No thoughts besides imagining what an understanding partner Bucky would be for a person with mental health struggles:
(!Trigger warning!:mental health)
Bucky laying on the bed with you,his strong arms engulfing you in his safe embrace,reminding you you are not alone.He knows you pretend to sleep because it makes things simpler.He knows you are in pain.But you don't have to pretend with him.You don't have to explain why you're still in bed.You don't have spill your heart out,to prove out your pain is big enough for you to be like this.You dont have to remind him of your guilt,or curse your existence and whatever made you like this to prove to him that you really have no choice.You can just hold him closer(if possible) and just..breath him in.You can just...listen to his voice whispering sweet nothings that are anything but nothing to you.You let him rock you back and forth while his arms are stroking your hair and drawing circles on your back.Because when you are with Bucky,you mind is finally silent.With Bucky,your heart is finally peaceful.Because you know,that with Bucky,you will always be safe.
summary: After feeling like you aren’t enough for people to stay, your boyfriend reassures you that there is nothing wrong with you.
word count: 2.5k
warnings/tags: insecurities, reader feeling like she isn’t enough, bucky being an amazing boyfriend, just lots of fluff and comfort
author’s note: This is related to this request, I’m sorry that it took me so long! I really hope you like it and that it turned out like you imagined <3
Also to all the writers out there, I was wondering if I could ask you for some advice- I feel like my writing is very repetitive and that I am retelling what happens more than I am really letting the reader be a part of the story and I am not sure how to get away from that kind of writing. I’ve heard that it’s something a lot of new writers struggle with in the beginning, but some tips and tricks would really be appreciated!!
dividers by @cursed-carmine
Having friends had never been something you'd taken for granted.
You'd never been one of those people who seemed to be getting along with everyone without even trying, managing to have a place in all different kinds of friend groups or waking up to a load of notifications from friends who wanted to include you without having to think about it.
In high school, when you'd been at the age where teenagers saw every single thing about their looks and their character as a flaw that had to be fixed, you'd tried so desperately to fit in, there hadn't been much left of you when you'd finally accepted that this kind of world was never something you would be a part of.
And the older you got, the more you learned that it might not be as much of an issue as you always thought it was.
You had your friends, after all.
Sure, you didn't have a dozen of people in your close circe, but if there was one thing that adulthood had taught you, itt was that with all the responsibilities it brought, you actually didn't have that much time to spend with your friends either way.
By now, you'd accepted that you could count the amount of people that were actually your friends off on one hand, that your plans always included the same few people and that Bucky knew all of them by now because there hadn't exactly been a lot to introduce him to.
You'd come to peace with it, mostly.
Still, you couldn't deny that there was still this part of you, the one that had developed when you’d been twelve years old and crying about everyone in your class going to a party you weren't invited to, which told you that your worth depended on what others might think of you.
Because if nobody liked you, what even was the point?
And even though you weren't that kid anymore, the desire to be liked had never really left.
It wasn't as intense anymore, sure, but deep down, you knew that it was as much a part of you as the heart beating in your chest, so you accepted it with the kind of resignation that people developed when their doubts took over and fighting them felt like a task too hard to manage.
When you had first started to receive even less messages than you usually did, you'd just thought your friends were busy. You knew damn well that with how hectic life could get, social contacts were hard to manage sometimes.
It was fine. Surely, it was just a phase that would pass again soon.
Except it didn't pass, not really. That's what made it so bad.
Whenever you reached out to your friends, whether it was texting them individually or sending the location of a new café into the group chat, the reactions were… sparse, to put it lightly.
At first, you'd thought that you had done something wrong and they were mad at you, but when you'd asked them about it, the only answer they gave you was that they were busy.
And they weren't lying.
That much you could see in their Instagram stories, the ones you went through more often than you would ever admit.
Pictures from a party on one account, a vacation dump on the other.
They were living their lives and you loved that your them, you really did, but you still couldn't help but notice that all the plans they made were with people you didn't know.
Friends they had, ones that had nothing to do with you because their social circle wasn't even close to as small as yours was.
You figured that with all the friends they had, having one person more or less in their life didn't really make a difference to them.
And all you could do was obsess over how them leaving was your fault.
Maybe, if you would've just managed to step out of your comfort zone a little more, this wouldn't have happened.
After all, interesting people were never the ones that got abandoned, right? That just happened to the ones who weren't entertaining enough to leave an impression.
Maybe, if you would've talked less and laughed at their jokes a little more, you would've been more likeable.
Maybe then you would still have friends.
Honestly, it probably wouldn't hurt so much if you hadn't tried so hard.
You had, though.
You'd tried so hard to be exactly the kind of friend they might want you to be, the one that was always available, the one that answered texts quickly and gave the right kind of advice no matter the situation.
But apparently, that still hadn't been enough.
You'd tried to hide how much this had been affecting you over the last weeks, but you could only do so much.
And with a boyfriend as perceptive as Bucky, you knew that it would only be a matter of time until he would pick up on your change of mood.
The two of you were currently sitting on the couch in his living room, eating dinner together whilst the soft thud if rain hitting the windows provided some comfortable background noise.
Honestly, the scenario would've been comforting in any other situation.
Bucky had spent the last two hours in the kitchen, cooking a warm and comforting meal that made up for the stormy weather outside perfectly, especially because you could enjoy it from the warm living room with the man you loved sitting right next to you.
He'd been so proud of dinner when he'd plated it up for the two of you, you couldn't help but feel guilty for the way you were just absentmindedly pushing it around on your plate.
It tasted good, that wasn't the issue. Bucky's cooking skills had improved so much since you'd first started to teach him how to navigate the kitchen again after he'd admitted that he didn't actually know how to do something so domestic anymore.
You really wanted to just enjoy it with him, to have a nice and cozy evening without letting your stupid insecurities destroy it.
But you couldn't.
The heaviness in your heart was even worse today than it usually was, not because anything in particular had happened but because you knew that it was only a matter of time until you wouldn't have anyone anymore.
It wouldn't take much longer until Bucky would realize that he could do so much better than what you had to offer, and then he would leave.
And with him, the Avengers would be gone too, which would leave you completely and utterly alone and there was nothing you could do about it.
You could try, sure, but there was nothing you could do to stop the inevitable.
You were so deeply lost in thought, you didn't even notice that Bucky had been staring at you for the last few minutes already.
"Do you not like it?"
Your head snapped towards your boyfriend, who was looking at you with an expression that usually meant he was trying to understand something he couldn't exactly figure out yet.
"What?"
"The food," Bucky clarified, gesturing to your full plate. "You barely ate anything. I figured there might not be enough salt in it for you but-"
"Buck, no. It's perfect. I'm just… not hungry, that's all."
The fact that he was now thinking that you didn't like his cooking only made you feel worse, because that wasn't it at all.
The knot in your stomach was just too tight for you to have any kind of appetite.
Unable to look at him any longer, you lowered your gaze to your plate again, forcing yourself to take a bite just for the sake of it.
Bucky really wasn't having it, though.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see how he put his plate down on the table before he got up from where he was sitting, moving so he was kneeling in front of you, gently taking your plate away from you aswell.
"C'mon sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on?"
Sometimes, his attentiveness really was a curse more than it was a blessing. And with him sitting in front of you like that, his beautiful eyes so full of worry and concern, you couldn't keep this from him any longer.
"I just… I'm not really much of an interesting person, am I?"
Bucky's brows pulled together in confusion, his expression turning a little disbelieving now. "Of course you are, doll. Where is this coming from?"
You could already feel your throat tighten uncomfortably, the way he said it so convinced and certain, like he didn't even have to think about his answer twice whilst it was all you've been thinking about over the last few weeks.
"Well, I'm not exactly the person with the biggest amount of friends, am I? And the few friends I do have don't really hang out with me anymore, so there has to be something I'm doing wrong, right? I wouldn't be this unlikeable otherwise."
The words were all but tumbling out of your mouth now, the dam that had been holding every single one of your doubts and insecurities back finally breaking.
"Everyone's leaving, Bucky, and I really don't know what the hell I am supposed to do to stop it and-"
You couldn't help the way your voice broke, the hitch in your breath dangerously close to a sob as Bucky pulled you into his arms, properly sitting down on the floor so he could put you down in his lap, completely wrapping his arms around you like that was enough to top you from falling apart.
Unfortunately, it really wasn't.
Tears were streaming down your face now, shoulders shaking with the sobs that were ripping from your throat, your boyfriend's embrace giving you exactly the kind of comfort you needed.
And Bucky didn't try to stop you from crying, neither did he try to fix anything right now.
He just… held you. He gave you the oppurtunity to just let go for a moment, to share those ugly and raw thoughts with him and show you that he was there for you anyway.
The two of you just stayed like that for a very long time, how long exactly you couldn't tell, though. It was always like that with Bucky, like his embrace was more than enough to stop the concept of time from making sense anymore.
And Bucky didn't rush you. He just gently rocked you back and forth, his metal arm soothingly moving up and down your back as his other hand cradled your head to his chest.
When the tears finally slowed and you pulled back just enough to look at him again, he carefully brushed some hair out of your face, eyes running over your features like it would help him understand what exactly was going through your head right now. "I need you to listen to me now, alright sweetheart?"
Only when you nodded did he go on, his voice serious in a way you've never heard before.
It wasn't the kind of seriousness that you knew from when he talked about missions.
This felt more personal, like he was talking about something that meant way more too him than anything work related ever could.
"There is nothing wrong with you, and it kills me that you think there is. You are one of the most amazing and interesting people I know, and I love you. If your friends can't appreciate that, that's on them. But I won't let you make yourself small because other people can't see how much of a special person you are."
You knew that Bucky meant what he was saying, you really did, but words somehow still meant so little when words had failed you so often already.
"You're biased, though. Also, I'm your girlfriend. You have to say that kind of stuff."
That made him laugh a little now, a soft smile carefully pulling at his lips.
It wasn't the kind of laugh that was mocking or invalidating your feelings, though. Just the kind which showed that he meant what he said, and that the mere idea of it being a lie a little amusing to him.
"Pretty sure I don't have to do or say anything anymore, love. I'm telling you this because it's true. If you think that my love for you makes me unqualified too answer that question, though, I'm sure that the others would tell you the exact same thing."
You knew that he meant the Avengers by that, but honestly, you weren't sure if that was necessarily true.
"They are your friends, though, not mine."
It wasn't really much of a reasonable explanation, but it made sense to you. To them, you had to feel like an extension of Bucky, which meant that they couldn't exactly say anything bad about you.
Bucky didn't seem to think that at all, though. "Sam told me last week that he would personally kick my ass off the team if I ever managed to mess things up with you. I think it's safe to say that they like you more than they like me by now, sweetheart, and I can't even blame them."
He seemed to notice that you weren't entirely convinced yet, so he just kept going. "I get the feeling of thinking that you aren't enough for people to stay. Trust me, I do. But I also have a very smart and wonderful woman in my life who once told me that my worth doesn't depend on the amount of validation I get from others, because that would never manage to make me feel like I’m enough. And I feel like the things that count for me count for you too, don't they?"
Bucky wasn't wrong- you had told him that, but telling other people things like that was always easier than to believe them yourself. "Well, saying stuff is always easy, isn't it?"
"It is," he agreed. "But you got me and you got the others, doll, and i think it's safe to say that all of us would be more than happy to remind you of how much you mean to all of us as much as you need- especially me. Okay?"
Honestly, it wasn't really okay yet, but after what Bucky'd just said, maybe it was going to be. Sure, there were still going to be days where the feeling of not being enough swallowed you whole and the loneliness felt like a burden too heavy to carry.
But now you knew that you didn't have to carry it alone anymore.
Losing friends was never going to be easy, and honestly? You didn't even want it to be.
Friends were people that you carried close to your heart, which was exactly the reason why it hurt so much when the left.
But you weren't just going to stop caring to avoid the consequences, not when it was such a big part of you- a part that others appreciated, even though you couldn't always see it that way.
And losing yourself over other people leaving?
That sure as hell wasn't going to happen.
Especially not with your boyfriend still looking at you like that, convincing you that maybe, everything was going to work out just fine.
summary: After decades of being away from his wife, Bucky Barnes tried to make his way back to her, only to find out that he was too late. Coping with that hurt, but instead of wasting his life mourning what he didn‘t have, Bucky trusted that he would meet you again when the time was right.
word count: 2.6k
warnings/tags: kinda hurt/comfort, female reader, fluff, bucky is a little softie, a little bit of angst, mourning a loved one, grief, coping with death, mentions of injuries but nothing graphic, kinda angsty ending but it‘s a good one
author‘s note: This was inspired by Noah Kahan‘s new song We Go Way Back, honestly the storyline has nothing to do with the lyrics but there are a few references. I‘ve been wanting to post this since Tuesday, unfortunately I didn‘t have any time so you‘re getting it now.
Honestly I didn‘t really know how to tag this as it‘s a sad ish ending but it‘s also happy? I don‘t know how to describe it, you‘ll see what I mean when you get there.
Also, I really want to thank you guys for the support my work has gotten over the last few days!! I appreciate it so much and can‘t wait share more stuff with you in the future, I‘m a little sick right now so I have some time to kill the next few days which I‘ll definitely spend writing. That‘s it with my little rant, I really hope you‘ll like the story just as much as I enjoyed writing it!!
I do not give my consent for my work to be posted on other platforms or to be fed to AI.
dividers by @cursed-carmine
The grave didn't look like it used to when he first came here anymore.
Back then, after delaying actually visiting your grave for as long as his conscience allowed him to, Bucky had known that it wouldn't be easy to face this.
He'd been right. It hadn't been easy.
As a matter of fact, Bucky had broken down the second he'd read your name on the gravestone, more than grateful that Sam had insisted on coming with him, because he was pretty sure that he would've stayed there for the whole night if it wasn't for him, just staring at your grave as if that would make your death any less real.
As if it would be enough to bring you back to him.
It didn't, of course, but the human brain sometimes had a funy way of planting hope were sun could never actually reach to make it bloom.
Looking back on it, Bucky didn't think that the grave had been what set him off, at least not in the way he'd expected.
After he'd found out that you'd still been alive, living in a small nursing home in Brooklyn whilst he was all the way across the world in Wakanda, he'd promised himself that he would come to visit you, no matter what consequences going back to the US might bring for him.
Then the blip happened and before he knew it, yet another five year of his life had been taken from him.
After coming back, he had to come to the realization that during his absence, the inevitable had happened.
You were dead.
He'd known that it was going to happen, of course. Bucky wasn't stupid, after all, and 102 already was an impressive age, considering that you didn't have the same bullshit running through your veins like him or Steve did.
He'd just thought that he would have more time.
The grave had been in a horrible state when Sam and him first got there, which probably hurt the most.
His sister still had family that was taking care of hers, people he didn't really have anything to do with, but they kept it neat.
Whenever he visited, there was already a boquet of flowers sitting where he added his, the occasional candle burning sometimes.
You didn't have any of that.
Wether your family didn't care or you didn't have one, he hadn't known at the time.
After a little bit of research that Sam had done for him, Bucky now knew that you never actually had kids, let alone got married again.
That was enough of a reason for him to take the complete responsiblility for your grave, making sure that it was in good state again, visiting as often as his tight schedule allowed him to, because he would be damned if anyone ever walked past it again, smiling in pity because they thought that there weren't any people that cared about you to maintain it anymore, which couldn't be further away from the truth.
Bucky cared about you. And now that he couldn't tell you that in person anymore, he could at least make sure that all the love he carried in his heart had a place to go, which happened to be the place you were buried.
Bucky'd made a promise, after all.
On the evening before his deployment started, when you'd cried because you'd been so scared of never seeing him again, Bucky'd promised that he would come back to you.
He'd made it a pinky promise, too, well aware of how much those meant to you.
Sometimes, he liked to think that it had been the only reason he'd survived that hellhole of a place he'd spent more than seven decades of his life in, the gravity of what he'd promised you back then stronger than any pull towards death could ever be.
Unfortunately, he still hadn't been able to keep his promise to the extend he'd actually wanted to.
He did come back to you, just like he'd said he would, you just weren't alive to witness it anymore.
Now your grave was the only thing he had left of you, so he made as much of it as he could.
Sam had once tried to gently tell him that it maybe wasn't exactly the healthiest way of coping, but Bucky couldn't help it.
He was thinking about you all the time anyway, so it didn't matter if he spent his time doing it at home or if he came to visit you.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was already a regular at by now.
He tried to get you flowers at least once a week, just like he used to when he took you out on friday nights, a tradition he knew you'd always looked forward to even though you had always scolded him for spending his money on that kind of stuff.
Bucky never cared, though. He did his damn best to treat you well, taking on a few extra shifts whenever he could so money wouldn't be too tight at the end of the month.
To be able to afford your engagement ring, he'd worked so much that he actually passed out on the job once, nearly crushing himself under one of the crates they always had to unload from the cargo ships.
You'd been mad as hell when you'd found out and Bucky'd only gotten half of the usual pay for the shift, but it'd been enough money for him to get the ring just in time for when he had the proposal planned.
Even though his whole body had ached for the next to weeks, you'd said yes when he had asked you to marry him, the two of you standing under the starts of Brooklyn, the moon illuminating your face beautifully when you threw yourself into his arms, knocking him over from where he was kneeling on the ground.
That had made all the strain he'd put on his body more than just worth it.
The weather was nice when Bucky made his way over to the cemetery, taking the familiar detour to the florist he was a regular at by now.
The familiar bell chimed when Bucky entered the flower shop, all the flowers shining with how the sun illuminated them.
The young girl that worked at the shop sometimes looked up from where she was organizing some stuff, face lighting up immediately when she noticed that it was him, already familiar with Bucky because of how often he came here.
He never got you the same boquet- mostly because he thought that you'd find it endearing how excited the kid always got when he told her that she could put together whatever she wanted to, but also because he was sure you'd like the variety of it.
It wasn't like he really had a budget, anyway.
Now that he didn't have to worry about that kind of stuff anymore, there was nothing that could ever be too expensive for you.
"What's up, Mr. Barnes? Anything in particular I can do for you today?" Bucky almost had to smile at that. She never failed to check in with him, even though he could already see her fingers twitch against the counter, more than ready to get creative again.
"Nah, kid. You go ahead, don't let me stop ya."
She didn't need more permission than that and quickly made her way over to the buckets overflowing with color, hands reaching for all different kinds of flowers that Bucky couldn't even name if he tried.
"Can I ask you something, sir?"
Even though her eyes were still focused on the boquet she was currently arranging, Bucky could hear the nerves in her voice, which intruiged him a little too much to shut her down. He wasn't usually one for nosy questions, butt he supposed he could deal with them for once. "Go ahead, kiddo."
"Does your wife ever say anything about the flowers? It's just that you come here so often and always let me do whatever I want, doesn't she have any preferences?"
There was something so endearing about the innocent curiousity of teenagers, Bucky just couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.
"You got nothing to worry about, kid. She always loves them."
Bucky supposed that keeping the answer vague was a little better than actually lying, because he was certain that you would love the flowers. You'd adored the colorful ones the most, claiming that the uncertainty of what the next boquet he'd get you looked like was what made you look forward to receiving them the most.
You'd always made a game out of it, too, trying to get behind the pattern he used to chose the flowers.
There wasn't one, if he had to be honest. He always just picked whatever he thought suited you best.
"Well, I'm glad she likes them. She's really lucky, you know, It's cute that you do this for her so often."
Now, he couldn't help the quiet rumble of laughter that slipped past his lips. "Trust me, I'm the lucky one. This is the least I can do."
He should probably not be doing this. He should just tell her that his wife wasn't alive anymore, that he didn't get you flowers because he was such a great husband, but because they were for your grave.
He couldn't bring himself to do that, though. No matter how pathetic it might seem, it was nice to escape the reality of his life and just pretend that you were sitting at home, preparing pancakes for breakfast whilst he walked the familiar route to the florist, coming back home afterwards instead of going to the cemetery.
Maybe in another life that was the reality he got to have.
Not in this one, though, but he still liked to imagine sometimes.
"May I ask how the two of you met?"
Finished with picking all the flowers and seemingly happy with the result, the kid walked back to the counter again and started wrapping the boquet with practised ease.
She seemed to notice that Bucky didn't actually mind her curiousity, he noticed that she got more comfortable asking questions which was actually pretty nice to witness.
It was refreshing to talk to someone that didn't carry the usual wariness most did when talking to him.
"We go way back, actually. Been friends for ages before we started dating."
"Naw, that's cute. Friends to lovers is the best trope, actually. Hands down."
Bucky wasn't entirely sure about what that meant and made a mental note to ask Sam about it later, even though he would probably just make fun of Bucky's lack of knowledge about pop culture again.
She didn't keep asking questions, seemingly aware that any more questions might border on being too personal, which Bucky appreciated. So instead of feeling the need to keep the conversation going, she just handed the finished boquet over to him.
"That'd be fifty dollars, Mr. Barnes."
Bucky didn't hesitate to hand over a crisp hundret dollar bill, dismissingly waving his hand as she reached for the change. "Keep it, kiddo. Boquet's looking extra great today, thank you."
He grabbed the flowers and left before actually giving her a chance to answer, because he wasn't really up for an unnecssary discussion about whether or not the money was too much for a tip.
The kid was respectful and friendly, and Bucky was a grown man. It was for him to decide what he wanted to spend his money on.
Besides, if she even had to work on the weekend, maybe she could use it.
The remaining walk from the florist to the cemetery was quick, especially because Bucky was eager to get there as soon as possible.
When he was still a young boy, Bucky never understood how visiting someone's grave would actually help to miss them a little less.
Now, he couldn't imagine going without it anymore.
In the beginning, talking to you had felt a little akward and weird, but he'd gotten usd to it by now. He didn't stumble over his words as much anymore and instead talked for hours on end sometimes.
He occasionally told you about missions, but it was mostly things that made him think of you or that he thought you would like if you were still here to experience them with him.
He often apologised, too.
Sometimes because he hadn't held his promise like he thought he would, other times because you'd lost him before the two of you ever got to live together properly.
You'd been freshly married back then, only four months into being Mr. and Mrs. Barnes before war took him from you without either of you actually being able to do anything about it.
Sitting on the grass in front of your grave now, sun shining down onto his back whilst the birds chirped in the background, something settled in his chest.
It wasn't uncomfortable like the anxiety he used to carry everywhere he went. In fact, it felt really close to something that could resemble contentment.
Bucky liked the life he got to live right now.
He liked that he got to go on missions with Sam, but that they weren't what he spent the majority of his time anymore.
He adored his apartment in Brooklyn, had people in his life that he loved and cared about and got to visit you whenever he pleased.
He could finally spend his life the way he wanted to, not having to worry about money or war or the freezing cold of cryostasis running through his body anymore.
He was free.
And even though he really did enjoy his life after years of learning who he was again, he knew that he wasn't afraid of death either.
Bucky wasn't sure if an afterlife and heaven were things that existed for people like him, neither if he even really believed in that kind of stuff.
He was certain that he would get to see you again, though. After all, eight decades had passed since Bucky had fallen of the train and you never tried to love someone else again, didn't get married again.
You'd kept his name, and Bucky realised that the choice you made, the fact that you let him have the honour of being your husband until the very last moment of his life, was enough to reassure him that everything was going to be okay.
After that day, Bucky still came to your grave at least once a week. He still left the girl at the flower shop too big tips and told her about you, but he didn't hold onto you as anxiously as he did before, when it felt like you slipped through hands more and more with every second that he got to live and you didn't
Now it felt like he got to live his life, just like you lived yours, before the two of you would be reunited again.
And when he was lying on the battleground five years later, too much of his blood already covering the ground for him to have any hope anymore, he didn't feel scared.
Sure, he was going to miss Sam. He'd also miss Joaquin, Sarah, the kids and the flower girl, but he knew that they were going to be okay.
Just he was going to be okay, after his eyes grew heavy and he left the world with a smile that pulled on his lips, truly at peace for the first time in what felt like forever, because he knew that when he'd open them again, you'd be there with him.
And now, the time the two of you'd get wouldn't be limited.
Summary : Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Mentions of domestic, emotional, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), toxic relationship (not Bucky), trauma, threats, healing, hurt/comfort, protective Bucky Barnes, angst, fluff, angst with a happy ending, self-worth struggles, cheating, substance abuse (not by you or Bucky). Your boyfriend is called Damien (apologies in advance if you are named or know someone who shares the name), implied sex, You are mentioned to be a librarian.
Word count : 8k
Note : This story comes from a very vulnerable place, so please be kind. Maybe this is how I process it lmao. The title is inspired by Better Man by Pearl Jam, a song that hits close to home. Please seek help if you are experiencing any kind of abuse.
You met Damien three years ago. He was charming back then, a man with an easy smile. The kind of man who could light up a room just by walking into it. You had been drawn to his confidence, mistaking it for warmth.
It started with flowers on a first date. Then late-night texts that made your heart race. He called you beautiful before he even knew your last name. He made you feel special.
And for a while, it was good.
But the thing about fire is that it burns.
At first, the signs were subtle. You brushed it off as bad days, stress, or just the way love was. The first time he raised his voice at you, you had been late for a date. It was nothing, really. A misunderstanding. You had apologised again and again, and he had forgiven you after five days of not speaking to you. That’s what love was, right?
Then, when you moved in with him, you started to realise how much he drank.
You thought he’d only have beer or two after work, maybe a glass of rum before bed. You convinced yourself it was normal. But normal turned into necessary, and necessary turned into destructive.
The first time he hit you, you had laughed too loud at another man’s joke.
His fury came in the form of a slap. Quick and sharp, so sudden it barely registered in your brain. You had touched your cheek in shock. The first time it happened, he had apologised— fuck knows, had he apologised. He cried crocodile tears, swore it would never happen again. He told you he loved you, and you had believed him.
Because love was supposed to hurt sometimes. Right?
But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.
And one day, he stopped apologising. He stopped even pretending to care
The worst part of it all was that you loved him. Or at least, you thought you did. Love makes people stay. Love makes people forgive. And you were good at forgiving him, even when his knuckles left bruises on your ribs, even when his drunken words tore you open in a way his fists never could.
He always had an excuse: sometimes it was stress at work. Sometimes it was the liquor talking. One day, it was because you pushed him too far. After that, it was all your fault, really.
And you had believed that, too.
Because leaving wasn’t an option.
Every time you tried, he reminded you what he could do, how easy it would be to make sure you never left him. He knew where you worked. He knew your friends. You didn’t have family close by, no one to run to.
So you stayed.
You learned how to walk on eggshells. How to keep your voice silent, to make yourself small. How to cover bruises with sweaters and long skirts.
And when you couldn’t take it anymore, you just went to work.
And you worked in the library.
You liked the quiet. Here, no one yelled. No one slammed doors or threw bottles against walls. No one grabbed your wrist too hard or left bruises in the shape of their fingers.
It was your only escape— a place where silence was expected and peace was mandatory.
And that’s where you met him.
“Mind if I sit here?” He asked. The library was full today, all the regular study tables taken by students and scholars alike. So he had looked for the only available seat— the one directly across from the librarian’s desk.
You looked up to see Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.
You had seen him on the news, had heard people talking about him when his name was printed on the paper. The Winter Soldier turned hero. He wasn’t in uniform, just a simple t-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, a jacket slung over the back of a chair he hadn’t even fully claimed yet. But even dressed down, he still carried himself like a soldier.
You hesitated. You weren’t used to people—men—asking for permission.
But Bucky… he was waiting for your answer.
You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks,” he said. He smiled— one you had seen in newspapers, on screens. It was different up close.
He sat, stretching his metal arm along the back of his chair, completely at ease. You, on the other hand, had no idea how to act. It wasn’t every day a literal super soldier sat across from you.
“What are you reading?” He asked, curious. It wasn’t out of place for you to enjoy personal reading during your shift downtimes, mostly because you couldn’t do it at home.
You hesitated before flipping the book so he could see the cover. Wuthering Heights.
Bucky let out a low whistle. “That’s the one with the guy who’s obsessed with his dead girlfriend, right?”
You blinked. Then, before you could stop yourself, you chuckled. “That’s… one way to put it,” you admitted.
Bucky grinned. “I remember reading that back in the day. Or, well, trying to. Never made it past the first few chapters. Too much drama.”
“That’s the whole point,” you said, surprising yourself. You were talking to him. Joking with him. When was the last time you had let yourself just… talk?
Bucky tilted his head. “You like all that tragic, doomed romance stuff?”
You hesitated, the smile faltering just slightly. It hit too close to home.
“I guess I used to,” you murmured, lowering your eyes.
Bucky didn’t pry. He just nodded like he understood. And then, instead of pushing, he said, “I know you work in a library, but if you ever need a break from that stuff, I can give you some better book recommendations. I’ve got a collection of banned books at home.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you recommend?”
“Anything that doesn’t involve a guy wandering around moaning about his dead girlfriend for two hundred pages.”
You laughed again. Twice. In one conversation.
Bucky pressed his lips together. He looked pleased, maybe… fond.
And then he started flirting.
At first, it caught you off guard.
You weren’t used to compliments unless they came with conditions. You weren’t used to smiles without an edge hiding behind them.
But Bucky was different. He wasn’t forceful. He didn’t expect anything. He just let the conversation take its natural course, his attention fully on you.
“Y’know, for someone who likes doomed romances, you sure have a nice laugh,” he mentioned, tapping his fingers against the table.
You should have shut it down. You should have reminded yourself that you had a boyfriend, however unkind he may be. You should’ve told yourself that this was wrong.
But Bucky wasn’t touching you. He wasn’t cornering you. He was just talking to you.
And fuck did you like the attention.
So you flirted back, hesitant but eager, testing the waters.
And then, he asked, “Let me take you out sometime. Dinner. Or coffee, if that’s more your style.”
The smile on your face slipped.
You had a boyfriend.
You had a boyfriend.
A cruel, violent man who would kill you if he ever found out, but a boyfriend nonetheless.
But then you looked at Bucky.
However misguided, you realised a man like Bucky could protect you.
And for the first time in years, you wanted to be protected.
So you took a breath, pushed down the guilt clawing at your ribs, and said “Yeah. Coffee sounds nice,” you said. “Meet me here during my lunch break tomorrow?”
—
The apartment was dark when you got home, but the moment you stepped inside, you knew.
The stench of alcohol was suffocating. It mixed with sweat, stale smoke, and the acrid bite of spilled liquor seeping into the carpet.
Damien was drinking again.
You shut the door softly, careful not to let it creak, your fingers trembling as you turned the lock as silently as possible. Your body moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the steps you had learned to survive. You took your shoes off, your bag down. Maybe—maybe—you could slip into bed unnoticed.
But then you heard a low chuckle.
“Well, well,” Damien said, his voice reeking of vodka. “Look who finally decided to come home.”
You turned slowly, forcing your shoulders to stay relaxed, your hands to stay at your sides. You looked at the clock. You were only fifteen minutes later than usual.
Damien lay sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his finger, shirt wrinkled like he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes were bloodshot, but they still managed to pin you in down like a predator sizing up prey.
You swallowed hard. “It’s late. I just want to go to bed.”
Damien scoffed, shifting to sit up. “Oh, you want to go to bed? That’s funny, babe, ‘cause I’ve been sitting here, alone, all night, wondering where the fuck you’ve been.”
You forced your expression to stay neutral. “I was at work.”
“Work,” he repeated, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Always work with you. You love that goddamn library more than you love me.”
You said nothing. There was no right answer.
Damien took a slow sip from the bottle, then licked his lips, “You dressed nice today.”
Your breath hitched.
A compliment should have been harmless, but not from him. Not when he was dangerously possessive. Not when you knew what was coming next.
“You trying to impress someone?” he slurred. “Someone at work?”
Stay calm. “I just—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said gently. But you knew better than anyone that the softness in his voice was a trap. You had fallen for it before.
“I’m not,” you whispered.
Damien set the bottle down, breathing out sharply through his nose. “You think I’m stupid?”
“No—”
“Then why the fuck do you keep lying to me?”
You flinched as he pushed himself off the couch, staggering slightly before regaining his balance. You took a step back.
Damien noticed. “Where were you really, huh?” he pressed, taking a taunting step forward. “Who were you with?”
“No one,” you said quickly. “I swear.”
His fingers twitched.
You tried to brace for it, but stumbled when he shoved you anyway.
Your hip hit the floor first, hands catching yourself on the carpet.
Damien crouched beside you, grabbing your chin in a bruising grip, forcing you to look at him. His breath reeked of alcohol as he muttered, “I don’t like feeling disrespected, baby.”
You didn’t answer. You knew better.
He let go, shoving your face away like you disgusted him. “Go to bed,” he commanded, already reaching for his bottle again.
You moved carefully, with no sudden movements. You got to your feet, keeping your head down as you made your way toward the bedroom.
The moment the door shut behind you, you collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on yourself.
Your hip throbbed where it had hit the floor.
You lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant clink of glass and the murmur of the TV Damien had turned on.
Tomorrow, you had a date with Bucky Barnes.
And for the first time in years, you let yourself look forward to something.
—
It felt wrong to be this excited.
Your shift at the library had been slow—only a few regulars meandering through the aisles. Then you saw him.
Bucky stood near the front desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning against a shelf. He was so casual, for a second you could pretend he wasn’t a super soldier waiting for you to take your lunch break.
“Ready, doll?” He asked. Your heart flipped at the nickname.
You put aside the nerves bubbling in your chest and nodded, stepping out from behind the desk.
It had been so long since you’d gone on a proper date— since you’d felt safe enough doing something out of work. Damien never liked you going out alone.
You stepped outside together, “So,” you started, glancing up at him. “Where are we going?”
“There’s this little diner down the block,” he said with a small smile. “Figured we could grab a sandwich or something.”
A casual lunch. You liked that.
The walk was short, but you noticed how Bucky always positioned himself between you and the street. You doubted he even realised he was doing it. It probably was just instinct.
Inside the diner, a waitress greeted you both, eyes widening slightly when she recognised who Bucky was, but she said nothing beyond a polite, “Right this way.”
You slid into a booth, and Bucky sat across from you.
“So,” he said, metal hand resting on the table. “Tell me something about you that’s not librarian-related.”
You blinked. “Uh. Like what?”
He grinned. “I don’t know. What do you do when you’re not working?”
You hesitated. Because what did you do? Your life had been so wrapped around making sure Damian didn’t get angry that you hadn’t had time for hobbies.
Bucky noticed your pause, picking up that you needed a better prompt. “Alright. Let me make it easier—favourite book?”
That was easier. “Don’t have one,” you shrugged, “But I just finished Persuasion last week and I thought it was pretty good.”
His brows lifted. “Jane Austen?”
You nodded, sipping your water. “It’s about second chances.”
“Sounds like my kind of book,” he said.
The conversation just… came freely after that. He told you about the 40s, about how he used to sneak out of school with Steve to get hot dogs from Coney Island. He told you about how Sam kept trying to get him into modern music, but he still thought the best stuff came from his time.
And you laughed. It felt good.
By the time you finished your sandwiches, you had to go back to work.
Bucky walked you back, hands stuffed into his pockets again, looking reluctant to leave.
“You can stay, you know,” you said before you could think better of it.
His head tilted. “Yeah?”
You shrugged. “It’s a slow day. I wouldn’t mind the company.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Well,” he said. “Can’t say no to a pretty librarian asking me to stick around.”
You could feel your cheeks burning.
Bucky stayed and sat in the library, flipping through books he probably didn’t care about just to be near you.
—
When you came home, Damien barely spared you a glance.
The coffee table was a mess— littered with empty bottles of rum, crumpled dollar bills, and a small mirror dusted with white powder.
He was on the couch, slouched back, Some guy—one of his friends you didn’t recognise—was laughing beside him, rubbing his nose.
“Ah, there she is,” Damian slurred, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.
His friend snickered. “This is your girl, man?”
You froze.
Damian ran a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah. Can you believe it?” He gestured toward you, like you were some kind of joke. “Look at her—always in those oversized sweaters, like she’s hiding something.”
You clicked your jaw.
His friend hummed in agreement, looking you up and down. “Eh. She’s alright, I guess.”
Damian laughed.
“Right? I keep telling her she could actually be hot if she tried. But nah—she just walks around putting no fucking effort.” He leaned forward, tapping his nose twice before inhaling another line of coke. “No other guy’s gonna wanna fuck that, so I don’t even try,” he joked.
You gripped the strap of your bag so tightly your fingers hurt.
It wasn’t the first time he’d said things like this. But now, after spending time with Bucky— after being wanted —Damian’s words finally felt wrong.
You turned, heading toward the bedroom, because if you stayed out here any longer, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep yourself together.
“Hey,” Damian called after you, mocking. “Don’t be mad, babe. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
The laughter followed you down the hall.
And you hated that you let it get to you.
—
You told Damien you had to pick up an extra shift as an excuse to go on another date with Bucky after work.
Now, you found yourself sitting across from the super soldier in a café near your job, fingers curling around a warm cup of coffee.
“You got a little something right there.” He gestured vaguely toward your mouth.
You frowned, swiping at your lips with a napkin. “Did I get it?”
Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. C’mere.”
He leaned in, human hand swiping the stain on your lips.
God, he was close. So close. Too close.
“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.
Damien never asked. He just took.
But Bucky was different.
You nodded, and the moment his lips met yours, it was soft, sweet, nothing more than a chaste kiss, but it stole the breath from your lungs.
Your heart stumbled in your chest, and when he pulled back, you blinked at him, dazed.
Bucky smiled sweetly. “Yeah. Got it.”
You should have felt guilty. You should have pulled away. But instead, you smiled.
—
You told Damien you had to work late again.
Instead, you were in Bucky’s apartment, his lips tracing down your neck.
It started like the others dates— with coffee and a conversation. This time, when he offered to take you back to his place, you said yes.
You weren’t sure why. Maybe you just needed to know what it felt like to be touched gently again. To be adored.
Bucky laid you down on his bed, hands roaming over your thighs, his lips peppering kisses over your collarbone.
And then he paused.
He saw it.
His fingers brushed over the bruise on your hip, the one Damian had left the last time he shoved you to the ground.
His brow furrowed. “What happened, doll?”
You swallowed. “Uh—smacked a table.”
He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, his lips ghosting over the bruise, pressing the softest kiss against it— so gentle you thought you were going to cry.
His mouth trailed lower— teasing, tasting. And when he finally sank into you, his forehead pressing against yours, there was no fear. No pain. No doubt.
Just pleasure.
You weren’t used to this— the tenderness. The way he whispered beautiful against your skin, like he couldn’t even believe you were real.
At one point, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and said, “You know, I thought you were way out of my league.”
You stared at him.
“Bucky,” you deadpanned. “Look at yourself.”
He smiled, hands splayed on your waist. “Look at you.”
You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.
Didn’t stop him when he held you close after.
Didn’t stop him when he got up, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with an ice pack.
“This’ll help,” he said, pressing it gently against your hip.
You hesitated but took it from him anyway, letting the cold seep into your bruised skin.
For a moment, you wondered, would it really be so bad if I told him the truth?
But then you thought of Damien— of what he’d do if he found out.
And then you thought of Bucky.
What would he do if he knew? If he pieced it all together? You wanted to believe he’d never hurt you, that he was different. But if he reacted like Damien… it would be so much worse. He was a super soldier, after all.
So you said nothing.
And Bucky—sweet, patient Bucky—let you keep your secrets, for now.
When you rolled over, you saw the clock on his nightstand.
Shit.
It was late. Way later than you told Damian you’d be “working.”
You sat up quickly, clutching the sheets to your chest. “I—I should go.”
Bucky propped himself up on an elbow, blinking in confusion. “Already?”
You nodded, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Early shift tomorrow,” you lied.
It was a weak excuse, but he didn’t push.
Instead, he sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright. Lemme drive you.”
“No!” The word came out too fast.
Bucky froze.
“I—I mean, it’s fine,” you insisted, “I’ll just grab a cab.”
He stared at you like he was putting together pieces of a puzzle, but he let it go anyway. “Okay.”
You dressed quickly, avoiding his stare as you gathered your things. When you turned to leave, Bucky caught your wrist, tugging you back just enough to press one last kiss to your lips.
“See you soon?” he asked hopefully.
Your throat tightened.
You nodded. “Yeah. See you soon.”
Then you walked out the door with dread in your stomach.
Because you weren’t going home to safety.
You were going home to him.
—
The apartment was dark when you stepped inside. Damien was passed out on the couch with one arm hanging off the side.
You stepped in quietly, not wanting to wake him.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
Bucky.
Let me know when you get home.
You felt warmth spread through your chest, but guilt quickly smothered it. You shouldn’t have let him care this much. Shouldn’t have let him worry about you.
But fuck did you wanted him to.
You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you before pressing call.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, doll.” He greeted, eager.
You sat on the edge of the tub, “Hey. I just wanted to let you know that I’m home.”
There was a beat of silence before he asked, “You okay?”
You hesitated.
Your eyes looked in the mirror. You dropped your pants slightly to see that the bruise on your hip was still there, but fainter. Bucky’s ice pack had helped.
It shouldn’t have made you tear up, but it did.
“Yeah,” you lied. “Just stress.”
Bucky hummed, unconvinced. “Alright,” he said, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “You too.”
You hung up before the lump in your throat could grow.
Then, you turned off the bathroom light, took a deep breath, and stepped back into your own personal hell.
—
Tuesdays and Wednesdays became highlights of your week. Those were the days that Bucky would meet you during your lunch break, always having a small bite in the corner booth of some diner, fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee instead of white-knuckling the strap of your bag in fear.
Fridays were even better.
You told Damien your Friday hours have been extended, telling a lie about reorganising shelves and cataloguing books, a lie he barely acknowledged between lines of ket and dismissive laughter.
Little did he know, every Friday, Bucky took you somewhere new after work. A different café, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, once even a trinket shop with creaky wooden floors. Sometimes, he bought you flowers— slipping it into your bag with a casual “Thought you’d like this,” like it wasn’t the kindest thing anyone had done for you in years. Of course, you’d have to throw them away before you got home. It broke your heart to do so every time.
And every Friday, he asked, “Come back to mine?” He was always hopeful, never demanding.
Sometimes, when you knew Damien would come looking, you said no, and he never pried.
But when you said yes, Bucky brought you home and touched you like you were sacred. His hands never bruised, never hurt. He kissed you like he wanted to give you time, let you set the pace. When he laid you down on his bed, he didn’t take. He gave.
He made love to you like it was an art form, like the curve of your spine and the sound of your gasps were brushstrokes on the masterpiece he was creating. He mapped every inch of you, murmuring things you weren’t sure you deserved to hear— things like beautiful and perfect and mine, if you want to be.
But no matter how good it felt, you never stayed the night.
You’d always force yourself to get up. You kissed him one last time, letting him tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Bucky never asked why.
He figured you would tell him when you were ready.
—
This Friday night was different.
Bucky had taken you somewhere nice— a proper restaurant with white tablecloths and candlelight on the table.
It felt too much. Too intimate. Too real.
You didn’t deserve this.
You smoothed your hands down your dress, a simple black number you changed into after work. It was something Damien wouldn’t notice if he caught the scent of someone else’s cologne clinging to the fabric later. You swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.
"You okay, doll?" Bucky asked, always so damn perceptive. It scared you sometimes, how easily he could read you.
You forced a smile. "Yeah. Just...not used to this."
Bucky reached across the table. "I just wanted to do something nice for you," he said. "You deserve it."
You didn’t.
You didn’t deserve him.
Not when you were still crawling into bed with Damien, violent as he may be.
Your throat tightened. "I...thank you."
Bucky squeezed your hand before pulling back. "I mean, we can go back to coffee and greasy burgers next time."
You laughed, even though it felt like a lie. The waiter came by and you ordered tea. Bucky ordered a beer.
The moment the words left his mouth, something inside you froze.
It was stupid. So stupid. It was just a drink. A normal, casual, everyday thing that normal, casual, everyday people ordered.
But when the waiter returned and set the bottle in front of Bucky, you couldn’t breathe.
You couldn’t even think.
The world blurred at the edges, shrinking down to that bottle, to the way Bucky’s fingers wrapped around it, to the way the liquid moved inside.
He lifted it to his lips.
And suddenly, you weren’t here anymore.
You were at the apartment, with Damien.
Slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, his head lolling to the side.
Damien.
Hurling the beer bottle across the room, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the apartment.
Damien.
Laughing as he swung it at you like a weapon, the glass catching your shoulder— hurting you.
"Look what you made me do,” he would say.
Your breath hitched. The room felt like he closed in on you.
You had to get out.
Now.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you shoved it back. Bucky blinked. "What—?"
"I have to go." The words came out strangled. Your hands were already shaking.
His brows furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?"
"I—I forgot I needed to pick up laundry."
It was a terrible excuse, but you didn’t care. You were already moving, grabbing your bag, fumbling with the strap as you stumbled toward the door.
"Wait—!"
You didn’t.
You pushed past the tables, past the jazz band that played on.
The air outside was cold, and you didn’t make it far.
Bucky was running after you, calling your name. "Hey—hey, stop."
He placed a hand on your wrist and tugged gently. Always so gentle. "Talk to me."
You shook your head, staring at the sidewalk, at the cracks in the pavement, at anything but him. "It’s nothing. I just—I just need to go."
"Nothing?" His voice was careful now. "Your hands are shaking."
You curled them into fists. "I’m fine."
"You froze the second I took a drink." His voice was soft, like he was afraid of scaring you off. "Are you sure you’re fine?”
You couldn’t.
"Please," you whispered. "Just let it go."
Bucky’s voice cracked when he spoke. "You can’t keep doing this."
Your stomach dropped. "Doing what?"
"Running." His throat bobbed, "From me. From whatever this is."
Your heart raced out of your ribs. "Bucky, I can’t—"
"Not when I’m falling in love with you."
Fuck.
He took a step closer. "I love you." He said, "And I just want to know if this works."
Your breath hitched.
"Y-you love me?"
"I do." There was no hesitation. No doubt.
It was too much.
Too much, too much, too much.
So you did the only thing you knew how to do.
You ran home.
—
When you got home, Damien was not alone.
A girl—half-naked, barely covered by his shirt—was curled up on the couch, her lipstick smudged.
And Damien was sitting beside her, legs sprawled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His pupils were wide, red-rimmed, unfocused. He barely even looked surprised to see you.
"Ha!" His laugh was almost giddy. "Thought you’d be gone longer." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, stretching his arms behind his head. "Oh well."
Oh, fuck.
You should have known.
You should have expected it.
And yet, it still hurt.
It shouldn’t have. It shouldn’t have.
You were supposed to be the cheater. You were the liar. You had no right to be angry.
And yet your anger burned hot and ugly all the same.
"You—" It got caught in your throat. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Damien groaned, rolling his eyes, "Oh, don’t start with that shit." He gestured lazily to the girl beside him, barely even looking at her. "She was already here. Not my fault you weren’t."
You were fuming.
Not because you loved him anymore.
Not because you wanted him anymore.
But because he had always done this. Had always taken and taken and taken, had always acted like your pain was just an inconvenience, like your suffering was annoying.
"You don’t even give a fuck, do you?" Your voice trembled. "You don’t even care that I just walked in and found you like this?"
Damien only laughed.
"Why the fuck would I care?" He flicked the cigarette onto the floor, grinding the ember into the carpet with his boot. "You always come back."
Something inside you snapped.
"You are such a piece of shit." The words came out in a snarl.
Once his eyes darkened, it happened fast.
Faster than you could brace for it.
One second, he was laughing, the next—
Crack.
Your head snapped to the side as his palm met your skin with a brutal slap.
The room blurred.
The sting sank deep into your nerves. You could taste copper blooming on your tongue where your teeth had cut into the inside of your cheek.
The girl on the couch barely even flinched.
Damien leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.
"You’ll still come back," Damien murmured, his voice almost affectionate as he traced a lazy finger down neck, reeking of alcohol or coke or ket or whatever he had today.
Your hands curled into fists. "Go to hell."
He chuckled. "You won’t leave me."
He said it like it was a fact.
"But if you do…" His fingers closed around your wrist, squeezing just enough to make your bones ache. You grunted in pain.
"I’ll find you," he whispered. "And I’ll make sure no one else wants you either."
He let you go. Just like that.
You turned on your heel and walked out, pressing a hand to your burning cheek. You were almost to the stairwell when his voice called after you, sing-song and fake-sweet, "See you soon, babe."
—
It was late.
You shouldn’t be here.
But you had nowhere else to go.
The door swung open, and there he was.
Bucky was wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants, blinking at you with those ocean-deep blue eyes
And before he could say a word, before you could think, or hesitate, or talk yourself out of it—
You kissed him.
Your fingers fisted in his hoodie, your mouth crashing against his. You were desperate. You were hungry.
You felt him freeze, hands hovering near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you, wasn’t sure if this was real.
So you whispered it against his lips, "I love you too." It was the truth.
You heard a gasp from him.
Then his hands found you, gripping your waist and pulling you into him with a sound that was half a sigh, half a groan. He kissed you back like he couldn’t believe you were finally his.
You barely made it to the living room before you were tangled together. He pressed you down onto the couch, and oh, fuck.
Was this what it’s like to not be taken for granted? Not feeling owned, but treasured?
You could have stayed there forever, but Bucky pulled back just to make sure you were okay.
He froze.
The lights in his apartment were brighter than the hallway, bright enough for him to see.
His thumb brushed against the skin of your cheek, his brows furrowing. "What happened?"
Your stomach churned. "It doesn’t matter."
Bucky’s fingers twitched, his voice lower. "What. Happened.”
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes trained on his chest. "I fell on the floor."
What an obvious lie.
Then his metal fingers reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
And you saw it in his face the moment he undeniably noticed the shape of it.
It was a handprint.
His teeth clenched so hard you could hear it.
"Please don’t lie to me." He pleaded.
And just like that, you broke.
"I have a boyfriend," you choked out.
His face changed, but not into anger— no, not yet. He was waiting for a justification.
"You have a boyfriend," he repeated, his voice flat.
You swallowed hard, "Bucky, I—"
"Are you—" His voice was strained, almost heartbroken, "Are you telling me I’m the other man? That all this time, I was—"
He couldn’t finish his words.
"It’s not like that," you whispered, frantically. "I swear, it’s not—"
"You kissed me." His tone was hoarse. "You told me you loved me."
"I do!" Your grip on his hoodie tightened. "I do, Bucky. Please, just—"
"What the hell have we been doing?" His voice cracked.
You should have told him.
Should have told him sooner.
But you had been too much of a coward.
And now, Bucky—your Bucky—was looking at you like he didn’t even know you as he burned in your eyes.
"He… he hurts me." The words came out in a whisper.
And Bucky froze, body entirely still.
His hands clenched into fists. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
You forced yourself to keep going, even though you struggled. "He—he hits me. He cheats. He drinks and bumps ket and coke. And I don’t love him anymore. I haven’t for a while, but he threatens me and I—" you let out a deep. "I was scared to leave. I am scared to leave."
Bucky took a deep breath. "Oh," he murmured, realisation in his eyes as he put all the puzzle pieces together— your bruises, why you never stayed over.
"Oh, sweetheart,” he reached for you, and this time, you didn’t flinch.
He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. His lips pressed against the top of your head, breathing against your hair.
And then, after a long quiet moment, he asked, "What’s his name?"
It took you a long time to answer, but Bucky waited. He didn’t rush you as he rubbed slow circles against your back.
"Damien."
You barely whispered it, like saying it out loud would summon him.
His shoulders went rigid. You heard the faintest whine of his metal arm as his fingers curled into a fist.
"Damien." He repeated it, like he needed to taste the name of the man who had hurt you, like he needed to put a name to his anger.
Your throat was tight. "I’m sorry."
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your waist. "What the hell are you sorry for?" His voice was rough, but not with anger— he was hurt on your behalf. Grieving on your behalf.
"I should’ve told you," you whispered. "I should’ve—I should’ve left. I just—"
"You were scared." He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sweetheart, you don’t owe anyone an apology."
His fingers ghosted over your arms, barely touching, like he was afraid you’d flinch.
"You’re safe now," he promised, "I’ve got you."
Your throat closed. Is this what love is supposed to feel like?
Bucky shifted on his feet, glancing toward his kitchen. "Let me take care of you, yeah?" He frowned as his eyes studied your cheek. "You need something for the swelling."
He walked to the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of anti-inflammatory pills, shaking two into his palm before turning back to you.
"Here," he offered, grabbing a water bottle from the counter and unscrewing the cap. "Take these. They’ll help with the pain."
Your chest tightened, lungs locking up.
The little pills sat in his palm, harmless, waiting for you to swallow them.
But they didn’t feel harmless.
See, you had done this before.
You had taken something from a man you trusted, swallowed it without question, only to wake up confused, sore, violated.
You had trusted Damien, once, and he had used you.
Bucky noticed your hesitation immediately.
Your hands curled into fists in your lap.
His brow furrowed. "Doll?"
You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the pills.
His breath hitched. "Oh."
When he realised, he felt a shattering kind of grief.
You flinched when he moved, but all he did was slowly place the pills on the table before backing away.
You hated that you had flinched.
Because it was Bucky. Bucky. The man who had never done anything but love you, who had never given you a reason to fear him, and yet your body had reacted before your mind could catch up.
“You don’t have to take anything,” he reassured.
He swallowed hard. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t.
"I would never," he said, his voice breaking. "I could never do that to you."
You knew that. Of course you did.
But hearing him say it like the very idea of hurting you made him sick had broken you.
You nodded. "I know."
"Just rest, okay?" he said, quieter now. "I’ll protect you."
Before you could stop yourself, you reached for him.
Bucky barely had time to react before you curled into his chest, pressing yourself against him, burying your face in his hoodie, inhaling the scent of safety.
Carefully, his arms came around you, not too tight. Not too much. Just enough.
You didn’t realize you were crying until his lips brushed the top of your head.
You didn’t know how much time passed before Bucky finally spoke again.
"C’mon, sweetheart," he cooed. "You’re exhausted."
You were. God, you were so tired.
Your body was running on fumes. The adrenaline had burned away, leaving nothing but exhaustion, leaving your limbs heavy, your eyes barely able to stay open.
You let him pull you to your feet, let him guide you to the bedroom, let him peel back the covers and tuck you in.
His hands were gentle as he pulled the blanket up to your chin. He brushed his fingers over your hair, his thumb tracing soft circles against your temple.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
—
At some point in the night, your phone buzzed.
Damien.
Then again.
Then again.
Each vibration rattled the nightstand, You didn’t wake, body curled into the warmth of the blankets he’d wrapped you in. It hurt to even think about when the last time you slept undisturbed was.
His fingers hovered over the phone. He should wake you up. He should let you handle this yourself.
Then it vibrated again. This time, it was a text.
Where the fuck are you?
Another.
I swear to god, if you don’t pick up.
Then another.
I will drag you home myself.
Bucky could feel the rage settling deep in his gut.
Then, the last message came through.
You think you can run? I’ll fucking kill you before I let you leave me.
No.
He wasn’t going to just sit here and ignore it.
He was going to handle this.
He picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and traced the call in seconds. He had done this a thousand times before— for missions, for threats, for people who needed help.
The results came back quickly. Damien was at your shared apartment.
Then he stood, grabbed the biggest duffel bag, and left after pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
—
Damien heard the knock on his door.
He groaned from the couch, rubbing at his temples. His head was still swimming from the high. He had barely moved since you had walked out, too fucked up to care. The girl he slept with was long gone. He didn’t even remember her name.
The knocking persisted, harder this time.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stumbling to his feet, the room tilting slightly. He yanked the door open with a scowl. “What—”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The Winter Soldier was standing at his door.
Bucky Barnes. The Hero. The assassin. The fucking legend.
Damien gawked, blinking hard. “Whoa.”
Bucky didn’t wait for him to process. “Move.” He shoved past him and into his apartment.
Damien stumbled back, mouth opening and closing. “Wait—what the fuck—” he barked, rubbing his chest. “Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even spare him a single glance as his metal hand ripped open your closet, yanking out handfuls of clothes and shoving them into the duffel bag. He moved like a soldier in the field— quick and efficient.
He took your laptop. Important Documents. Trinkets. The little necklace you always fiddled with when you were nervous. Everything that mattered. Everything that was yours, everything that you’ve ever talked about. It hurt to see that there wasn't much, that your life fit into the duffel bag. That and he already made up his mind— whatever clothes couldn’t fit in the bag he would buy you tomorrow.
Because you were never setting foot in this apartment again.
Damien was still watching, bleary-eyed. “Okay, as cool as it is having an Avenger in my place, you can’t just take shit—”
Bucky didn’t even look at him.
“I’m not taking your shit,” he said coldly, zipping the bag shut. “I’m taking hers.”
Damien squinted, then blinked. “Hers? Wait—how do you even know her?”
He should have walked away. He should have just left.
But Damien was still talking.
“Oh my God,” his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Are you fucking her?”
Bucky didn’t say a word.
Damien fucking grinned. “Oh, I was right, wasn’t I? That bitch was cheating on me.”
Bucky saw red.
Before Damien could react, Bucky’s metal hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground.
Damien choked, his hands scrambling against the vibranium fingers squeezing his neck. His legs were kicking air uselessly.
Bucky pulled him in, their faces inches apart.
“You listen to me,” Bucky said, voice lethal. “You are never going to call her again. You are never going to text her again. You are never going to look for her.” His grip tightened. “You so much as breathe in her direction, and I will find you.”
Damien’s face turned red, veins popping at his temples. He clawed at Bucky’s wrist, making pathetic strangled noises.
Bucky leaned in closer.
“You think you own her?” His voice was a deadly whisper now. “You think you can hurt her?”
Damien’s mouth opened, gasping.
“You don’t own shit,” Bucky snarled. “And you will never touch her again.”
Just as Damien’s vision started to go dark, Bucky let go.
He fell to the floor as a heaving mess, clutching his throat.
Bucky adjusted the strap of the bag. Then he stepped over Damien like a rug.
Right before he walked out the door, he glanced back.
“If I ever see you again,” he said. “You won’t be walking away.”
And then he left.
—
By the time Bucky made it back to his apartment, you were still asleep.
He set the bag down quietly. He placed your laptop on the table and folded your clothes neatly before slipping back beside you.
You curled up to him.
—
The morning light greeted you when you woke. You blinked the sleep away from your eyes, stretching slightly, and then you smelled it. Warm vanilla. A hint of espresso. It was the unmistakable scent of your favorite iced latte.
A small smile tugged at your lips before you even turned your head. And Bucky was standing beside the bed, phone in one hand, the other carefully setting down a bowl of cereal and the coffee on the nightstand.
It was so normal, so sweet and ordinary, that for a moment, you almost let yourself pretend that life had always been like this.
But when you saw your laptop, your documents, your clothes—folded neatly on the side, when you saw every little piece of you that had been left behind, you frowned, confused.
You barely heard Bucky’s voice as he finished his call.
“Yeah. Yeah, I appreciate it. I’ll let you know… No, she’s okay. She’s good.” He paused. “Alright. Thanks, Matt.”
The call ended and he slipped his phone into his pocket.
Your throat was dry. “Bucky…?”
He turned to you.
You licked your lips, forcing the words outs. “What happened?”
He shrugged casually.
Like he hadn’t walked into your old apartment in the middle of the night. Like he hadn’t packed up every last thing that belonged to you. Like he hadn’t lifted Damien off the ground with one hand.
“He’s not gonna bother you anymore,” was all he said.
You swallowed, eyes searching his face. “Bucky… what did you do?”
He didn’t answer right away. He sighed, rolling his shoulders.
“Nothing you have to worry about.”
And the phone call…
“Who were you talking to?” You asked.
Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. “Murdock & McDuffie.”
That was a law firm.
Your fingers curled around the blankets. “Why?”
“To put together a case,” he said.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
He shifted, voice softer now. “A domestic abuse case.” He continued, “If you decide to press charges.”
“Bucky—”
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want to push. “I just—I wanted you to have the option.”
The option.
For so long, you had none.
For so long, Damien had decided everything. What you wore. Where you went. How loud you could speak. How much you could breathe.
You had a choice.
Slowly, you reached for the coffee he had brought you and took a sip. It was perfect, just the way you liked it.
Bucky sat beside you on the bed, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
His eyes looked to your cheek— to the fading imprint that had made a home there. “Does it still hurt?”
You swallowed, lifting your hand to touch the spot, but before you could, Bucky was already there, brushing his thumb lightly over your skin.
“A little,” you admitted. “But… I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.”
A small smile formed on his lips. “Good.”
And then, before you could say anything else, he leaned in.
He kissed your tears, lips pressing softly against the salt-streaked trail on your cheek. And then another kiss—this time against your lips. Slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I love you,” he whispered.
You cupped his face, fingers tracing the stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too.”
His eyes closed for a moment, like he was letting the words settle before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“You’re safe,” he promised. “You can do what you want, go where you want. Stay if you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m trapping you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and this time, it wasn’t from sadness.
“I know,” you whispered.
Because Bucky was nothing like him.
You had spent so long being controlled, manipulated, made to feel small. But now— now you had a choice.
And you chose him.
You had found love in the arms of a better man.
-end.
Extra notes : I'm posting because this month is my three-year anniversary of being sober, so this one is deeply personal. In some ways, this is a reflection of my past relationships before I met my wonderful partner. I don't really talk about this often, but couple of my exes were like this, and some even played a big part in my history of substance abuse. It is my partner who helped me get sober, and I am forever grateful, and I fucking love him so much. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to write the reader as a recovering addict, but I was able to write about experiencing abuse in a relationship. If you need to vent, my chat is always open. I may not reply quickly but I will talk if you're like me to. Please also refer to this very useful list of resources. If you can, please share more resources in the comments! You are worth so much and loved. <3
Heyy!Saw that your requests are open,soo if you're feeling up to it,I have an idea🥺🥺
Bucky taking care and comforting a reader that is coming out of a depressive episode.Like supporting them through trying to get their life back..
I kinda go through this atm🥺🥺
Put you together
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings and tags: talks of depression, recovering through it, supportive Bucky, healing.
You wake up to the soft hum of morning light filtering through thin curtains, and though your body feels heavy, you sense something different today—a small stirring of hope. Over the past few weeks, the weight of depression has held you captive, but today, you’ve chosen to fight back.
As you slowly rise, you feel a gentle presence behind you. Bucky stands there, his familiar gaze filled with quiet compassion, like a promise that you’re not alone in this battle.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice a low rumble that seems to cradle your heart. “I’m here.” His hand rests lightly on your shoulder, a steady warmth that reassures you. In that simple moment, you feel the grip of despair ease, replaced by a cautious trust that maybe, just maybe, things can change.
Throughout the day, Bucky moves quietly around your small apartment. He’s prepared your favorite breakfast—something simple and nourishing—and sits with you at the table as you both eat in comfortable silence. When you speak, your words are slow and measured, heavy with the burden of your recent struggles. Bucky listens without judgment, his eyes never leaving yours, conveying an understanding deeper than words. His presence is a silent promise: that even when life feels unbearable, there is always someone who cares.
As the hours pass, you find yourself recounting moments from your darkest days. With each confession, the raw pain of isolation resurfaces, yet Bucky is there, steady and unyielding. “I know it hurts,” he says, his voice gentle. “It’s okay to feel this way. But I believe in you. Every step you take, even the smallest one, is a victory.”
His words are not grand or overly optimistic; they are honest and tender, acknowledging the depth of your struggle while illuminating the path forward.
You take a walk together in the cool embrace of the afternoon. The world outside is alive with the rustle of leaves and distant chatter of everyday life—a stark contrast to the silence that once engulfed your days. With every step, Bucky walks beside you, his steady pace matching your own. He doesn’t rush you or push you to move faster.
Instead, he shares little anecdotes from his own life, stories of battles fought and scars hidden beneath layers of strength. “I’ve been broken too,” he confesses quietly, “but I’ve learned that broken pieces can be mended, even if it takes time.” His vulnerability, so rarely seen by others, creates a bridge between your pain and his resilience, reminding you that healing is a journey meant to be shared.
In moments of doubt, when the dark thoughts creep in like unwelcome shadows, Bucky is there to hold your hand, both literally and metaphorically. “It’s alright to be scared,” he murmurs as you pause on a bench beneath a sprawling oak. “We all have our moments of weakness, but it doesn’t define you. You’re not that darkness—you’re the light fighting to break through.” His words resonate deeply, stirring something inside you. It’s as if, with his every affirmation, the layers of sorrow begin to peel away, revealing the parts of you that have always been brave, even when you couldn’t see it.
The evening brings with it a soft, indigo twilight. Together, you return to your apartment where the world is hushed, and the only sound is the beating of your heart, now a little steadier. Bucky helps you prepare a light dinner, a simple meal that nourishes your body and soul.
As you both settle into the living room, he offers you a worn, well-loved book—a collection of poetry that has seen him through his own dark nights. “Sometimes words can be a reminder that we’re not alone,” he says, and you understand that his gesture is more than just sharing literature; it’s a way to connect with the shared human experience of pain and hope.
In the quiet hours, as you both sit with a gentle glow from a nearby lamp, Bucky reads aloud. His deep, resonant voice carries the cadence of each carefully chosen word, transforming the verses into a lullaby for your troubled heart. With every line, you feel a warmth spreading through you—a reminder that beauty can be found even in the midst of chaos. His voice is a steady rock against the turbulent tides of your thoughts, guiding you gently toward a place of calm and acceptance.
Later, as the night deepens, you find yourself in the safe space of your room. Bucky doesn’t leave your side; instead, he simply sits by you, offering his presence as the most powerful form of support. “I’m here,” he repeats softly, a mantra that you cling to as you drift between wakefulness and sleep. In that fragile moment, you begin to believe that healing isn’t about forgetting the pain—it’s about accepting it, learning from it, and allowing it to transform you into someone stronger.
The following morning, the world outside greets you with the gentle promise of a new day. The memories of yesterday’s darkness still linger, but they no longer overwhelm you. Bucky’s quiet encouragement has sown the seeds of hope, and you feel a new determination to keep moving forward, one day at a time. “You’ve come so far,” he whispers as you both stand by the window, watching the sunrise. “And every day is a step toward reclaiming your life.”
With Bucky’s steady support, you begin to rebuild the parts of your life that were once shrouded in despair. You set small goals—getting out of bed at a reasonable hour, taking walks in the park, reconnecting with old friends—and each achievement, no matter how minor, is celebrated as a victory. In the gentle cadence of everyday moments, you learn that life is not defined by a single episode of pain, but by the myriad instances of resilience and recovery.
Bucky’s unwavering presence becomes a constant reminder that you are not alone. His care is patient and enduring, echoing in every shared smile and quiet conversation. Even on days when the darkness threatens to return, you know that you have someone who believes in you, someone who will stand by you through every storm. And slowly, imperceptibly, you begin to see that the light within you has never truly vanished—it was always there, waiting for a chance to shine again.
In this new chapter of your life, you learn that healing is a continuous process, filled with ups and downs, triumphs and setbacks. But with every day that you rise, with every moment that you allow yourself to feel, you are taking back a piece of your life. And Bucky, with his gentle strength and unwavering love, is there to help you through it all—reminding you that you are worthy, you are loved, and you are never alone.
As the night falls once more, you settle into bed with a heart that, while still tender, feels hopeful. You drift off knowing that tomorrow is another chance—a chance to heal, to love, and to live. And in that promise, you find the courage to dream again.
A/n: I hope you feel better and just know that there are people who love and care about you. Hope you liked it. I'm so proud of you <3
Thinking about bucky just like laying on you like a weighted blanket, head on your chest, either because he just likes it or because it helps you like relax/sleep or something (totally dont sleep with a weighted plush on me to keep nightmares and anxiety away xD) idk sounds nice and comfortable ya know? Sorry if you did something like this before
It one of those nights.
The kind where the apartment is too quiet. Where the dark feels heavier than it should. Where your brain won’t turn off, replaying conversations and worst-case scenarios and half-formed fears until your chest feels tight and your hands won’t stop fidgeting in the sheets.
Bucky notices.
You’re curled on your side when he slips into bed, careful as ever, metal arm cool against the mattress while his flesh hand finds your hip. You try to pretend you’re asleep. You try to regulate your breathing. But your inhale catches just a little too sharp, and that’s all it takes.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice low and warm against the back of your neck. “You with me, doll?”
You hum noncommittally.
He shifts closer. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds into your back. His chest presses lightly between your shoulder blades, solid and grounding. “Bad night?”
You hesitate. Nod once.
He doesn’t ask you to explain. Doesn’t make you put words to it. He just makes a quiet little sound of understanding and then—without another word—he moves.
“Roll onto your back for me.”
There’s no edge to it. Just gentle instruction. You comply, blinking up at the ceiling, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s climbing over you.
He settles carefully, mindful of his strength, lowering himself until he’s half-draped over you. His metal arm braces beside your shoulder, but his flesh arm slides beneath your waist and tugs you closer. Then he lets his weight sink down slowly, chest to chest.
His head comes to rest right over your heart.
All of him.
Warm. Heavy. Solid.
You let out a soft, startled breath. “Bucky—”
“Shh.” His cheek presses against your sternum. You can feel the scratch of his stubble through your sleep shirt. “Tryin’ something.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’m not,” he mutters, adjusting slightly so the weight is distributed but still very much there. His thigh hooks over yours. His torso molds to yours. You are thoroughly, unmistakably pinned. “I know exactly how much I weigh.”
“You absolutely do not.”
He huffs, and you feel the puff of it against your skin. “Serum math. I got it handled.”
And then he just… stays.
His full, steady weight sinks into you like a living, breathing blanket. Not suffocating. Just enough pressure to make your nervous system go oh.
Your hands, which had been restless and curled into the fabric of the sheets, slowly move on their own. One slides up into his hair. The other settles at the back of his neck.
He exhales.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs against you.
“You’re heavy.”
“That’s the point.”
You can’t even argue, because as the seconds pass, something shifts.
Your breathing starts to match his. Slow. Deep. His ribcage rises and falls in a steady rhythm against yours, and your body unconsciously mirrors it. His heartbeat is strong and even beneath your palm, a low thud-thud that seems to drown out the noise in your head.
The pressure anchors you.
Keeps you from floating off into anxious spirals.
He rubs his thumb absently along your side, slow circles just above your hip. “You ever notice,” he says quietly, “that your heart races when you’re thinkin’ too much?”
You swallow. “Maybe.”
“It’s slower now.”
You hadn’t realized it was. But he’s right.
“Sometimes,” he continues, voice soft and thoughtful, “when I can’t sleep… when my head gets loud… I put something heavy on my chest. Back at the compound, it was usually a dumbbell.” He gives a faint shrug. “Grounds me. Reminds me I’m here. Not somewhere else.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair.
“Figured,” he adds gently, “maybe it’d help you too.”
Your throat burns a little.
“You don’t have to carry it by yourself,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is.”
You don’t even know what it is half the time. Just a swirl of old fears and stress and dreams that feel too real. But right now, with him draped over you like this, it feels… manageable.
Like the world can’t touch you under the weight of him.
“You’re basically a 200-pound security blanket,” you mumble.
“Rude. I’m at least 220.”
You laugh softly, and the sound vibrates between your bodies.
He tilts his head just enough to press a kiss over your heart. It’s slow. Tender. Like he’s sealing something there.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, I think so.”
He shifts minutely, letting just a little more of his weight settle into you, as if testing. You don’t protest this time. You welcome it. Your legs wrap loosely around his hips. Your fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, and he practically melts.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, already sounding drowsy. “Just breathe with me.”
You do.
In.
Out.
His chest rises. Yours follows.
The tension in your shoulders loosens. The tightness in your jaw eases. Even your thoughts seem to slow, softened by the steady pressure and warmth and the quiet rumble of him.
He hums low in his throat when your nails drag lightly at the nape of his neck. “You pet me, I’m not movin’ all night.”
“Good,” you whisper. “Don’t.”
He smiles against your skin.
“I got you,” he says, so simple it almost hurts. “Long as you need.”
And he stays.
Heavy and solid and warm, breathing slow against your chest, metal arm curved protectively at your side. Every so often he presses another absentminded kiss to your collarbone or sternum, like he’s making sure your heartbeat is still there.
Like he’s counting it.
Your eyelids grow heavy. Your fingers slow in his hair.
The last thing you register before sleep finally takes you is the feeling of him shifting just slightly, careful even in his half-asleep state, making sure you’re comfortable. Making sure you can breathe easily. Making sure his weight never becomes too much.
But it never is.
Because with him like this—solid and present and impossibly real—your nightmares don’t stand a chance.
summary: When you come back from the blip in the graveyard having just been at your grandmother’s funeral, the cemetery seems like the safest place to be. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you find yourself there most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. It also doesn't hurt that a certain blue-eyed super soldier visits the cemetery weekly, placing flowers over two plots.
pairing: Bucky x female reader
word count: 7379 (this really got away from me…)
warnings: some cursing, mentions of death
author’s note: This is my entry into @pellucid-constellations Love Letters Writing Challenge (cut it right down to the wire)! This is only my second fic and my first time writing for Bucky. I was originally planning on writing something completely different but I couldn't get this out of my head. Completely inspired by the awesome folks who do this in real life and post about it on Tik Tok.
playlist: Dust to Dust by the Civil Wars on repeat forever
You were well aware that to others, your new hobby would appear more than a bit morbid. But as you scrubbed the dirt from the tombstone with a wire brush, watching as the brown suds ran down into the soil below, all you felt was catharsis. Peace and catharsis. Cleaning old gravestones had certainly never been a dream of yours, but now you found yourself here most days, scraping dirt and moss and algae from stones of people long dead and most likely long forgotten. And that was the reason you continued. There was something comforting about being in the presence of others who had been forgotten, even if they were no longer living.
The first stone you had cleaned had been your grandmothers. Your beloved grandmother who took you and your mother in when your father walked out, no questions asked and no judgment given. Your grandmother who told you bedtime stories of fairies in magical woods and of strong princesses who didn’t need rescuing. The one who taught you to paint and to bake chocolate chip banana muffins and above all things, to be kind. Sometimes that last lesson was difficult to carry on when the world had treated you so unkindly.
When she had died, it felt like your whole world had ended. And then it really did. On the morning of her funeral, as a soft, warm wind lifted your hair and the sun beat down against the black fabric of your dress, the world had ended for what felt like a held breath. The small crowd that had gathered around the upturned earth felt suffocating and you were almost glad when they started thinning out, even if it meant you were now truly alone. After what felt like hours, eternity, you reached down to grab a handful of grave dirt and as you stood over her grave, the last person on earth who loved you, the handful of dirt slipping through your fingers and falling onto the smooth, wood casket , your own fingers turned to dust.
You could still remember the feeling, numbing cold and then nothingness before returning to the same spot, hands empty. Green grass had replaced your grandmother’s open grave and her tombstone was already dulled with the wear of 5 years. You would go back to the grave over and over again in the few weeks after the blip. You had lost your job, lost the warm, cozy home you had loved so much. The last part of your grandmother now well and truly gone. Maybe that is why you continued to go back to the cemetery, day after day. Marveling at the quiet. Wondering how the graves could go so long without anyone caring for them, becoming dirt covered and worn. So you had gotten to work, first starting with your own grandmother’s tombstone, pulling the weeds from the base, cleaning the smooth marble until it was bright again and planting a bright yellow mum at the base. You had researched the proper tools to get, the correct techniques to use as you surveyed the gravestones dating back decades. Your first course of action had been to ask permission from the caretaker, who had taken some time to track down. Just one man who should have been retired responsible for acres of final resting places. He had been thrilled for the help. And then you just couldn’t stop. You felt like you were doing something, something useful, something good.
You never felt alone as you walked through the cemetery, and sometimes you weren’t. The old cemetery frequently had visitors but was never crowded by any stretch. It had been two months, and you had still not moved on from the section of plots near your grandmother you had started in. When you returned home to your tiny walk up studio apartment, you spent hours researching the history of the names on the stones you had cleaned that day. You told yourself that you were just being methodical, cleaning stone by stone. But if you were being completely honest, you hadn’t really moved on to a different part of the cemetery because of a certain handsome stranger who came once a week on schedule, bringing a bouquet of yellow roses and white daisies to lay at the base of two headstones.
Of course, he wasn’t exactly a stranger. You knew who he was. He had cut his dark hair and kept his metal arm buried under a leather jacket and gloves, even in the heat of late summer, but you recognized him. Though you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to James Barnes, you had certainly worked up quite the crush. The way he knelt in front of the stones of the people he was visiting, the sadness evident in his blue eyes even from afar. You felt drawn to him. Marveling at more than just his handsome face, you wanted to know him. You wanted to know who he was visiting and why he seemed so hollow. But the thought terrified you, not because you were afraid of him. You were terrified because it had been so long since you’d actually had a conversation with someone. You spent your working hours in front of a computer screen and when you weren’t working, you were here, cleaning old tombstones in ragged clothes, hair pulled up and dirt smudged on your face.
You knew, of course, that you could just look at the gravesites he visited after he left, but it strangely felt like such an invasion of privacy. The sites you cleaned were old, sometimes over a hundred years, and no one had visited them in years. This felt different, more personal, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look.
As you worked on the stone in front of you, the final resting place of Sarah Monroe, an amazing woman who has driven the city’s first bookmobile, you glanced towards the tall maple tree you always found Bucky under. He usually was here already, crouched in front of the two graves under the maple but you had yet to see him today. You surreptitiously glanced up every now and then, looking for him, but as the sky darkened and you finished with your last grave of the day, you still hadn’t seen him. You stood, dusting the dirt from your jeans and rinsing off your tools with your water sprayer. You wrapped them in a towel and placed them in your bucket, snapping a quick picture of your work and heading towards the center of the graveyard. Richard, the caretaker, would let you store some of your things in the garden shed, especially your water sprayer that made the job a lot easier but was too heavy to walk with. When you looked down at your watch, you realized it was a lot later than you realized.
When you reached the shed, you yanked on the door but it didn’t budge. Richard had never locked it on you before. You glanced down at the heavy water sprayer and tried the door again but it didn’t budge. You felt panic rising in your chest. You could just leave them here, but your tools, though not particularly expensive, had taken a while to procure on your very limited income. Plus, if the shed was locked that must mean that Richard had already left for the evening. You glanced over to the iron gate inside the high brick wall and ran, heart thudding in your chest. You weren’t necessarily concerned about being in a cemetery alone at night as much as you were concerned about being anywhere in the city alone in the dark at night. When you finally reached the gate your heart sank even lower as you noted the large lock in place through the chain, barring your exit. You dropped your tools to the ground and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, whirling around as if another exit was going to materialize. You desperately beat against the gate, rattling the chain which sounded particularly ominous in the empty graveyard.
“Are you okay?” In your panic, you hadn’t heard anyone approach. You screamed, tripping backwards over your bucket of tools and falling with a resounding thud right on your behind.
Bucky stood at the gate, hands raised in front of him as if you were a startled animal he was trying to placate.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said.
“You’re late,” you said, not fully recognizing the words as they poured from your mouth until it was too late to take them back. You closed your eyes tightly in embarrassment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze, missing the way his eyes crinkled in confusion.
“Not that I know your schedule or anything. Or that I watch you when you are here…oh my god, I need to stop talking.” you managed to choke out, scrambling to your feet and dusting yourself off.
But Bucky laughed, actually laughed. It was breathy and quiet but it was a laugh and you immediately looked up to see his face, broke into a grin.
“I…had some things come up. Do you need some help?” He asked, nodding towards your supplies.
“I’m actually kind of locked in?” the words sounded like a question and you heard him laugh again. You suddenly wanted nothing more but to make this man laugh for the rest of your life.
Bucky wasn’t sure if you knew who he was. He had a feeling that if you did, it was not his help you would want when you were alone at night in a dark cemetery. He glanced down at the lock before looking back up at you. It would take a simple pinch of his fingers to snap the lock open, but he didn’t exactly want to expose who he was if he didn’t have to. His session with Dr. Raynor had left him more than a little frustrated. He had thought going to visit his parents every week should count for something, some sort of way to reconcile his past, honor the Bucky Barnes he had once been. But Raynor had just reiterated again how very alone he was.
He thought about that fact as he looked at you, still clearly flustered from being scared half to death in a cemetery. He had seen you, of course. He had been intrigued by the care and concentration you gave to each grave. He had guessed that maybe you worked for the city or some historical preservation society but now he wasn’t so sure. He wanted to find out
“Why don’t you gather your things while I work on this lock.” He suggested, hoping you would turn. You seemed to understand, nodding as you turned, gathering the things that had strewn across the walkway after your trip. You heard a metallic click and then the screeching echo of the rusty gate swinging open.
“Lifesaver!” You said as you turned around. Bucky ducked his head.
“Need some help with that?” He offered, gesturing to the tools at your feet.
“I usually lock it up in the caretaker shed but I guess Richard forgot I was here tonight. I don’t want to put you out, you’ve already helped enough.”
“I really don’t mind.” Bucky said again, reaching down to grab your things, swiftly holding the water sprayer and bucket of tools with no effort.
“Thank you, seriously, I really appreciate it. I’m Y/N, by the way.” You said.
“Bucky.” He found himself saying.
The walk to your apartment is mostly quiet, but it is comfortable, occasionally filtered with questions.
“Cleaning the graves, is that your job?” He asked. You let out a soft chuckle and sighed.
“Sadly, no. That would probably make it less creepy. My…grandmother passed away, right before the blip. I was actually at her funeral when it happened and when I came back, it kind of became the only place I felt comfortable. God, that sounds so weird.”
“It doesn’t. Not at all. So you were…gone? In the blip?” He asked, his voice gentle. You nodded, glancing up at him.
“You?”
“Yeah” you both fell quiet for a few moments before he said “I think it’s pretty incredible, actually. Spending your time caring for people you'll never meet.”
You looked up at him again, catching him looking at you. You gave him a grin before ducking your head again.
The evening was turning cool, and your shirt had gotten wet in the cleaning process leaving you shivering. Bucky looked down, wanting to do something normal like offer you his jacket, but he didn’t want to break this spell, this comfortable bubble of companionship he had somehow stumbled into. He didn’t want to scare you off if you didn’t know who he was. But you were shivering and he was still the gentleman his Ma had raised, so he stopped walking, setting your tools down on a front stoop and shrugging off his jacket. He held it out, silently offering to drape it over your shoulders and you turned, grabbing the soft leather as soon as it fell over your shoulders.
“Thank you,” you said, snuggling into the jacket and Bucky felt warmth spread all the way down to his toes.
When you neared your building, your stomach dropped. You didn’t want the walk to end and you also were nervous about Bucky seeing your apartment. After losing your grandmother’s cozy brownstone, your small 5th floor walk up paled in comparison. The building was old, but not in the historic pre-war beauty of a few blocks up. Yours was crumbling with age and poor maintenance, made of chipping concrete and a front stoop with a broken step and bent railings. You hurried to get past the front of the building, hoping your creepy neighbor wouldn’t make an appearance tonight…or maybe rather wishing he would. Bucky was certainly a looming presence, maybe the creep in 4B would finally leave you alone.
As you climbed up to your apartment, you thanked Bucky up each flight of stairs. Bucky caught your nervous glances around and was on edge himself. He noticed the immediate shift in your movements and was worried that you didn’t feel safe here. When you stopped in front of the last apartment down the hall on the 5th floor, digging through your bag for your keys, he opened his mouth to say something but stopped. What would he say? Can you please find somewhere safer to live? When you finally found your keys in the depth of your tote bag, you unlocked two deadbolts, which made Bucky feel a bit better, and stepped inside, opening the door wider for Bucky to come in.
“You can just set that stuff right by the door,” you said, continuing to head inside the warm apartment. Bucky placed your tools down and then stood, closing the door and finally taking in your apartment. It was small but exceptionally cozy and nothing like his own barebones government mandated housing.
A small kitchen was directly to the right, overflowing with cooking equipment. To the left, a small dining nook, really just a table pushed up against a window, covered in a delicate lace tablecloth as well as two candles and a white pitcher with a delicate blue design holding a bouquet of dried lavender. There was floral wallpaper, mismatched rugs on nearly every bit of exposed flooring. There were no overhead lights, lamps on nearly every surface emitting a warm glow.
This home, filled with clearly loved things neatly arranged with care, felt so much like the home he grew up in that he stalled at the door, taking in a shaky breath. You must take his harsh inhale as a form of judgment because suddenly you were by his side again, taking in your space with hands clasped in front of you, fidgeting.
“I know, it’s…small. And I don’t think I could ever be described as a minimalist so, I know it’s, well…a lot”, you say.
You had taken his pause at the door to mean he was uncomfortable. You had spent the last few months scouring thrift stores, trying your hardest to recreate the cozy and safe feeling your grandmother’s home had enveloped you in as a child. But seeing a super soldier standing on your braided rug in the doorway, taking in your tufted velvet sofa and lace curtains separating your “living space” from your bed, you felt oddly embarrassed.
“No! No, it’s…it’s, uh. It’s really nice. I think…” Bucky wanted to reassure you that even through his shock, he felt instantly at peace in your home. And that’s what it was. Unlike his apartment with barely any furniture and no personal traces, your home felt like a warm hug. He could tell exactly who you were just by stepping foot inside, like he was peering straight into your mind. “I think my mom had that exact pitcher.” He said finally, gesturing to the milk glass on the table.
“Oh yeah?” You said, smiling now. You hand him back his jacket as you move towards the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove.
“Want some tea? Coffee?”
He did. Bucky felt the instant urge to never have to leave your side again and that was terrifying. You had seemingly just met. You hadn’t even taken a glance at his arm, either out of politeness or fear he wasn’t sure and he didn’t think he wanted to find out. He felt his heart rate increase, sweat beginning to gather at the nape of his neck. Flashes of memories forced their way to the surface. His mother, teaching him how to dance across the hardwood floors of their home, doing the same with his sister when she was older. Coming home to the smell of a home cooked meal, sitting together at the table, a table not unlike the one sitting to his left. Even the scent was familiar, lavender and honey. He could feel the panic rising and he knew he needed to get out of there.
“I should actually head out,” Bucky managed to say from the doorway. Your face falls for a moment before you realize that to him, you are essentially complete strangers and your silly crush is one hundred percent one sided.
“Thank you again,” you say, turning for just a moment to reach for a glass from the cupboard but when you turn towards the door again, he is gone.
You had made the decision as you lay awake that night, unable to sleep. Clearly, Bucky was visiting the graves of someone he loved, or at least someone who meant quite a bit to him. He had saved your life, or at the very least saved you from a cold and uncomfortable night spent on a park bench inside a cemetery. You wanted to do something for him, something to thank him properly, and all you kept coming back to was the gravestones. When you woke the next morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep, you had made your mind. You gathered your supplies, dressed quickly into a pair of worn jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt and your green rain boots before heading out the door.
It was Thursday, and while you knew he wouldn’t be coming today, you still glanced over your shoulder as you neared the cemetery walls. You walked reverently towards the stones he always visited, two stones clustered together underneath one of the large maple trees that had just begun to turn color. This part of the cemetery was towards the center, away from most of the city noise and surrounded by trees. It was one of the reasons your grandmother had picked her plot so early. You thought it had been incredibly morbid at the time but now you understood. It was a beautiful place to rest.
You set your tools down, arranging them in order and mixing your cleaning solution. You inspected the stones for flakes or cracks, any damage that might be made worse by cleaning and thankfully found none. You soaked the stone with the water from your sprayer and picked up your paint scraper, gently scraping away the areas where moss had taken over, obscuring the stone. Then you got to work spraying your cleaning solution and scrubbing the stone with your brush, using a toothbrush to get in the small nooks and crannies to make sure the inscription was legible again. While you were letting the stone sit for a few minutes, you finally took the time to read the epitaphs.
Winnifred Barnes
1895 - 1955
Beloved wife and mother.
George Barnes
1891 - 1940
Beloved husband and father.
You trace the dates with your finger, breath catching in your throat, marveling at the fact that they must be Bucky’s parents.
After rinsing the stones completely with water, you stand back to admire your work. Though they are simple, they truly are beautiful, and you run your fingers over them, sending a silent hello to George and Winnifred. You wondered what they had been like. If Bucky had been close with them. If he had once had siblings. You gently arranged a bouquet of flowers at the base of each stone and slipped a note inside the wrapping.
The next week, Bucky can’t stop his eyes from drifting across the cemetery, looking for the green rain boots you always wore. He can’t help but smile when he finds you. Your back is to him, scrubbing a stone a few yards away and Bucky is surprised at the comfort your simple presence brings him. He feels like he needs to apologize. He had been on the brink of a panic attack in your apartment last week and left with barely a goodbye. When he reaches his parent’s graves, he stills. He has to do a double take to make sure he’s in the right spot. He feels a tightening in his chest, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath and crouches down for a closer look. The stones were beautiful, back to the palest gray and their epitaphs were dark and clear. You had even laid flowers at each of them, bright, sunny bouquets that his mother would have adored. He sees a sliver of paper sticking out from the wrapping of the bouquet in front of his mother’s stone and he picks it up, delicately unfolding it.
“Bucky,
I truly hope this isn’t out of line. Normally I never see the families of the graves I clean and I think it is truly remarkable that you are still here, that you can visit their memory. I hope that this brings a bit of beauty to your weekly visits.
Thank you again,
Y/N”
Bucky is enamored with your thoughtfulness. He runs a hand over the smooth marble, taking in each detail he hadn’t bothered to notice before.
“Hey, Ma. Dad.” Bucky says, still crouching low in front of the graves. “I don’t know if this is you sending some sort of sign, but I’ll take it.” He looked up for you again before leaving his own flowers and saying goodbye to his parents.
You catch just a glimpse of his back as he leaves, shoulders hunched, completely unable to read him. Your own shoulders fall. Maybe you had overstepped? Maybe it truly had been some invasion into his private life that he resented you for? Out of anyone you could think of, you knew he certainly deserved his privacy, after everything he had been through. You knew that you only knew a fraction of it, only what they had thrown at him during his pardon proceedings. He had strangely become this constant in your life, and now that you had actually met him, had a conversation with him, you knew him to be sweet and caring. You didn’t want to think lose that now. You felt tears gathering in your eyes and you shook your head. This was stupid! You hardly knew the man, and you had overstepped. This was all on you. Instead of packing up and heading home, like you wanted, you gathered your things and moved a few stones over, preparing to start cleaning again.
After another twenty minutes had passed, you had lost yourself in the process enough to clear your mind somewhat. The music playing through your headphones certainly helped, which was why you didn’t see Bucky as he returned, a coffee in each hand.
Bucky called your name before seeing your earbuds. He transferred the coffee cups into one hand and gently laid a hand on your shoulder. Which was exactly the wrong thing to do. You screamed, stumbling back and again falling flat on your ass, wielding your putty scraper like a weapon. This time, though, Bucky laughed. A head thrown back, hand on hips laugh that you heard even over your music. You ripped out your earbuds, a hand placed over your heart and joined him. He held out a hand to help you up and then offered you one of the coffee cups in his vibranium hand, which you noticed, was not covered by a glove.
“You are going to be the death of me, Barnes.” You said, not knowing why you had the urge to call him by his last name, but the blush on his cheeks made it clear he liked it.
After he left the cemetery, Bucky had begrudgingly called Sam. He had been out of the game for…a long time. Sam, after teasing him relentlessly, had told him to just be direct. Ask you out for coffee, if that would be easier than dinner. So instead, Bucky brought the coffee to you.
You reached out to grab the coffee, brushing the hair back from your face with your other hand and smudging dirt across your forehead. Without pausing to think, Bucky leaned forward and swiped a thumb across your forehead, clearing the smudge. “You had some dirt.”
He was being bashful, you thought. That had to be a good sign that he wasn't angry with you. That and the coffee he had brought. Maybe you hadn’t truly messed everything up.
“Thanks,” you breathe out, holding up the coffee in a salute.
“Do you have time for a break?” Bucky asks, nodding towards the bench just across from you.
“Yeah, just give me a second to rinse this one off.” Bucky reaches for the coffee cup and then watches you work, spraying down the stone with water and watching the brown suds clear. You held such concentration, such reverence as you moved around the stone, making sure all of the soap was gone, reaching down to swipe away a few errant strands of grass that had plastered to the bottom of the stone. He liked the way your nose scrunched in concentration, the tilt of your head as you examined your work. When you were done, you looked up and he realized you had caught him staring, but you gave him a soft smile, reaching out your hand.
“Okay, all set.” You said, taking the coffee he offered back to your outstretched hand. You walked over to the bench, sitting close but not touching. At first the silence was awkward, both not sure what to say. Bucky ran a hand across the back of his neck, letting out a quiet chuckle before turning to you.
“I want to say thank you. For taking care of my parents' graves. That was…I just really appreciate it. They deserve that.” He finally said.
“It was my pleasure. You deserve it too, you know.” You wanted to shy away from his gaze but you held strong, making sure to look in his eyes so he would know you meant it.
“I don’t know about that.” You noticed the instant his body language changed and you knew not to push so you changed the subject, asking him gentle questions about his parents and were pleasantly surprised when he answered. He told you stories about growing up with his best friend Steve, the trouble they would get into. He asked you about your grandmother, about your life before the blip. You didn’t realize how much time had gone by until the sky began to darken, your coffee long gone.
Bucky helped you store your tools into the shed and offered to walk you home. This time, he said goodbye at your door, not coming inside and you reached up to wrap him in a quick hug before you lost your nerve. He was stiff at first before he wrapped his arm around you. He smelled like leather and citrus.
You watched him as he walked down the steps, turning once to give you a wave. When you head in, locking the door behind you, eager to take a shower and wash off the dirt, your hand brushes against something in the pocket of your sweater. You reach in and pull out a folded piece of paper with a phone number scrawled across it and on the back “dinner tomorrow?”
You can't help the excited squeal as you hold the note to your chest before sticking it on the fridge with a magnet. You make yourself wait to text him until after your shower. You rush through making dinner, settle in on your sofa and clutch the phone in your hand like a lifeline. Finally, you type in his number.
“That was very sly of you, Barnes.”
“Too much?” he responds, just a moment later. You grin at the phone.
“Not at all. Tomorrow night is great. Where should I meet you?”
“I’ll pick you up. 7 okay?”
“Perfect.” You send with a smile.
When he picks you up the next evening, he has a bouquet in his hands. He walks you to a diner just a few blocks away, and you grin up at him. It was a favorite spot for you and your grandmother. The waitress, Stella, an old friend of your grandmother gives you a hug when you come in, ushering you to a corner booth and teasing you about how handsome your date is.
Over the next few weeks, Bucky consumes your life. He meets you at the cemetery each week, walking you home at night. Sometimes he comes in, and you watch a movie on your couch, usually ending up with your head on his shoulder. You meet for coffee and sometimes dinner at the diner. You spend late nights on the phone. Through bits and pieces, he starts to share his life with you. His past life, his guilt.
Sometimes he stays the night, though usually only when you both fall asleep on the couch and you have both yet to make a move, to turn this into something more. On one of those nights you wake in your bed, unsure of how you got there before seeing Bucky hunched over on the couch, clearly not sleeping. He must have picked you up and tucked you in after you fell asleep. You sit up, whispering a quiet “hey”, just to make sure he really was awake. He turns to you then, and you see his eyes, haunted and wide. You move towards him slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements and frighten him away. As you sit down next to him on the couch, you take his hand in yours, rubbing your fingers over his knuckles.
“Nightmares?” you ask, already knowing the answer. He had mentioned them to you before, though only briefly and never wanting to get into them.
He nods, still not turning to look at you.
“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, voice still low. He shakes his head and you lean in closer, trying to offer him your warmth.
“Okay. What can I do?” you ask. At first you think he isn’t going to answer, but then he inhales and lets out a long breath, angling towards you.
“Why do you clean the tombstones?” he asks. His voice is rough from lack of sleep.
It takes you a minute to answer, not sure exactly what to say.
“I think…,” you start before taking a breath, “I think it’s because I felt so alone. Alone and worthless, if I’m being honest. I guess I didn’t feel like I had done enough to help my grandma when she was alive. Maybe it started as a way to try and apologize to her.” Bucky looked up at that, eyes wide. You shifted closer to him and he draped an arm around your shoulders.
“I think it started out of guilt, out of…just emptiness, but the more that I did it, the more I felt useful. It sounds silly but I never felt alone when I was in the cemetery. I felt…feel…safe and comforted.”
You are both quiet for a long time before Bucky speaks. “I’ve been working since my pardon to...make amends. For the things I did.”
“Bucky, that wasn’t you. You didn’t have control…” you start and he shakes his head. “I know. I know that. But the things he did. I’m not him anymore, but those things are still in my head, it doesn’t feel like it’s separate from me and I can’t…” he breaks off in a gasp.
You pull him in closer, wrapping your arms around him and carding your hands through his hair.
“Do you think maybe it might help? Cleaning the stones? Would you teach me?” You lean back just enough to look in his eyes.
“Of course I’ll teach you, Bucky. I don’t know if it will help but of course I will.”
And you do. You meet in the cemetery twice a week, showing him how to scrape and scrub. How to check for damage before continuing. Bucky is surprised to find that he truly enjoys the work. It forces him to concentrate just enough to clear his mind and he likes being outside. He tells you that in time, he’d like to look for some of the Winter Soldier’s victims, to find where they are buried and do the same for them and you spend evenings researching with him, keeping lists of places you hope you will be able to go with him.
When Autumn is in full swing and the temperatures dip into the forties, making it unsafe for the gravestones to be wet, you still meet in the cemetery, sometimes sharing a picnic, sometimes just talking. It had become such a part of his routine now, something he didn’t have to think about. It left room to think about your smile, your kind, sweet voice, the lavender scent of your hair. He could think about how close you had become, something just more than friendship.
Bucky had been waiting on the bench beneath the maple tree for the last 45 minutes. After thirty, he had called you, just to check-in. For the last few months you had been meeting, you had never missed a day. You had never been so much as five minutes late and he was starting to worry. He wiped his palm on his black jeans, realizing he was sweating.
He couldn’t stop the thoughts that immediately rushed through his mind. Glimpses of you, taken by invisible hands. Someone taking revenge for the things he had been forced to do. After the third unanswered call, he bolts up, unable to pause to wonder if he is overreacting. He’s at your apartment in no time, knocking on the door.
You hear the sound, a gentle knock, coming from just outside of your awareness. You had been lost in the hazy space between dreams and wakefulness and it was hard to open your eyes, fatigue weighing heavily on your entire body. You don’t remember when exactly you fell asleep or how long you’ve been in bed. It could quite possibly have been last night or two days ago. It felt as if every muscle in your body had been hammered with a meat tenderizer and your throat was on fire. Your chest tightened every time you let out a shaky breath, wheezing as you attempted to suck in air. You didn’t think you had ever felt so sick. You were drenched in sweat, sheets soaked through and yet you were shivering. You had the vaguest notion that you were meant to be somewhere, that you were forgetting something important but you couldn’t fight through the thick fog in your brain to remember. You attempted to sit up, desperate to get a drink of water but you felt as if you were moving through mud. You heard the knock again, wondering if you were still sleeping. You called out a weak hello, attempting again to get off your bed but stumbling and falling to the floor.
“Y/N, I’m coming in!” you heard, and though you were miserable you smiled at the sound of his voice.
“Bucky” you whispered.
You heard a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood.
He was by your side in an instant, placing the back of his hand against your forehead.
“Jesus, you’re burning up, doll.” Bucky gently lifts you up, placing you on the bed. You barely recognize the movements but you are instantly filled with relief.
“Have you taken anything for your fever?” he asks, brushing the hair from your eyes. You shake your head no.
“Shower,” you whisper, realizing just how crusty you feel. Bucky glances to the bathroom door and back to you. He gives a quick nod and searches your drawers for a pair of clothes for you to change into and a towel and stacks them neatly on the sink.
“Do you think you can manage?” he asks and you nod again, slowly standing up and accepting his help to the bathroom door. He turns on the water, adjusting the temperature so it is just slightly warm, not wanting to overheat you more than you already are.
“I’ll just be in the kitchen, okay?” His face is clouded with worry so you attempt to smile reassuringly but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You leave the door open a crack and only start to undress when you hear him in the kitchen, the comforting sounds of him making tea and rifling through your drawers.
Initially, the shower feels good, but after a few minutes, it is becoming increasingly difficult to stand. When you turn the water off, you hear a knock on the open door. Bucky reaches through the curtain to hand you your towel and you realize just how cold you are now that the water is off. Shivering, you towel off and wrap the towel around you, carefully opening the shower curtain and accepting Bucky’s hand. You briefly think this isn’t how you wanted the first time he saw you naked to go and Bucky chuckles, his face turning crimson. You must have said that out loud. There is no time to feel embarrassed at the moment, though, because all you want is to get back into your bed under hundreds of blankets and sleep for eternity.
Bucky turns around to let you get dressed as you sit on the edge of your bed for support and you notice that he’s also changed your bedsheets. There is a cup of tea perched on your nightstand along with a full cup of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. After helping you take the medicine and drink a few sips of tea, Bucky tucks you in, pulling the extra quilt from the end of your bed. He turns to leave just as your eyes drift closed but you hold out a hand, desperate in your fever haze for him to stay.
“Are you sure? I’ll just be right over there if you need me.” He points to the couch across your studio apartment, but you nod, grabbing onto his hand and tugging with what little strength you have. Bucky kicks off his boots and takes off his jacket.
He lies down next to you, stock still, feet crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest.
“Cold.” You mutter, teeth chattering, and the sound breaks Bucky’s heart. He turns then, opening his arms and you shuffle closer. Bucky inhales as you snake your arm around his neck, leg hitching over his hip, just trying desperately to get warm and completely lacking any inhibitions you normally would have in your feverish state. Bucky pauses for a moment, frozen, before wrapping his arm around your back. His fingers trail through your hair as you nuzzle deeper into his shoulder and the last thing you remember before finally drifting to sleep is a gentle kiss on the crown of your head.
You wake often through the night, each time Bucky is already awake and looking at you, asking if you are alright. He gives you more ibuprofen once during the night but you never truly stop touching. The weight of his arm around you is a comfort. When you wake in the morning, the sun is already making its way higher in the sky and you don’t feel quite as achey. You roll over slightly, watching as the light drifts across the floor, filtered through the lace curtains. You reach a hand out to find Bucky but you are met with cold sheets. Had you dreamed he was there? But as you sit up, looking at the cup of tea you definitely don’t remember making, you find a note.
“Heading to the hardware store so I can fix your door. I’ll be back soon. - Bucky”
Fix your door? It occurs to you only now that Bucky must have kicked it in to get inside last night. You roll out of bed, grabbing the robe hanging on the bedpost and sliding your socked feet into your coziest pair of slippers before making your way to the bathroom. You splash some water on your face and brush your teeth before heading towards the kitchen. Bucky is already back, unloading a paper bag of every type of cold medicine you have ever seen. You smile gratefully at him as you see he also brought you a coffee and a bagel from the shop down the street that you love so much.
“Buck, you didn’t have to do any of this.” You said as you came up beside him. He takes a moment to answer, as if he is steeling himself to say something.
“I was, uh. I was really worried when you didn’t show and weren’t answering your phone.” He pauses to clear his throat. He fiddles with one of the boxes of medicine, turning it over in his hands before setting it back on the counter. He looked around your kitchen, eyes stopping at your fridge and the tiny note with his phone number that was still stuck there.
“I was worried that somehow…because of who I am, something had happened to you. And I realized how devastating that would be…to me. God, I was terrified, doll. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.” He stepped closer, cupping your cheek and lowering his forehead to yours.
“I’m sorry I worried you.” You whispered, just as he said “Your fever’s gone down.”
He chuckled.
“Please don’t be sorry. Honestly I kind of needed the push. Because I’ve been denying just how hard I’ve fallen for you.”
You sucked in a breath, looking up into crystal blue eyes that felt like home. After a moment Bucky let out a nervous chuckle.
“You’re killing me, doll. Say something. Am I out of line?”
“I really want to kiss you right now, Barnes.” You said, finally.
“What’s stopping you?”
“You’ll get sick,” you said with a smile.
“Super soldier, remember?”
“A definite perk, I guess.”
You were smiling as your lips touched, a gentle, sweet kiss that held the promise of something more. And despite the exhaustion in your bones, the ache in your head you were exquisitely happy.
“You need rest. Plus, I need to fix your door. Gotta keep my girl safe.” He said, giving you another peck on the lips. You couldn’t argue with that.
This was such an interesting concept and full of amazing writing!! I love fics that grab my attention with something new, and this was perfect for that 🥰 The connection the reader had to her hobby and the way Bucky found something in it as well was so heartfelt. Not to mention the sickfic at the end, which I’m always such a sucker for <3 The relationship and growth between them was so sweet!!
Bucky w a reader that is going theough a rly hard exam season?🥹
Like they know they can’t stop them from cramming and pullinh the all nighters,so he just tries to take care of them at that phase as much as possible
Maybe putting a warning to the caffeine consumed?Bringing them snacks?WHO KNOWS WHAT ELSE??(Hot chocolate plzz)
Taking Care Of You » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier
Pairings: Congressman/Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x College Student/Girlfriend!Reader
Summary: You’ve been studying so much during a hard exam season that you forget to take care of yourself, which worries Bucky so he takes care of you.
Warnings: Fluff, language, reader drinks a lot of caffeine while studying, kissing, pet names
A/N: @majulians-groupie thank you for the lovely request🩵
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes
Header made by my friend🩵 / divider made by me
GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator
You’ve been studying all day. Starting when Bucky was getting ready for work. You didn’t take a break once, except to get something to drink. Something to drink meaning, coffee or an energy drink.
“I’ll see you tonight, doll.” Bucky says.
“Ok.” You say, not taking your eyes off of your textbooks.
“Are you going to give me a kiss goodbye?” He asks.
You managed to pull yourself away from studying to give Bucky a kiss on his cheek. He wraps his arms around your waist before you can sit back down and kisses your lips.
“That’s the kiss I wanted.” He says softly.
You giggled and kissed him once more before sitting back down to study. Bucky has noticed that you’ve been studying a lot lately and it worries him. He just wants you to take care of yourself is all.
“Make sure you take breaks from studying.” Bucky says softly.
“I will.” You say.
Bucky knows you’ll forget to take breaks from studying so he made a mental note to text you to remind you to take breaks.
The only times you pulled yourself away from studying is when you needed something to drink. Something to drink meaning, caffeine. You were too focused on studying that you didn’t even realize how much caffeine you were drinking. You went to take a sip of your soda and quickly realized that the can is empty. You sighed to yourself. You stood up from the table and went to the kitchen to get something to drink. You had a pot of coffee already made so you got a cup of coffee. As you sat back down at the table to study, you got a text from Bucky.
Bucky: Did you take a break?
You: I just took one
You weren’t lying. You did take a break. It may have been a tiny one and it was to get something to drink, but in a way, you felt like you did.
Bucky: That’s good. I only asked, because I love you❤️
You: You’re so sweet for caring, baby and I love you too❤️
Bucky: I’ll see you this evening, doll❤️
You: Ok. See you then❤️
You shut your phone off and places it back in its original spot on the table. Then you picked up where you left off on studying.
While you were studying, Bucky texted you, telling you know to take more breaks. You heard your phone go off when he texted you, but you didn’t answer him. Bucky knew you were still studying when you didn’t answer him. He sighs to himself and leaves the office. Lucky for him, he finished his work early and he was able to leave work early. When he got home, you were still at the table and studying like you were when he left for work this morning.
“Doll, I’m home.” Bucky says.
“Mhmm, yea. That sounds good.” You say, not hearing what he just said.
Bucky takes a look at the table, seeing a lot of different sources of caffeine. Then he looks in the kitchen, seeing more on the counter. That’s enough to tell him that all you consumed today was nothing but caffeine. That’s worrying to him. Not only that, he’s also worried about how much information you’re cramming into your head while studying.
“Enough is enough, doll.” Bucky says, closing your laptop and textbooks.
“No! I was almost done!” You exclaimed.
“You’ve been studying since I before I left for work this morning.” He says.
“No, I haven’t. It’s like 1pm.” You say.
“Look outside.” He says, pointing at the window.
You looked out the window, seeing the sun beginning to set.
“What? No. That can’t be. It’s only-” The words died on your tongue when you checked the time. “Oh.” You say.
“Like I said, doll, enough is enough.” Bucky says.
“I just want to finish one thing.” You say.
Bucky takes away your laptop and textbooks before you could open either of them.
“Doll, no. You’re worrying me. You’ve crammed so much information into your brain and consumed so much caffeine that I’m scared something is going to happen to you.” He says.
Bucky is right and you know it. Your eyes began to tear up and your bottom lip quivered. Bucky cups your cheeks and looks deeply in your teary eyes.
“I’m sorry.” You apologized.
“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, babydoll. I just need you to take care of yourself. Can you do that for me?” He says softly.
“Can you- Can you help me?” You asked, your voice cracking.
“You know I will, doll.” He almost whispers.
Bucky kisses you softly and then hugs you.
“When’s the last time you ate?” He asks.
“Breakfast.” You say.
“Doll.” He says softly.
“I’m sorry, Bucky.” You apologized again.
“Stop apologizing, babydoll. It’s ok. I’ll get you something to eat. Right now, I want you to get comfortable on the couch and find something for us to watch on TV. Ok?” He says.
“Ok.” You say.
Bucky kisses you once more before you went to the living room. You got comfortable on the couch and covered yourself up with a blanket. Then you turned the TV on and looked for something for you and Bucky to watch. You put your favorite movie on. Bucky came to the living room with snacks and hot chocolate. You smiled as he handed the hot chocolate to you and put the snacks on the coffee table. The warmth of the cup felt soothing against your hands.
“Thank you, baby.” You smiled.
“You don’t have to thank me, doll. It’s part of my job as your boyfriend to take care of you.” Bucky says as he sat down next to you.
“You taking care of me makes me love you more.” You say softly.
“I love you too, babydoll.” He says softly and kisses you.
Bucky and reader returning from a night out and reader falling asleep on Bucky’s shoulder in the subway plzzz🥹🥹❤️
this is so freaking cute omg ♡ ♡
-
reader falls asleep on bf!bucky’s shoulder after a date
warnings: so much flufffffff, gn!reader
bucky barnes masterlist ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ navi
you let out a yawn stepping onto the subway with bucky’s hand in yours.
it’s late, you both decided to book a reservation at the restaurant that just opened up and you couldn’t have asked for a better ending to your evening.
luckily the carriage is near enough empty so you and bucky were able to find seats easily.
“i hate the subway.” you hear bucky mumble under his breath.
you let out a tired chuckle, curling your arm around his and laying your head on his shoulder.
“it’s not that bad. it’s not your fault your car is taking too long getting fixed.” you shrug, looking up at him. bucky looks down at you his gaze softening. he uses his free hand to cup your face, stroking your cheek.
“look at you.” he says softly, “all that walking made you so tired.”
you hum, leaning up to give him a soft peck. “maybe.”
bucky smiles. a rare smile, only towards you making you give him another kiss because he’s so darn cute even though he hates it when you point it out.
“it’s okay.” he taps his shoulder, “close your eyes for a couple of minutes and ill just wake you up when it’s our stop.”
you nod, curling your arm around him tighter and closing your eyes. exhaustion already taking over your body.
bucky smiles sweetly, at the fact that after many years together, you still feel so safe to fall asleep so easily around him, even in public. and also he knows deep down, he won’t have the heart to wake you up. he’ll have no problem carrying you just a few blocks home and tucking you into bed.
authors note: this is so cute and fluffy omg i love it. also i know nothing about subways since im from the uk but i tried my best ♡
Pairing: Personal Trainer! Bucky x Curvy!female reader
Tags/warnings: SMUT, semi-public sex, shower sex (slippery), self-consciousness, mentions of cellulite/stretch marks, a smidge of fluff bc I can't resist, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it!!), pet names (doll, baby), praise
Summary: You are a newbie to a gym and one of the regulars takes a liking to you and offers to help you on your gym journey. However, you notice that he's a lot more hands on than other trainers at the gym
Word count: 2.9k
Banners by @/cafekitsune + dividers by @/saradika-graphics
A/N: maybe it should more aptly be gym buddy Bucky but alas... I had plans - I promise!! I might have to get my big fics out tomorrow rip me
Prev | Next | Masterlist
Warm Up
You hate, hate, hate HATE working out.
You hate the gym. You hate the way you look like a lost puppy and don't know which machine to use. You hate that you get so out of breath on a tread mill. You hate how your arms wobble when you lift weights.
And you hate that damn Stairmaster.
The only thing you love is perhaps how your deliciously thick thighs can support the heavy weights on the legs press like it's nothing. That would probably be it.
You take one of the last treadmills available, setting your bottle and towel down before fiddling with your earbuds. You're not really paying attention to the guy next to you; you're too focused on trying to get through your warm up.
You start at a walk. You're hair swishing as you lift it to your crown to tie with a hairband. The guy beside you picks up his pace and your eyes flicker over to him. And oh God. What a guy. He's tall and muscular, clearly a regular unlike yourself who makes every excuse under the sun to avoid the gym, with a mop of dark hair that's bouncing to his movements. He's barely sweating at a pace that would have you panting.
You don't realise you've been staring until he smiles at you, sticking his tongue out playfully, before going back to running.
You are red faced and almost trip over your feet. You need to focus. You turn your music up and eventually break into a light jog. After thirty minutes your gym buddy wipes down the machine and disappears to another section of the gym, flashing you a smirk and a wave has you watch him go.
His T-shirt has the logo of the gym of its back and for a split second you're wondering if you should book a session, before scolding your horny brain.
Workout. Focus on working out.
Arms
The next time you come to the gym, it's dark out. You'd spent the day in work and although you just wanted to go home and eat dinner, maybe have a glass (or three) of wine, you had made a promise to yourself to go and now you were here.
It was so much more peaceful at night. The blaring music was off and there was hardly anyone about. Suddenly, you loved your idea of coming here. You had little reason to be self-conscious with so few people around.
Today was arms and you were busy trying to hype yourself up using the bench press. Arms were the worst, just after cardio and you dreaded having to do this. Suddenly the thought of three glasses of wine didn't seem so bad.
Adjusting the weights either side of the bar, you slip under it, getting comfortable against the hard leather seat. You reach up and grasp the bar, straightening your arms and pushing the bar out of it's rest. Your arms wobble slightly, your arms bracing against the weight and you hadn't even managed one rep. Perhaps you'd done the weight wrong.
"Whoa doll!" A voice calls out and you strain your neck trying to look for the approaching footsteps. It's the guy from the other day. "You're gonna hurt yourself doing it like that."
"I - Uh-" you grip the handles, unsure if he wants you to let go or not, but you're palms are starting to sweat. "Okay."
He grins down at you, placing large, rough hands over yours and gently lifting the handles back to stationery position.
"Thanks." You sigh, rubbing your sweaty palms on your workout leggings. You glance up at him again, only to find you're eye level with his crotch and go beet red.
Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts.
The guy doesn't seem to notice. "I'm Bucky. I'm one of the trainers here."
"Y/N." You try and offer a smile but you're too focused on not thinking that his crotch his just right there.
"I've seen you round here once or twice before, um..." Bucky rakes a hand through his long hair. "You're new right? Have you thought about getting a personal trainer?"
You recalled almost tripping in front of him a week or so ago and flush red. Was it that obvious you weren't a regular? Unhelpful, mean thoughts fluttered through your head and you fought to push them away.
"That obvious, huh?" You smile sheepishly, finally sitting up on the bench.
"Very obvious." Bucky nods, still smiling at you. "You hadn't put the locks on the plates, they could have slipped and injured that pretty face."
Your eyes widen; you hadn't noticed the locks and were grateful Bucky was there to save you from injury... even if he was being a flirt about it.
Even if it made your heart flutter.
"Well, thankfully I have a hero to step in." You tell him playfully. "And about the personal trainer... to be quite honest, I don't think I could afford one right now."
You give him an apologetic shrug but he only smirks in response. "Good thing I'll help you for free. Consider it a free trial."
You eyebrows shoot up. Having someone around to motivate you and show you the ropes would be ideal, and especially if it was someone as handsome as Bucky, it may motivate you to come to the gym more often.
"Only if you're sure." You say cautiously, eyeing him. "I don't want you to lose out on work because you're helping me."
Bucky shrugs. "Hey, helping you is more important. I can just text you what days and times I'll be at the gym - if you're here the same time, then we can do some sets together."
You can't say no to that. His eyes brighten when you agree and exchange numbers before he runs you through how to correctly use the bench press, encouraging you and praising you even though you're red faced and drenched in sweat by the end of your set. But you feel fantastic.
If this was how your sessions with Bucky would be, maybe you'd have to consider saving up for more sessions.
Legs
Whichever the Bucky you saw the night he convinced you to take some sessions with him, didn't exist after that night.
The next few sessions with Bucky he'd been nothing but a hard ass, making your brows furrow with displeasure each time he taunted you. It spurred you to complete reps sure, but that wasn't the point. Quite frankly, you missed him being a little bit nicer and you missed the praise that came with it.
"It's false advertising," You huff mid-squat, shooting Bucky a glare. The more time you'd spent with him, the more confident you'd become at back talking him (even though you'd still complete all your reps). "If I'd have known you were going to be a drill sergeant, I wouldn't have agreed to this."
Bucky chuckles, eyeing your form as he stands with his big arms folded, sipping his water bottle. "And yet you finish every rep like a good little soldier." He teases back.
You scoff in response but your cheeks still grow warm. "Whatever."
After squats it was the leg curl machine. You're on your front, your quads under the foam cushions of the machines trying to push the bar against the curve of your ass but it's too heavy. Bucky is stood, as always, with folded arms watching you intently.
"Bucky, it's too heavy." You huff, letting your legs relax. "I need to put the weight down."
"No, you're doing it wrong." He chuckles. "May I?" He approaches, hands splayed.
You shrug, looking over at him with your chin in your palms. "Be my guest."
You still jump when you feel his strong hands on your thighs, moving them slightly wider. Your heart leaps into your throat and you could swear his fingers linger. His fingers are hot even through your gym wear and you're suddenly bashful when your head is filled with thoughts of another type of exercise you could be doing with Bucky. Again.
His hands trail to your knees slowly, bending them a little more before giving your calves a playful squeeze.
"Try now." He says quietly and you obey. The curl is a lot easier now, and the bar smacks your ass making it wobble.
"Oh, wow, OK." You chuckle bashfully. "Yeah OK you were right."
You catch Bucky smirking triumphantly but his eyes aren't on you; they're shamelessly glued to your legs and ass, watching you perform your reps.
Heat pools to your core and you quickly glance away. You have to be imagining it.
You have to.
Cardio
It had been about two weeks since you last saw Bucky and since you last visited the gym. You'd had a cold and then were so busy at work you couldn't find the time to drop by. You'd dropped Bucky a text to say you'd be out of commission but never explained why - and he'd not asked.
Sighing, you dumped your towel and water bottle next to the treadmill and began to walk. You'd come to the gym tonight for an escape. You hadn't wanted to text Bucky just in case he'd already be asleep but you itched to reach out.
The gym was a ghost town. Only the whirr of your treadmill echoed around the open space. You tried not to think about how you wished you'd bumped into Bucky or remember how he'd looked at you.
Maybe he's like that with all newbies...
That thought made your chest twist uncomfortably. You picked up your earbuds and shoved them in your ears, picking up your pace to a light jog.
So much for easing yourself back into it.
After an hour, you decide to call it quits.
It's 11pm and you just want to be back in your bed, hidden under the covers, away from the world.
You're on your way to the showers when you bump into a familiar face emerging from the men's changing room.
"Y/N?" Bucky
"Hey." You pause as he approaches, taking in the sight of his large biceps under the rolled up sleeves of his tee. "How've you been?
"Good. Long time no see. I thought I lost you."
You can't help yourself from smiling. "Oh no, can't keep me away from this place." You say sarcastically, making Bucky grin over at you.
"Really? Even miss me?" He teases softly.
"I don't miss you being a hard ass, if that's what you mean." You quip and Bucky scoffs. "But I have missed you."
Both of your gazes meet and the tension you'd been feeling over the last few weeks increases a hundred fold.
"So..." Bucky says slowly, barely breathing as he looks at you, not knowing which path to tread. "What are we doing tonight?"
"I've just finished," you say a little disheartened. "I was about to hit the shower."
"Can I join you?"
You both stare at one another. Bucky’s brain was expecting you to say your plan for your next set... not that you were going to shower. Mortified, redness bolts to his cheeks as he attempts to back track.
"I - I mean," he shutters and then coughs awkwardly. Your face is equally red but your eyes glimmer with want. "I thought - Uh- you were going to-"
"Sure," you say thickly.
Bucky's brain short circuits again and you give him that bashful smile that makes his heart stammer.
The women's showers are empty and after two minutes Bucky sneaks in behind you. As soon as the door closes, his strong arms pull you towards him, cupping your face before putting his lips on yours.
"Missed you too," he huffs, pulling his shirt off as you both fumble blindly for a shower booth. Bucky tugs at your gym clothes desperately as he kisses you, urging you to undress.
Your mind swims. He missed you too. He's kissing you senseless and you're sure that given the chance he'd rip your clothes from your body.
You peel away your clothes, pausing only to give Bucky more needy kisses in between layers. Bucky follows suit, discarding his sneakers, shorts and boxers into the pile next to your feet.
You feel a wave of self-consciousness as you take in Bucky's body; all muscle, toned and hard and utter perfection. Your eyes drop to your body; soft, squishable, with silvery zebra stripes running over your hips.
You hear Bucky suck in a short breath and you glance up through your eyelashes, smiling a little nervously. His blue eyes are transfixed on you as he closes the space between you. His fingers twitch as he reaches for you, desperate to feel your skin under his hands, but not knowing where he wants to touch first.
"Perfect," he murmurs, his hands ghosting over your hips, drawing you flush against him. His hands tighten their grip on your hips and you you gasp softly, feeling the hard heat of his cock brush against your thighs. One hand cups your face again, and Bucky’s head dips to kiss you slowly. His tongue brushes against your bottom lip and you open your mouth wider, letting Bucky kiss you with far more passion and severance than you'd anticipated.
You're lost in the kiss for what seems like an age; your fingers running through his hair as his hands explore your body, tracing each and every curve, groping at your breasts, hips and ass. You moan into his mouth, mimicking his actions, running your hands over his pecks and down his abs to his cock against your thigh. Bucky pants a curse as you pump him a few times, nipping along his jaw.
"Bucky," You whisper. "The shower."
"Right," he huffs. He pulls the shower door open and gestures for you to step inside first, following closely behind and pressing the on switch.
You gasp when cold water hits your back and Bucky chuckles, arms encircling your waist and moving in to latch onto your neck under the spray of now luke-warm water. Your arms attach themselves around his neck, half-hoisted as you spread your legs to allow Bucky to slot between them. You bite back a loud gasp when Bucky's hand slides between your legs, running along your slit finding your sweet bundle of nerves and drawing quick, tight circles.
"Bucky," you whimper into his neck, your your breathing hitching and hitching like the tightness in your core; rushing upward so fast you feel lightheaded.
"Cum for me doll, be a good girl and cum for me," Bucky sucks at your neck, groping at your tits with his free hand. You lean your head against the shower wall as you feel pussy clenches around nothing. Your fingers grip at Bucky's wet hair, gasping his name as you hang at the precipice of your orgasm. Without warning, Bucky plunges two fingers into your sopping hole, curling them inside you. Your orgasm crashes over you and you cum over his fingers with a wracked half sob.
Bucky's fingers are withdrawn as quickly as they're inserted, leaving you hollow and looking at Bucky pleadingly. He grins at you pecking your lips with a hasty kiss.
"'M sorry, doll. I promise to take my time next time but I need you so bad."
He lifts you with ease, pushing your back against the cool wall, wrapping his arms under your thighs and spreading them open. Wisps of steam rise from behind him as your eyes lock, his cock brushing against your slick folds only once before he slowly lowers you down onto him.
"Oh - oh - oh!" You moan as he breaches inch by inch, each time your walls contract around him, adjusting to his size. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your thighs shake with pleasure and you're utterly at his mercy as he starts to fuck up into you.
"That's it, baby." Bucky praises, littering your face with kisses. "You feel amazing on my cock."
You moan his name and kiss his lips hungrily, pulling yourself closer to him as he brings you to ruin again. Your pussy's grip is like a vice, milking him as you press yourself flush against him glassy eyes meeting his and Bucky can't take it any longer.
Bucky pants curses rutting into you before pulling out entirely and cumming over your stomach and thighs with a short groan. His cock continues to twitch, his cum slowly being washed away by the water save for the white, thick line that connects to your thigh. Bucky slowly lowers you to your feet and you lean against him for support, relaxing in the post-orgasm bliss and the heat of the water.
"I've wanted to do that since the moment I laid on you," he confesses, tilting your head up to capture your lips in a sweet kiss.
"So have I," You admit with a soft chuckle. "Kinda wish we could have done that instead of you making me do squats."
"But you're ass looked good." Bucky teases, chuckling when you glare at him.
"So you were checking me out!" You smack at his bicep playfully and that earns you one of his boyish smiles.
"So? Besides, more importantly," His hands grasp your hips tightly, forcing you to be still. "Today's a cheat day and I wanna take you out."
"Take me out? At 11pm? What's even open?" You smile up at him and he only shrugs.
"Okay, fine, twist my arm. Breakfast it is." He kisses you again, this time lingering a moment before smirking deviously at you. "But first let's get you cleaned up."
I love the whole set up, it’s so valid and realistic, every single part right up to the hair and not paying attention at first!
You'd spent the day in work and although you just wanted to go home and eat dinner, maybe have a glass (or three) of wine, you had made a promise to yourself to go and now you were here.
MOOD tho. Especially the last 14 words
"Thanks." You sigh, rubbing your sweaty palms on your workout leggings. You glance up at him again, only to find you're eye level with his crotch and go beet red.
That thing where somehow we’re always in the best worst situation and have to act like nothing is going on is the WORST
I’m gonna give you a gold star for figuring out the best positions and machines to make this deliciously agonizing for her lol
Love that they get distracted and forget the shower part of the shower, love the little ‘eek’ moment of the water turning on being a shared moment!
Great buildup, perfect payoff, thanks for writing!
hello fellow artists. google has fallen. pinterest/duckduckgo AI filters don't work. do not despair; here is a list i made of places to find reference images without having to sift through piles of worthless garbage. (for future editing convenience i am just linking my blog post on dreamwidth.)
✨ good places to find art reference that are not full of AI trash 🌈
₊˚⊹ accidents don’t hurt | steve harrington x reader
summary: breaking a glass sends her back to a childhood where mistakes were met with anger instead of comfort. steve doesn’t raise his voice or demand explanations, he just holds her through the fear, the shaking and the realization that accidents don’t have to hurt anymore
warnings/tags: past emotional abuse, childhood trauma, trauma response, panic response, accidental injury, blood mention, hurt/comfort, comfort, gentle caretaking, protective steve harrington, soft steve harrington, emotional vulnerability, crying, reassurance, healing, no use of y/n, no spoilers,
wc: ~3.6k
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The house settles around you in the way it always does at night. It isn’t exactly quiet, just calm enough that the sounds blend together instead of demanding everyone to pay attention to it. The television murmurs from the living room, voices overlapping each other with the faint hiss of static that never quite disappears. Someone laughs on the screen, bright and distant and comforting. The floor creaks softly as the house cools, and somewhere, a clock ticks.
The kitchen light casts a warm yellow glow over the counters, the linoleum floor, the sink full of dishes that’s been waiting all evening.
You stand there for a moment before turning on the tap, hands resting on the edge of the counter, shoulders slightly slumped. You can hear Steve shifting on the couch behind you, the rustle of fabric as he changes positions, the clink of a bottle being set down on the coffee table. He’s relaxed and comfortable.
You roll up your sleeves and twist the faucet on.
Warm water spills over your hands, steam curling upward. The smell of dish soap cuts clean and sharp through the lingering scents. Garlic. Tomato. The accents of ingredients Steve had used when making dinner that night. You like the way the warmth sinks into your skin, the way the rhythm of it gives your hands something to do while your thoughts drift.
You rinse a plate, scrub it clean, set it on the rack. Another plate. A fork. A saucepan that takes a little more effort, your fingers pressing harder against the sponge as you work at the dried sauce.
The clink of dishes is soft, almost meditative.
You dry your hands briefly on the towel slung over your shoulder and reach for the last glass sitting near the edge of the counter. It’s slick with condensation, cool against your fingers. It slips without much of a warning. There was no slow-motion moment where you think you might catch it.
Just a sudden, weightless drop, and the sound is sharp and violent in the quiet kitchen.
Glass shatters against tile, exploding outward in a spray of fragments that skitter and bounce, catching the light before settling. The crack echoes, ricocheting off the walls, too loud, too sudden, too final, and your body immediately locks up.
Your breath stops halfway in, chest seizing tight. Your hands hover in front of you, fingers curled like they forgot what they’re supposed to do. The world narrows down to the broken glass at your feet and the echo still ringing in your ears.
For a split second, you are not here.
You’re much smaller.
The floor is colder. Your heart is already pounding because you know what comes next. You always know. The yelling, sharp and immediate. The way the air turns heavy, like it’s pressing in on you. The way mistakes become proof of something wrong with you.
What did you do?
Look at this mess.
Why can’t you be careful?
Your chest tightens painfully and you don’t wait for the sound, you brace for it.
Your eyes snap toward the doorway, panic sharp and immediate, scanning for movement, for the shape of someone about to appear. Your muscles tense, shoulders creeping up toward your ears.
Fix it.
Fix it now.
You drop to your knees fast, not at all carefully or thoughtfully.
The tile is cold through the fabric of your pants, biting, but you barely notice. Your hands reach out automatically, grabbing at the largest shards of glass, fingers shaking as you scoop them up.
You need to be quick. You need to make it disappear before—
Footsteps.
Heavy, fast footsteps. Moving from the living room toward the kitchen, and your heart slams violently against your ribs.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. “I didn’t mean to, I’ll clean it up, I swear, I’m fixing it—”
Steve appears in the doorway and then stops short.
The broken glass scattered across the floor. You on your knees in the middle of it, hands already reaching for more. Your shoulders hunched, head bowed, braced like you’re about to be struck.
His stomach drops.
“Hey— hey, whoa,” he says immediately, voice sharp with alarm, not with anger. “Honey, stop. Don’t move.”
You don’t hear the difference.
Your fingers close around another shard. The edge bites into your skin, sharp and hot. A sting flashes up your arm before your brain can catch up. Blood wells quickly, bright and red against your skin.
You barely notice.
You just need to be faster.
Steve crosses the room in three long strides.
“No, no, no,” he says, dropping down beside you, hands hovering for a split second before he commits. He grips you under the arms, firm but careful, and lifts you up in one smooth motion, pulling you away from the mess.
Your breath leaves you in a broken sound.
“Steve, I’m sorry,” you gasp, panic bleeding into your voice. “I didn’t mean to, please, I can clean it, I—”
“Hey,” he cuts in, stronger now, grounding. “Look at me.”
You can’t.
Your eyes stay fixed somewhere past his shoulder, unfocused, your body rigid in his hold like you’re waiting for the moment his voice changes. Waiting for the anger to surface.
He feels the tremor running through you.
“You’re okay,” he says, softer. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart.”
The words slide right past you.
He lowers you carefully into a kitchen chair, positioning your feet well away from the glass. Only then does he pull back enough to really look at you.
That’s when he sees the blood.
A bold red line trails from the pad of your finger toward your palm. Another drop falls, dark and heavy, hitting the tile with a quiet sound.
Steve’s chest tightens.
“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re bleeding.”
You follow his gaze, staring at your hand like it belongs to someone else.
“It’s fine,” you say automatically. “It’s not bad. I can just—”
“No,” he says gently, but there’s no room for argument in it. “No, baby. Sit. Don’t move.”
He grabs a towel from the counter and kneels in front of you again, slower this time. Careful. Like you might break if he moves too fast. He takes your hand in his, cradling it instead of grabbing, pressing the towel around your finger.
Your whole body is shaking now. Not subtle tremors anymore, but deep, uncontrollable shivers that run through your arms and legs. Your breathing is shallow, uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast.
“Does this hurt?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, even though it does. Even though everything does.
He helps you to your feet a moment later, his arm steady around your waist, guiding you out of the kitchen and toward the living room. The television noise feels surreal now, like it belongs to another world entirely.
He settles you onto the couch carefully.
“Stay here,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Don’t move, okay?”
You nod, even though you don’t think you could move if you tried.
“I’ll be right back,” he adds. “I just want to make sure it’s safe.”
You watch him go.
The sounds from the kitchen reach you in pieces. A broom scraping softly across tile. The quiet clink of glass being gathered. No sharp movements, no slammed cabinets, no angry sighs that make a pit form beneath your chest.
Your body doesn’t trust it yet.
Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt, fingers trembling. Tears slide silently down your cheeks, your breathing still shallow, still braced. You sit exactly where he left you, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap like you’re waiting for instructions.
When Steve comes back, he stops in the doorway.
You haven’t moved. You’re still crying, quietly now, tears tracking down your face without sound.
“Oh, honey,” he murmurs.
He crosses the room slowly and sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. He doesn’t touch you yet. He just opens his arms, inviting.
You hesitate for half a second, but then something in you gives way.
You fold into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder, fingers clutching the back of his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear. The sound that comes out of you is small and wrecked, torn straight from your chest.
Steve wraps himself around you immediately.
One arm comes firm around your back, anchoring you. The other hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing slow and steady like he’s lending you his rhythm.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
Your body shakes hard now, sobs breaking free in uneven waves. Your shoulders hitch with each breath. Steve doesn’t rush you, he rocks you just barely, murmuring low reassurances into your hair, repeating them as many times as it takes.
“You’re safe, sweetheart.”
“I’m right here.”
“It’s okay, baby.”
Time stretches and your sobs eventually soften, turning into quiet, hitching breaths. You don’t pull away and Steve doesn’t loosen his hold. His hand keeps moving slowly along your back, grounding, steady.
You stay like that for a long time.
Eventually, you whisper, “I thought you were going to yell.”
Steve’s arms tighten around you just a little at that, something tightening in his chest as he holds you close to him.
“I would never,” he says softly. “Not for that. Not at you.”
You pull back enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen from the sobs, your naked lashes clumped with tears.
“When I was little,” you say, voice shaky and barely being holding together, “breaking something meant I’d messed up. It meant yelling. It meant I had to fix it fast, before it got worse.”
He didn’t rush you and he certainly didn’t interrupt to tell you that he already knew bits and pieces of the childhood you were explaining. He just listened patiently, jaw tight and his eyes entirely focused on you.
“I learned that if I was quick enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” you continue. “Even if it hurt.”
Steve exhales slowly, his thumb brushing under your eye, wiping away a tear.
“You don’t have to do that here,” he says. “You don’t get punished for accidents. Or feelings. Or needing me.”
Your face crumples again, the grief cutting deeper than the fear ever did. Steve pulls you back into his chest immediately, holding you tighter, one hand resting over your heart, feeling it slow.
“We’ll take it slow,” he murmurs. “As slow as you need.”
You curl back into him, finally letting your body relax, your breathing evening out as you lean fully into his warmth. And he doesn’t move or rush you. He just holds you, steady and tight, until the house goes quiet again.
Until the fear fades and being held by him feels like enough.
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