#angsty!bucky

You set it down next to his keys and the spare ring he uses to fidget when he’s anxious. The apartment is too quiet; the clock ticks like a metronome for a song you refuse to learn. You don’t chase him. You know him.

He’s not leaving. He’s hiding.

You find him on the stoop two floors down, elbows on knees, jaw shadowed, the line of his mouth carved mean on purpose. The night has that damp, city smell, and the streetlight stains his hair copper. He doesn’t look up when you sit. He’s practicing detachment, rehearsing indifference to spare you the live show.

“Your note’s dramatic,” you say softly.

“I meant it.” He stares at his hands. “I keep… I keep breaking things. It’s what I do.”

“You’re not a weather pattern,” you murmur. “You’re a person. And you don’t get to evacuate me for my own safety, Buck.”

“That’s not what—”

“You’re trying to decide for both of us.” You tap his knee. “Not your decision.”

His throat works. “You’d stay with a man who forgets to answer texts for hours because he’s spiraling? Who flinches at the doorbell? Who wants you until wanting hurts and then pushes you away because the hurting feels like proof?”

You take a breath. Honesty is the only thing that doesn’t rot. “I’d stay with you.” You nudge the note against his thigh. “But if you’re going to leave me, you’re going to have to look me in the eye and say it. Say you don’t want me.”

He finally looks. Those ocean-dark eyes are already wet around the edges. “Don’t—” He swallows. “Don’t make me lie like that.”

“Then stop lying like this.”

Silence stretches, taut but unbroken. Passing cars paint his knuckles with moving light. He’s trying to hold the story together—the one where he’s the poison and you’re the glass he’s trying not to crack—but the seams are showing.

“Bucky,” you say, gentler now, “you’re scared. I’m scared too. But I’m not going anywhere. And I—hey.” You catch his chin when he flinches away. “I love you.”

The words land like a match on wet wood: a hiss, a stubborn glow, a slow catch. His mouth trembles. “You shouldn’t.”

“That’s also not your decision.”

He laughs on a half-sob and drops his face into his hands. When he looks up again, he’s raw. “I don’t deserve—”

“Stop.” You thread your fingers through his hair, tug until he shivers. “Then earn it. With me. Not by leaving, by staying. You want to make this right?”

He nods once, helpless.

“Okay.” You stand and offer your hand. “Upstairs.”

—

You don’t kiss him at the door. You don’t soothe him with your mouth and let him pretend the apology is a thing that lives in a kiss. You walk him to the bedroom and turn on the small lamp, warm and low.

“Clothes off,” you say.

Color rides high in his cheekbones. He undresses like he’s confessing: shirt first—shoulders, scars, a horizon of muscle mapped by your hands a hundred times—then jeans, then shy where he’s never shy, like the shame tries to sit in his skin. You step closer and help with the last of it, steady, practical, unhurried. He’s already hard, humiliation flickering behind his eyes; you catch his jaw again and make him meet you.

“We’re not punishing you,” you murmur. “We’re correcting you. You don’t run when it’s hard. You kneel.”

His knees hit the carpet with a soft thump. He melts down so beautifully your chest aches—six feet of tension folding to devotion at the hinge of your words. You sweep your thumb across his lower lip and he parts for it, breath hot, pupils blown.

“Use your words,” you say.

“Yes.” He swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.” The two words make him shiver like you’ve pulled a wire in his spine. “Hands behind your back.”

He obeys, wrists crossed, every muscle singing restraint. You take your time undressing, letting the whisper of fabric, the slide of straps, the shape of you in the lamplight, turn the screws. He watches you like worship. When you step close, he noses the inside of your knee without being told, and you cradle his face.

“You tried to leave me with a letter,” you say. “So now you’re going to make it up to me with your mouth.”

A broken sound escapes him. “Please.”

“Ask better.”

“Please let me make it right.” He’s breathless. “Please let me—let me taste you. Please let me stay.”

The knot in your chest loosens. “That’s better.”

You guide him forward, one hand in his hair, and he surges like he’s starving, like all that self-hate has been alchemized into need. He starts too greedy, tongue frantic, and you clutch the back of his head and slow him down.

“Gentle,” you warn. “You’re not taking. You’re giving.”

He whines into you, corrects, learns, relearns. You tilt your hips and rock him where you want him until the apologies turn to moans and the moans turn to prayer. He keeps his hands laced behind him even when he shakes; the discipline makes your teeth sink into your lip.

“Look at me.” His eyes flick up, glassy. “You’re doing so good, baby. So good.”

He whimpers—high, desperate—and you ride his mouth until the ribbon of heat inside you pulls tight and snaps. You let yourself fall into it, loud and honest, and he swallows every tremor like penance, like proof.

When you pull him back by his hair, his chin is slick, his mouth pink and swollen. You stroke his cheek with your thumb. “Up. Bed.”

He climbs onto the mattress and you climb after him. You straddle his hips and sit heavy on his cock without giving him relief, the slick head framed against you, the threat of you everywhere. His hands twitch like he’s fighting muscle memory.

“Touch me,” you say, and his hands fly to your thighs, reverent. “Not yourself. You don’t get that until I say.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is paper-thin.

You rock. He breaks. Soft, sweet sounds spill out—whimpers, bitten-off pleas, the kind of begging you only get when a man hands you the reins and keeps his eyes open for the ride. You lean forward and catch his mouth; he moans into you, obedient, adoring.

“Say it,” you breathe.

“I’m yours,” he gasps. “I’m—please, I’m yours. Don’t leave me.”

“Never.” You take him then, a slow slide that steals both your air. He sobs on the first thrust, the metal hand fisting in the sheet like he needs something unbreakable to hold while you break him open.

You set the pace and keep it, a firm, rolling rhythm that leaves him wrecked beneath you. You talk him through it, the way he likes, the way he needs when his thoughts go dark—good boy, stay with me, breathe, you’re doing so well, you’re mine—and every word unspools another knot. He starts to come apart properly, back arching, voice gone ragged.

“Please,” he begs. “Please, I—can I—please let me—”

“Not yet.” You brace your palm over his throat, gentle pressure, a reminder of surrender. His eyes flutter. “Ask again.”

“Please let me come in you. Please let me stay. Please let me be good.”

You kiss his eyelids, his temple, the scar along his cheek. “You are good.” You rise and drop, and his hands bruise your hips with devotion. “Give it to me.”

He obeys like it’s a vow. You ride him through it, take it, praise him for it, and when you finally follow, he gives you a sound that’s nothing but relief and adoration. You keep moving until the shudders fade into aftershocks, until the only thing left is breath and the hammering of two hearts in the same room.

You go still and feel him soften inside you, his hands smoothing mindlessly over your thighs like he’s petting a frightened thing calm. You bend down and press your forehead to his.

“Look at me,” you say again, softer. He does. Those eyes are clearer now, the storm blown past. “I love you. I’m not something you protect from yourself. I’m someone who chooses you.”

He nods, a shaky, boyish thing. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” You kiss him, slow as summer. “You’re going to keep telling me, not with notes, but with this.” You tap his chest. “With showing up. With talking to me. With staying when it’s ugly.”

“I can do that.” He swallows, and his eyes go bright again, but this time the shine looks a lot like hope. “Will you—” He clears his throat. “Will you tell me when I start to go? Pull me back?”

“Every time.”

You slide off and tuck yourself into his side, and he curls around you like a shield that finally understands it’s allowed to be held. His breathing evens. The room smells like sweat and skin and the smallest kind of miracle.

When you’re almost asleep, he murmurs, “Not my decision, huh?”

You smile into his chest. “Not even a little.”

Parker was already passed out on the chair on the other side of the room—not from alcohol, but from exhaustion.  The super kid had already healed most of his own wounds, but that left him exhausted from both the fighting and the healing.  He had one pill and was zonked from then on.  Rogers was writing his reports, Stark was bitching in his lab since one of his suits got fucked on the mission, Thor was on his way back to Asgard and Romanov was already on a plane to visit her sister in Budapest.  

So obviously, the only real thing to do was to get drunk.

You winced as you shifted in your chair.  Being a field agent with no superpowers was hard enough on its own but adding in injuries made it much more difficult.  

If the world was ending, where would you want to be?

It wasn’t a difficult question, necessarily.  Part of you wanted to give the shallow answer of “on a beach”, or “asleep”.  But you knew Bucky wouldn’t take that as an option.  He knew you too well.  For someone that barely talked to anyone, you knew a lot about the former assassin.  You knew his favorite food, his favorite color, the places he wanted to visit most when he finally retired from being a hero, the times he felt most vulnerable, his deepest memories from being the Winter Soldier.  You and he connected on a level that a lot of people didn’t understand, nor did they try to.  Bucky kept to himself, you kept to yourself, and you kept to yourselves together.  

If the world was ending, where would you want to be?

“Alone.” You said and he brought his glass up to his lips, sipping the beer he poured himself when he had gotten you your vodka.  

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

“You wouldn’t be a burden for long if the world was ending,” he pointed out and you rolled your eyes, gulping down more vodka.  

“I would want to be alone with my thoughts,” you said after a moment. “Peace and quiet, before theres…I guess more peace and quiet.”

“I’d wanna be alone too,” he said after a few more minutes of you drinking and him making sure you didn’t fall off your bar stool. “But I’d wanna be alone with you.”

You felt your heart pound in your ears.

It had to be the alcohol.

Not the fact that your best friend had just implied that if the world was ending this very moment, he would want to be with you and you alone.  

Yep, definitely the alcohol.

You threw back another shot and Bucky took your glass gently.

“Bedtime.”

You let him help you to your room, take your boots and clothes off, and laid you down in your bed. You watched from behind droopy eyes as he laid out a pill for you and filled your waterbottle.

And in your head, the only thing you kept screaming was I wanna be with you too.  

But you stayed quiet. It was for the best, after all.  

 You held your breath waiting, staring at the lit up screen



“Y/N?”, a concerned voice came out of tiny speaker sounding tinny. “Y/N, honey, hello? Please tell me something babe, I’m panicking here.”



You stuffed your hand into your mouth to stifle the sobs that you couldn’t swallow back anymore. You wanted to tell him to help you. To tell him that you missed him and that you were sorry and that you needed help but you couldn’t get the words out. You couldn’t breathe. You were suffocating and you needed him.

 

A small sob escaped you, and you heard him inhale sharply.



“Don’t worry Y/N, I’ll be there soon. I promise. Hang on babe. I’m on my way.”



You stopped muffling your sobs. He was coming for you. 



It took longer than Tony wanted to get to your location. You were nestled in a hidden corner of the Amazon jungle, tucked away so hidden that even with the jet at full speed the journey took several hours.

The entire time your sobs echoed in his head. He had only heard you cry one other time, and as he flew he was drawn back into the memory. 

He remembered seeing you from his bench by the entrance, your twin braids that extended halfway down your back, the way you gripped your suitcase so tightly that your knuckles shone white, and the intense way your eyes looked over the school. 

He remembered the man who stood beside you in a grey suit, and the curt nod you gave him before you walked into the building, never once turning back, back ramrod straight. 

You had given the headmaster a dismissive glance and had walked up the stairs to the dormitories. He had gotten up and silently followed from a distance, strangely fascinated by you. You walked up to your dorm room door, taken a quick glance to each side before letting out a deep breath and almost deflating, your suitcase hitting the marble floor with a sharp smack. 

Tony had seen the exhaustion and the sadness in your body, in the way that you gently pressed your forehead against the door, and your shoulders drooped. He stood watching, brown eyes knowing, as your shoulders began to shake and your knees wobbled. He saw your hands go up to your mouth and he heard your muffled sobs.

He had the urge to run up the remaining stairs and hold you, just comfort you, but he knew better. Tony looked down at his shoes, fighting his instinct to comfort and instead quietly walked back down to his book, deciding in that moment that the two of you would be friends.

Tony never told you he had seen you break down, and you had never volunteered a reason, though he had tried to get the answer out of you at several times during your long friendship. You were the most stoic person he knew, never revealing deep emotion, never letting people through the barriers in your mind.

Tony thought about everything that happened in those months you were gone and though he didn’t want to admit it, your sobs had shaken him to his core. He steeled himself for what he might see as he touched down in the jungle, taking care to cloak his plane and hide his features as best he could in the hot humid climate. He strolled out, calmly, and walked up the streets to the little house he had traced your phone to. 



He knocked on the door loudly, noting that the blackout curtains were still drawn and no lights seemed to be on. The worry he had managed to quash on his way to your house started to grow again.

He knocked again, even louder than before, before tucking his hand into his pocket letting his armor coat his hand and asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. to read your house for heat signatures.  Friday whispered in his ear that she detected one in the back corner of the house and Tony knew he couldn’t wait any longer. 

He peeked over his shoulder, making sure that no one was watching, and broke the door lock quickly and quietly pushing his way into the house. He lifted his hand, the repulsor illuminating the dark. He saw a pristine living room and kitchen, nicely decorated but lifeless and untouched. Tony could tell that those rooms were just for show. He continued down a small hallway to the one closed door at the end of it.

He opened the door and faltered at the smell that hit him. He saw piles of dresses, wigs, and shoes spilling out of the closet. The bed was bare except for one pillow, one torn stained sheet and a hunting knife he recognized was Barnes’. There were bottles of liquor, the rough biting moonshine kind, all over the place. Broken glass, torn paper, and plastic bags littering the room. He continued towards the back of the room, seeing the light coming out from the bottom of, what he assumed was, the bathroom door. 



He pushed the door open and he almost choked on the thick steam hitting him in the face. He looked around and saw the grimy white bathroom with a broken mirror, and at the back, the only contrast in the room, in the bathtub with water pouring on you. 

Your hair was plastered to your face, and you were sitting down with your knees tucked under your chin wearing an oversized black long-sleeve and shorts. Tony rushed towards you, hands extended, ready to pull you out before cringing back in pain. The water was scalding hot but you were sitting in it without flinching. He turned off the shower and gently reached in and scooped you out. You didn’t even react, and Tony could feel his panic rising even more than before.

He went and sat you down in your pristine living room, pacing in front of you unsure of what to do. F.R.I.D.A.Y. as though sensing his disquietness, offered suggestions ranging from calling Dr. Banner, to singing, to trying to use pressure to get you to snap out of your catatonia. 



Tony faltered, remembering that young girl from all those years ago, before kneeling down and, pressing his hands on your thighs trying to get a reaction. He let out a sigh and delicately, reached up to grab your face and try to get you to focus on his. Grabbing your face must’ve jolted something in you because almost instantly Tony found himself face first on the floor, arm painfully pinned, snarling accented Russian insults being hurled at him. 



“Y/N? Honey? Please? Let go of me. You’re hurting me babe. Please let go”, Tony plead.

 

He tried flexing his hand, trying to catch your attention and desperately starts singing a lullaby he had heard you sing before. Much to his surprise, his arm was loosened. He turned around and saw you kneeling on the floor, hands curled into claws and face frozen unseeing. His heart ached when he saw the pain etched in your wide unblinking eyes, now streaming tears. 

Hesitatingly, he reached out and pulled your body towards him. He hugged you tightly, tucking your head under his chin, and settled you in his lap as he softly rubbed your back and crooned your lullaby. 


It had been several hours since Tony had sung that lullaby to you. You were still curled in his lap, the tears had finally run out. He had stopped singing, and rocking and was now merely stroking your hair. Tired as you were, you could feel the fear and tension in his body and you knew you owed him an explanation. He had flown hundreds of miles and saved you as best as he could.

Yes, you owed him an explanation. 



But you couldn’t bring yourself to move. To speak. To do anything but let the vast ocean of loneliness and pain drown you. It kept dragging you down and frankly and you didn’t want to resurface. You could feel yourself nodding off, blackness closing in on you when you heard Tony speak. 



“You know, I saw you arrive, that first day at boarding school. You carried yourself like a proud queen, regal and proud. I saw you.” 



Tony shifted underneath you, turning your body towards his. He put his hand under your chin to try to lift it up, and succeed despite your stubborn attempt to keep it down. 



“You were beautiful and you intrigued me. I followed you that day. I was going to be smooth and charming and try to sweep you off your feet. I followed you up the stairs towards your dorm room and I saw. I saw you.” 



The embarrassment that went through was swift and harsh, you flinched as your pale sallow cheeks flushed. You hadn’t known that anyone had seen you. No one had ever seen you cry and the fact that Tony had seen you twice, made you feel even more embarrassment. 

You knew Tony felt you flinch when he wrapped his arms tighter around you. He didn’t stop talking, even though you desperately wished he would. 


“I saw you break down”, he repeated, “And I’ve never brought it up till now. Because now, now I’m more worried than I’ve ever been. More worried than I was that day. I’m fucking scared Y/N. I want to help you, I love you. You’re my sister and I can’t help because I don’t know what’s going on. So talk to me Y/N. Please. Please don’t run from me, babe. Just let me in Y/N, please.” 



Tony’s voice was quivering and his eyes shone with tears but still, you couldn’t get the words out of your mouth. They were ringing in your ears, they never stopped but you couldn’t get them out. You needed help.

Instead of answering him, you looked away and stood up. Wobbling, legs unsteady, you walked to your room going to pick up one of the liquor bottles lying around. You put it to your lips and drunk deeply, knowing it was finally time to let someone in. 



You walked back to your living room and sat cross-legged across from Tony.

 

You took a deep breath and whisperingly said, “Ok. I'll tell you.”

You swung a bit more alcohol and looked deep into Tony’s eyes. You could feel fear rising in you but fuck, you had to say it or it would kill you. Everything would change the second you told him. You knew it. No one wanted someone as dark and twisty as you. Still small irrational stupid part held out hope that he wouldn’t see you differently. That he wouldn’t treat you differently. He didn’t know the whole story. He didn’t know what had happened to you, what you had had to endure. What you had had to survive. 



Maybe he would be different. Maybe he would stick by you and make sure that you were ok despite the horrors that littered your past.

God the fear and panic were coating you, you were so fucking scared but fuckfuckfuck, you had to do it. You had to. 

So you took a deep breath and let it out. 


“On the morning of my fifteenth birthday, I killed my sister. I picked up a gun and shot her between the eyes in the middle of the living room. I picked her body up and buried it next to the open hole that would be my mothers grave in the rose garden at my family’s compound.”

You thought you were going to keel over from the pain, and the relief you felt. You wanted to cry and scream but one look up at Tony’s face kept you from reacting. Your old training kicked in and you pulled yourself back because on Tony’s face was a fear, mixed with disgust and pity. He was looking at you, just how you had hoped he wouldn’t. You had lost the last person in the world who loved you.

You smiled grimly and lifted the bottle to your lips again. You were a stupid foolish woman. What did you think would happen? You deserved nothing less.

You could see Tony’s mind going a billion miles an hour. Probably questioning every moment of friendship with you. You had killed your sister, clearly, you were unstable. A dark and twisty monstrosity. Why had you hoped Tony would be different? Fucking foolish. 



Your face betrayed none of your internal turmoil, you just sat there staring back at him evenly, while he gaped at you.

 

Finally, he let out a horrified, “You did what?”


His question cut you. Your last bit of hope died. You just wanted someone to fucking ask you if you were ok. You wanted to let it all out, to comfort. Goddammit, you should’ve known better than to trust him. You were too fucking much. Too much.

He was just like- 


You stopped before your mind conjured his name up or worse, his image. Neither man was ever truly going to be there for you, you should’ve known better.

Your father was right.You could hear his voice in your head now, ‘To trust is to lose. To love is to lose. And losing is unacceptable.’



You hadn’t wanted to admit it, you thought you could have a different life. You thought you could’ve had something more than what you were given at birth. Clearly not. You were done trying to fight it. The world had predetermined that you were to be cold, brutal and unfeeling. 

Why fight it?



“I killed my sister. Shot her right between the eyes.” You smirked, cold and cruel, “Like I was trained to. ”

You finished the remaining alcohol and stood up.

“Now get out. I don’t need you, or your pity or your friendship. Trusting you was a mistake, and it’ll never happen again. I’m going to pack and when I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” 



You turned and walked back to your dark room, closing the door. You stood in your bedroom for a moment letting rage and pain roil inside you, begging for an outlet. But you knew better now, you controlled your emotion, not the other way around.



Centered, you began moving around the room, grabbing what you needed.

Tony still sat in a dazed shock. You had murdered your sister? Had he heard you right? He wanted to ask you to repeat yourself but he knew that he had heard correctly, it wasn’t a misunderstanding. His Y/N, his little sister, had killed her sister.

His mind couldn’t move beyond that, even as he saw you slide your mask into place, even as he saw you drink deeply.

The only thing his mind could come up with to ask was a strangled, “You did what?”

It was a stupid thing to ask, he knew it as soon as the words left his lips but he couldn’t help it. He had to know what happened because his mind couldn’t understand what you had told him. 
As soon as he heard your answer he knew that if he didn’t act quickly, you were going to pull away from him. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

 

He watched you finish the alcohol and he saw the cold fury in your eyes, and the cold cruelty, as you smirked told him you wanted him gone. Once you turned to walk away, he shuddered. He couldn’t recognize you anymore. You were transforming into someone else. 



His mind went into overdrive, he was losing you and there was no way he was letting that happen. He ran to your room, breaking down your door.

 

“No Y/N.”  

You were standing by the empty bed, still as a statue with some scraps of fabric in your hands. He walked slowly to you, voice firm.

“You’re not leaving. We’re family. You’re all I have left. I’m not letting you leave. You can push everyone else out but not me. I will not abandon you.”



He saw you flinch at his final declaration. If he hadn’t been looking, he would’ve missed it. It was almost imperceptible, and in that moment he knew what he had to say. He realized what you needed to hear. 

How could he have been so slow in realizing it?

 

He reached out and grabbed you, turning you towards him. 

“I will not walk out on you. I will not leave you. I am your brother and I will never, as long as I live, abandon you. I care about your past because I can see how it is killing you. But no matter what you tell me, I won’t walk out.”

You could feel yourself reaching your breaking point. God fucking dammit. Why couldn’t he leave you be? You wanted to cry. Tony had just said what you wanted to hear all your life. What you had wanted to hear since you were a child. But now you didn’t know if it was worth it. Could you trust him?



Again you heard your fathers voice in your head, ‘To trust is to lose. To love is to lose. And losing is unacceptable.’

You stood, still as a statue throughout Tony’s declaration. You so desperately wanted to give in but you didn’t know if you could trust him. No one stayed for you. No one. Not your mother and not your sister. Could you trust him with your past and be assured that he would be there by the end of it.


Tony was holding you, and it felt so good to be cared for. You were going to break. You knew it. You couldn’t hold it in. 



Again, your father's sneering voice entered your head, ‘You are pathetic. I trained you better. You are cold. You are unfeeling. You are unbreakable. This is a failure. This is unacceptable.’

Tony was shaking you, trying to bring you out of your head. 

“Y/N, babe, trust me. Please. I’m here through it all, I swear on my life. Please Just let me in. Please, I’m begging you. Let me in.”

And suddenly you really couldn’t hold it back anymore. And with a great gasp, your mask finally broke.

You collapsed into his arms letting out a heartbroken wail, you sobbed, “I killed her. I killed her. Oh, God. Please make the pain stop. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Tony help me. He told me to and I killed her. Why God? Why? Help me. Please help me.”

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