile as she was when you brought her home.â
The weight of it sank into Buckyâs chest. He hung his head. âI know. Sheâs... sheâs come so far and Iâm so fucking proud of her... I just donât want to do anything that could set her back.â
âYouâre making excuses,â Sam said flatly. The clicking of the keyboard echoed into the room. Bucky could feel the tapping of it on his bones. Click. Click. Click. âWe all know she loves you, man. Donât be aâ" Sam froze. "What the hell?â
The computer screen went black. Sam lifted his hands from the keyboard, shooting a cautious glance back at Steve and Bucky. Then slowly, an image began to emerge from the darkness â made of a series of green numbers, perfectly aligned into shape of a manâs face. It smirked.
âIt is good to have visitors,â the figure on the computer began to speak. Bucky flinched at the sound, instinctively aiming his weapon at the monitor. âIt has been so long since weâve had company in such high regard. Captain America. The Falcon. Ah, yes... and our dear pet... Hello again, Soldat.â
âSteve...â Sam warned, gesturing to the hall where shadows began to gather along the walls. An army was coming for them.
âWhat do you want?â Bucky barked at the screen, his finger moving to the trigger.
âYou, of course,â it replied.
âYouâre shit out of luck, Oz,â Sam snapped. âTriggers are long gone.â
The face did not seem surprised, if an animated series of numbers could have such an expression. But instead, a grin curved on its mouth. It was unpleasant to look at, unnatural. It left a jarring feeling in Buckyâs stomach.
âWe have no need for the barbaric tools of our fathers.â The face turned to Bucky. âThere are other ways of securing leverage over a man. Much more... traditional tools for compliance. Perhaps I can provide you with an example.â
âWe need to get out of here, now,â Steve ordered. The footsteps echoing in the hall were growing louder. âItâs going to be a nasty fight out of here andââ
The words died on his tongue.
Upon the screen was no longer a deep, unsettling darkness. Instead, it flickered to the faint image of a roomâa cell.
The camera was angled from the top corner of the ceiling and at the center of the image was you. Arms tied above your head, blood trickling down your forearms. Bucky only realized what he was seeing was video footage as your quiet whimpers began to echo from the speakers. You tugged helplessly at the cuffs, the metal digging deeper into your skin until it bled over again. Droplets ran down your arms like rain against a window pain. Chasing one another. Streaks of red.
Then, the sound of locks clicking and you head snapped up. Eyes wide, fearful. Bucky was paralyzed where he stood. He couldnât look away as you tried to stand, to get as far away from the men invading your cell as you could, only to be dragged back by the chain securing you to the center of the room.
âDonât! PleaseâI donâtâ I donât know anything about Project Pegasus! I swear!â you begged, voice cracking enough to splinter straight through Buckyâs chest. The gun went limp in his hands as he saw what the men had dragged in.
One of the men pulled an iron rod from the center of burning coals. The end was burned in bright orange and reds, the insignia of the Hydra emblem dipped in flame. You shook your head, tears mixing into the dried blood and dirt caked onto your face. Gentle paths of wet streaks breaking through the evidence of your torture.
âPlease,â you sobbed, so tired, so achingâyou'd had enough already. Your suit was already thrashed. Cuts and bruises already coated most of your skin. As the man approached, you hardly fought back. You didnât have the energy for it.
âBuck... you shouldnât watch this,â Sam tried, setting a hand on Buckyâs forearm but he couldnât look away.
Your self-preservation must have kicked in as the man approached, as the heat of the iron singed the hair on your arms without even touching them. You kicked at his shins, shook the chains until blood poured from behind the cuffs. The rattling of the metal was deafening. But it made no difference.
The man plunged the iron at the inside of your wrist and thatâs when you started to scream.
Samâs hands jumped to his ears to block out the sound. Steve could hardly stand still, clenching his jaw as he turned away from the screen. But BuckyâBucky did not move. He didnât breathe. Didnât so much as flinch.
Your screams filled into his lungs. The break in your voice â the gasp for air. The sobs pulling you apart at the seams. The rasp as your body started to give out and allowed you the comfort of its cold embrace. Consuming him. Drowning him.
Eventually, your body slumped over, limp as it hung from the chains above. The man removed the iron to reveal a mess of burns, blisters, and blood. The silence that followed was worse than the screams. It was still echoing in his headâthe sound cursed to replay on an endless loop, infiltrating the comfort of silence, echoing in the back of his mind.
He was numbed. Empty. As cold and as dark as he was when his own memories had been ripped from his mind, replaced only with the singularity of the mission at hand. As his gaze burned to the screen, on the image of your unconscious body hanging from those chains, your screams still present within the silence, Bucky assigned himself a mission of his own. Consequences damned.
âBucky,â Steve called, an urgency in his voice as he glanced to the hall. âWe have to get out of here.â
The screen went dark.
And Bucky went for blood.
He didnât know how many men he killed. He could hardly feel the warmth of their blood on his hands, the splatter of it on his face and the taste of copper on his tongue. It was as if his body was moving of its own accord â the violence he knew so well etched into his very bones. The Winter Soldier of another kind â the machine theyâd trained him to be now used as a weapon against them. Blood for blood. An even trade.
One kill shot wasnât enough. Noâhe'd settle for three the gut first. Maybe a twist of his knife to their jugular too. He wanted to hear them scream a little before they went down. One man had the audacity to beg and Bucky didnât so much as spare him a glance as he fired at his knee caps.
He didnât stop until blood was dripping from the ends of his hair â blood that did not belong to him. He didnât let up even as he dropped body after body, your screams still playing on an endless loop and drowning out the heavy thud of each man as they hit the ground.
When he reached the end of the hall, he found no relief. Noâhe'd have to track down every last Hydra agent that could have laid a hand upon you. Heâd hunt them all. Heâd rip them limb from him. The silence carried and stillâhe heard you screaming.
âBucky, stop.â Steve stood at the door. The only barrier between Bucky and the vengeance you deserved.
âWe canât let you do this, man,â Sam warned, readying himself.
They didnât understand. They didnât know how it felt to see their own heart beaten and bloodied and done nothing to stop it. They didnât know the agony of a slow recovery, of watching the woman they loved lose herself and have to regain pieces of sanity bit by bit until it resembled something whole. They didnât understand.
âGet out of my way,â Bucky growled. His voice was detached. Empty. He didnât sound like himself. He didnât care.
âThis ends here, Buck,â Steve said, flashing his shield. âYouâve done enough.â
âIt wonât ever be enoughâ donât you get that?â Bucky shook the blood from the tips of his fingers, letting it splatter like paint against the walls. âNot until theyâre all dead.â
âAnd what happens to you in the process?â Steve challenged.
Bucky clenched his fists. His silence was answer enough. Noting was going to stand in his way.
Heâd fight his best friend if he had to. Heâd do whatever it took to see every last Hydra agent in shreds just so he could prove to you that you were finally safe again. Heâd destroy the whole world and burn heaven to the ground if it meant giving you even an ounce of peace. Heâd--
Electricity coursed up his arm and the shock of it gave way to his knees. He hit the ground, disoriented, and by the time it subsided there were handcuffs strapped to his wrists. Industrial enough for a wild animal.
Sam clenched his jaw, a remorseful look on his. âSorry, pal.â
Bucky didnât take kindly to the sudden stillness. The numbing ache began to fade and instead, he was filled with such guilt and agony and shame, he could hardly bare it. He didnât have the strength to argue with Steve or berate Sam for the cuffs heâd shackled on his wrists. Blood was already dripping onto the reinforced metal.
As Steve led him back to the quinjet, footprints following him in shades of red, Bucky tried push aside the scream still lingering through the back of his thoughts. The break. The sobs. But it wouldnât leave him. He wasnât sure it ever would.
Steve would put him in the holding cell when they got back. He knew enough for that. But youâd be waiting for him. Youâd see the blood and the cuffs and the shame on his face. He wondered if you might finally take the opportunity to run as he always expected you mightâbecause how could you possibly give so much of yourself to man with so little control?
Heâd give you his life if he could. He almost traded his freedom for a chance at a vengeance for the hell you endured.
He hoped that you might still be able to look at him after what heâd done. The men heâd killed. The blood on his hands. The pain he could not save you from.
He supposed he would find out.
---
and now we're back to the beginning of Flight Risk! Welcome to the endless loop đ
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Just as beautiful as the first part, or I guess second haha. Really how do you do it, you seem to be able to write so effortlessly and itâs always so damn good!
itâs just hard not to think about the fact that in 1915, JRR Tolkien went to war not with but certainly in the same army and many of the same battles as his 3 best school friends, all nicely upper class young men who had never known much loss, and only he and one other came back alive - and a couple decades later, he wrote a book in which 3 nicely upper class young men (and one very excellent gardener) who have never known much loss go to war together, or at least they start out together, and they all come home alive. (Though one cannot bear it, and does not stay.)
What more it wasnât just losing his friends, he was a commanding officer of a battalion of working class men. All farmers and miners from the same area of Lancashire. He felt affinity for them, but wasnât allowed to socialize between the ranks due to military protocol and he hated it.Â
 "The most improper job of any man ... is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity."
I donât think it was even 6 months later that he contracted trench fever and was sent home.Â
His entire command was wiped out in one charge shortly after, the majority of a whole countrysideâs youths slaughtered while he survived. Youths who were brave and steadfast, but thought of as lesser than their superior officers while still being the ones carrying the actual battle. Youths who deserved fellowship, respect, and above all to go home and dance with their own Rosie.
âMy Sam Gamgee is indeed a reflection of the English soldier, of the privates and batmen I knew in the 1914 war, and recognised as so far superior to myselfâ.Â
There is a reason Frodo, who represents the English gentry, in the end falls and is caught by Samwise, who represents the common man.
But there is a soldier in Lord of the Rings who does not come back, and I donât mean Boromir.
I mean the being who was a common hobbit, but who became corrupted by darkness and poison, whoâs face is described in ways reminiscent of a gas mask.
The soldier who doesnât come home, who is poisoned by gas and stress and insanity.
The Lord of the Rings repeatedly stresses the horrors of war. Eowyn's entire arc is about the truth of warfare versus the way it's glorified. She starts out glorifying war and combat and soldiers, even when her own brother is telling her war sucks and is terrible. And then in the end, she sees first hand what war does to people.
Aragorn's entire arc isn't to be the steadfast hero saving the day, it's to hold the line in terror and horror and blood while the overlooked folk are the people who save the world. And then, what makes him a king, is not his skill in battle, but his healing hands.
Which then ties into both Eowyn and Faramir's arcs. Eowyn goes into healing not because she's a weak and meek woman, but because war is horrible and saving lives is better than taking them. Aragorn is glorified within the text for his healing, and so is Eowyn.
Also, tying into the common man thing, in the movies it's Faramir but in the books it's SAMWISE who questions what brings a man so far from home to fight in a war and if he is really so different.
