Doomed to Repeat 1
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: After a painful divorce, your wary of men, that is until Bucky Barnes needles his way in. (older!reader)
Same universe as this.
Characters: Bucky Barnes
I know it's Steve week but this doesn't count. Shhhhhhh.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.
Love you all. You are appreciated and you are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖
Your flat slips off your heel. You drag your foot to get it back on, the arch of your foot twinging as you flex the muscle. Don't stop. It's a jungle out here. New York slows down for no one, even the shoeless.
You dodge around the oncoming stampede, clinging to your modest assortment of groceries in the crinkling paper bag. It's a tight wire walk back to your apartment as you're crowded on all sides.
You're invisible among the city's rush, as you are in most rooms. You've aged past relevance. You don't mind so much, at times, the obscurity is your best ally.
You follow the flow of pedestrians across the fading white lines of the crosswalk. A taxi honks, a whistle goes up, and sirens echo somewhere down the block.
"Hey, lady!" The voice startles you. Are they talking to you. "You dropped this?"
You look down in a panic. You feel your purse on your hip. It can't be you.
You spin and a man's shoulder bounces off of yours. You stagger, struggling to keep your balance as the bag tears down the front. The man barrels past you. Just like he didn't see you, he didn't notice the speed bump of your existence.
You look down as several items fall onto the pavement around you. You get down to gather them up, watching helplessly as your loaf of sourdough is crushed under the feet of passerbys. Pigeons flock to devour the ruin.
"Ow!" The same man blusters.
You glance over your shoulder as you put the block of butter atop the load still in the bag. You see him hit his ass on the sidewalk as another man marches past him. You cower as you realises he's coming toward you.
He stoops to scoop up the small wheel of gouda wrapped in wax. He's agile and undeterred by the tides around him. He squats down in front of you and places the cheese in the bag. He surveys the damage to the paper.
"Some people got no manners," he mutters.
"You don't have to..." you protest as you stack the groceries carefully. "I can manage, sir."
You look up at his face and blink in recognition. You feel oddly intrusive, stalkerish. Most people would recognise him in the city. You know him from a couple books stacked on your second shelf.
You shake it off. "Ahem," you clear your throat. "Thanks, sir. I'll get it."
"Here," he slides the bag away from you and puts the open side against his chest. He lifts it easily. You rub your lower back as you straighten up. "Got it."
"Oh, no, you can't... it's nice but..."
"Don't mind. I got nowhere to be right now."
You stare at him, trying to contain your doubt. War hero, state representative, and avenger has nothing going on? You're more than certain Bucky Barnes is full of it.
"Really," he insists. "Point me in the right direction." He glances around. "Stay close. Don't wanna lose ya."
"Um, alright," you surrender. Don't trust strangers, you're well past that lesson, but he's not exactly that, is he?
You give him one last look. He wears a pair of dark aviators and he's dressed down in a denim jacket and dark slacks. Still, you see right through it, even with the cap over his hair.
You turn and continue forward. He's close as he walks with his shoulder just behind yours, the bag rubbing on your arm.
"I can tell you know who I am," he drawls. "Can I get a name?"
You nod and look ahead into the sea of people. You recite your name on habit alone.
"I gotta commend you on your choice in cheese. I like the brand, but I'm more partial to their havarti." He says.
"Oh, um... yeah... I'm supposed to cut back on dairy..." you murmur cluelessly. "Not that you would... you know, I don't think groceries are within your purview. You probably have more important things to deal with."
"Not right now," he repeats.
"Here," you point up the alley.
You turn and he follows. You reach into your purse, instinctively looking back as you search for your keys. You pass under the fire escape and stop at the door. You step up the creaky old stairs and shove the brass one in the slot. He lingers behind you.
"Think I can take it from here, Representative Barnes."
"Bucky, please. I'm off the clock."
You face him and reach for the bag. He makes no move to hand it over. You step down the stair between you. "I got it."
He stares at you, a dimple in his cheek.
"You've done your good deed and helped an old lady carry her bag," you assure him dryly. "You're free to go."
You wrap your arms around the bag. He lets go and you cradle it carefully to balance the contents. His gaze makes you sweat. Or maybe that's the hormones.
"Old? You're spry as a spring chicken," he chuckles.
"Uh huh," you lift a brow. "Well, you carry your age much better than me." You back up and awkwardly extend your hand from beneath the bag. You twist the key and push inside. You pause just past the door. You angle back. "Thanks again, Bucky."
"See ya around," he says your name. "You know, I think the big thing these days is those reusable bags. Sturdier."
"Thanks, I'll see what I can find," you nearly snort. "You should probably get back to the rest of your constituency."
"Gah, guess I gotta," he spins on his heel. "I did swear some oath or another."
He strides off down the alley, a casual slant in his shoulders. You watch him, almost amused, leaning back to keep an eye on him. You're envious. He's gotta be twice your age, technically, and he looks more than a decade younger. You're not so concerned with your looks but you wonder if maybe that serum of his might help with the menopause.
He stops at the end of the alley. He looks back and waves. You flinch, caught, and hide inside. You let the door shut behind you and harrumph at the staircase ahead of you. Your knees will remind you that his words were just flattery.
🌆
"This week, let's focus on the upcoming assignment. Reflect on the last few lectures when discussing the pre-war foundations for conflict. Remember, this isn't just about military force, this is social, economic, and cultural. Try to weave together the world when contextualizing your thesis."
You speak to the Zoom classroom split into a grid of faces. Your students look well past their limit and you have to admit, you're there. "And don't forget office hours and that my email is always open for questions." You smile. "Until next time. Have a great week everyone."
A litter of byes come as slowly the students trickle out. You miss the in-person format but everything is shifting, everyone is moving past you. You weren't always this stagnant. Once, you were a blooming flower. Now, you're wilted and content to sway with the breeze.
You exit the meeting room and log off. You make a few notes for next week's lecture then put your laptop to sleep. It's after five and you're tired but you can't keep finding excuses. That walking pad is going to get dusty and the doctor said exercise will help with the hormones. Most of his recommendations only add to your discomfort.
You go into your bedroom and change into some running shorts and a loose tee. The effort of lifting your arch tugs tightly. Your shoulder's still sore from the other day. That guy really knocked you around. You rub the tender muscle and sigh.
You're not a sprinter but you do work up a sweat at a brisker pace of walking. You stretch as you look for a podcast to listen to. You enjoy the one about the tragic monarchs... always a nice companion to your own suffering.
Before you can hit play, a dull thumping gives you pause. You move closer to the door. Mr. Kryzcky opens his door with a grunt.
"Oh, hi, I was looking for..." the voice drawls your name. "Think I got the wrong one."
Another grunt from the old man next door and the slam of his door. A soft laugh sounds. You go to the door and keep the chain on. You think you remember that voice, from more than just your unlucky meeting.
You open up and peek out. Bucky glances over and turns to face you with a grin. "Ah, there you are."
"I'm here," you say skeptically.
"I didn't have your number so couldn't call ahead," he comes closer. He's in one of those nice suits you see him wear at his press conferences. His long hair is parted and combed back away from his face.
"Okay?" Your confusion inflects upwards.
"Right, uh, I guess maybe my clearance won't work everywhere," he chuckles. "I wanted to check in."
"Check in? Well, I'm just fine, Representative."
"Bucky," he corrects. "How's the shoulder?"
"Not as strong as yours," you nod to his left arm.
"Yeah, you're standing a bit..." he raises his hand and angles it. "You're favouring that side."
"I take advil," you shrug and wince. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you."
"I didn't interrupt dinner, did I?"
"Uhhhh, nope. Just... not quite sure you can call it a workout but I was going to get my steps in," you say.
"Have you eaten?" He wonders.
You frown. You exhale as you shake your head. "I just got done class."
"Class? What are you taking?"
You snort. "I see why people like you."
"Some," he snickers. "Can I buy you dinner? I'm here and... starving."
Your eyes list over. You consider the offer. You're wary of it. Not quite sure why he'd come back. Did you give off that vibe? That you're desperate for company? You get lonely since your husband left but you've adapted.
"I don't like eating alone and if I don't eat in a car, I'm eating in an empty condo," he snorts. "So... have a little pity for an old war vet?"
"Playing on those heartstrings. You about to ask for a campaign donation?"
He snickers. "Maybe next time."
"Right..." you slowly shut the door and slide back the chain. Before you can open it again, your chest stirs. Your place is small, a bit cluttered, but not dingy or dirty. Still, it's been a while since you had company. Well, you never did here.
You open up and step back. Bucky enters as he smooths his hair. You shut the door softly. He bends to unlace his leather shoes.
"You don't have other friends? Like Cap?"
"Sam? Nah, he's got a girl." Bucky slips his foot out. "And he's always cranky when he gets back in town. You know, he really puts up a front for the cameras."
He takes his other shoe off as you look down. You hide one leg behind the other. The shorts are meant for the privacy of your home.
"I'll get changed." You sidle away.
"Don't gotta dress up for me. You know, if you wanna do your workout, I'll just muddle around," he stands up and slips off his jacket.
"Um, no it's fine. Later." You retreat quickly to the bedroom.
You pull on a pair of loose pants over the shorts. Good enough. As you emerge, you find Bucky at the large antique bookshelf against the far wall. His back is to you as his head is tilted. You cautiously cross to him.
"Where'd you get this stuff?"
You near him and look over the disarmed pistols; a luger, an enfield, and a colt. Below, there are a few grenades and some empty shells. Your collection is small but a point of pride.
"Around." You say.
"A collector?"
"Suppose some would say a historian but I just teach it."
"Ah, class," he points his finger. "Right."
"I guess seeing this stuff like this must be a little... weird for you."
"Mm, not really. Need more room on that shelf, I won't fit." He taps it and laughs. "So, dinner? In the mood for anything?"
"Didn't think about it." You slowly inch away.
"Pizza?" He suggests.
"Can't go wrong." You agree. "Let me find my wallet."
"My treat," he insists and peers around. "Just you then?"
"Um, yep." You cover your barren left hand. "More room for books."
"Makes sense," he clucks and pulls out his phone. "Pepperoni?"
"Whatever you like." You reply. You won't mention that it gives you heartburn. He offered to pay after all.
"I'm more interested in what you like, so... you a veggie girl?"
"Girl? I don't think anyone's called me that in a while," you scoff. "Cheese is fine with me. I'm easy like that."
"Music to my ears," he taps the phone. "Spend all day trying to please everyone..." He turns as the line picks up. "Hey, could I get a large double cheese..."
You watch him for a moment. It's not just who he is. You just never thought about having a man here. The thought of just speaking to one gives you anxiety since the divorce. It feels like an intrusion but not just on his part. You feel like you've gotten in his way.
