Winter Solider X Reader - Blog Posts

𖤓 - completed series

ʚɞ - smut

જ⁀➴ - personal favorite

✬ - series

𝕯 - dark

ׂ╰┈➤ FALLOUT

ೃ⁀➷ Cooper Howard

how about a nuke? 𖤓જ⁀➴

the end of the beginning ✬ʚɞ

in love crazy ft. Barb

ׂ╰┈➤ MARVEL

ೃ⁀➷ Bucky Barnes

paranormal love જ⁀➴

ׂ╰┈➤ FNAF

ೃ⁀➷ Mike Schmidt

haunted past 𝕯

Ugh I need some good fic recs of Bucky being winter soldier PLEASE!!! I am BEGGING 😭

Cynophobia (Bucky x M!Reader)

Trigger warning: Mentions of blood, implied dog attacks.

It wasn't supposed to be much of anything. Just get in, get it done, get out, nothing more. But the moment the 'winter solider' walked in, things seemed to get out of hand instantly.

Suddenly, he was running as fast as he could down a hall, his heart pounding in his ears. Blood poured from a new open wound on his leg, but he was so hyped up on adrenaline that he didn't even notice.

He could hear them, the growling, the roar-like barking, the sounds of their paws hitting the ground as they rushed after him. He stole a glance for only a moment, seeing the blood-shot beady eyes, the saliva, and sharp fangs still coated in red. It was like he was being pursued by demons!

Finally, his leg caved in under him. As his head hit the ground, blood started to seep from his nose. He looked up just in time to see the four monsters leap for him and-.

Bucky awoke with a start, jerking himself up into a sitting position as his mind reeled and his heart raced. It took him a moment to register where he was as he realized the mattress was drenched in sweat.

He took in a deep breath, the following exhale trembled as a shiver ran through his body. He could practically feel their hot breath on his skin again as he reflexively gripped his leg. The bite was gone, nothing but a slight mark left behind that was barely visible. Though knowing that didn't make it any easier to swallow with the lump in his throat.

He got up from his bed and left the room, wandering down the halls of the tower until he found himself in the kitchen. He took a glass, but as he went to get some water, he paused. God, how much better he'd feel if he had a strong shot right now.

It wasn't good to do it, he knew that, but waking up in a cold sweat after being reminded of one of the most terrifying moments of his life? It made the taste of Tony's stash of liquor seem so sweet.

He turned, convincing himself that he wasn't actually going to take any; he was just going to look. 

"What are you doing up so late?" (Y/N) was suddenly standing in the doorway. It never ceased to amaze him how easily this guy could just appear without being detected; Almost like he had some kind of silent teleportation.

"Nothing." Bucky muttered. "Just getting a drink." The man leaning against the doorway raised an eyebrow.

"...Then get one." He nodded towards the sink, clearly very aware of what Bucky was about to do. Bucky sighed, turning to do just that as (Y/N) continued. "What's wrong? You look like you were running from the grim reaper."

"Nightmare." Bucky's voice was hoarse, his body was covered in sweat, and he had deep bags under his eyes. All of that came from a nightmare? Definitely not what (Y/N) expected. (Y/N) uncrossed his arms and walked a bit closer, letting his steps sound as not to spook him when he reached out.

Bucky felt (Y/N)'s hand gently touch his shoulder as he practically inhaled the water. "It was about your time as the soldier, wasn't it?" An exasperated sigh left Bucky's lips, putting the glass on the counter.

"What else would it be about?"

"Maybe your fear of dogs?"

"I don-" Before Bucky could get the words out of his mouth, he paused. He looked back at (Y/N), who gave him a little smile back. "How did you-?"

"I make it a point to learn all I can about my co-workers. Especially the good-looking ones." Bucky rolled his eyes. "You're pretty secretive about that in particular, though; It kinda makes me wonder why." Bucky turned, attempting to pass (Y/N), only to be blocked with an arm to the opposite shoulder. Bucky looked to find a surprisingly empathetic expression on his usually sarcastic and childish face. "Y'know, this type of thing just proves something." Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Monsters can't feel fear, neither can weapons. So, since you're afraid of something, that just proves you're more than that."

Bucky's expression morphed a few times but settled on a subtle smile. "Besides." (Y/N) added with a chuckle, "It's nice to know that all we have to do to snap you out of it is throw a pomeranian at your ass." As bad-taste as that joke might've been, Bucky couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. Bucky and (Y/N) split in opposite directions as they entered the hallway. "G'night, tin man!"

"Goodnight." Suddenly, the nightmare was far from his mind. The joke about Bucky's fear forcing away the panic and the comment about it proving his humanity made him feel... better. ----------------------------------------------------------

Author’s note: My very first time writing for Bucky, how’d I do?

THROUGH THE SMOKE

WARNING: this fic contains, blood, guns, and wound fucking. if you're uncomfortable with any of these things listed. SCROLL.

NSFW CONTENT BELOW

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the first time you crossed paths, it was raining bullets and blood. you’d been sent to intercept intel, same as him. you didn’t know his name then. only the cold mask and the colder eyes behind it. all you knew was he moved like a shadow, silent and lethal. your knife caught his jacket. his metal hand wrapped around your throat. neither of you spoke. neither of you had to. you escaped with a bruised jaw, a cracked rib, and the first scar he ever gave you. the second time wasn’t much different. an abandoned soviet outpost. he came through the window. you were already there. the fight was faster this time, like you’d both memorized each other’s rhythm. you knew how he’d strike, and he knew how you’d counter. it was less battle, more dance. when he pinned you to the wall, his hand curled around your throat. you still stabbed him in the side.

but god, something about him.... about the silence he wore like armor, made your blood burn hotter than the knives you kept strapped to your thighs. weeks passed. a third mission. a fourth. it became routine. find the mark. find him already there. fight until someone bled. you started to expect him. worse, you started to hope for him. him as the winter soldier. you started thinking of him as yours. not in any sweet way. no. in the way a scar is yours. in the way a loaded gun is.

once, in a forest outside warsaw, you ended up back to back, both surrounded, both out of ammo. you didn’t speak. didn’t trust. but your body moved with his like you’d trained together for years. after the last body fell, you turned on him, breath ragged, gun aimed. he looked at you like he didn’t care if you pulled the trigger. but you didn’t. not that time. but the next time, you swore you would.

and then it happens.

a mission in prague. intel said he was there. you volunteered before they finished the briefing. they didn’t ask why. you find him in a crumbling cathedral lit by dying light. stained glass windows shattered, casting fractured color over dust and ruin. he stands near the altar like a ghost in combat boots. you aimed first and he didn't flinch.

“you gonna shoot me this time?” he asks, his voice was rough, unfamiliar. it’s the first time he’s spoken to you.

“maybe,” you reply, finger on the trigger. “depends how fast you draw.”

“not very,” he admits, and drops his gun to the floor with a metallic clatter. you hesitate.

“why?”

“getting tired of this.” he steps closer. you hold your ground.

you press the barrel to his chest. he presses his hand to yours.

“then shoot me,” he says and your heart pounds like war drums.

“you first,” you whisper.

he moves quickly, metal hand knocking your gun wide, your finger squeezing the trigger, a shot ringing out into the rafters. he’s faster than you remembered. stronger. more desperate. you’re slammed into the altar. your knife is in your hand, when did that happen? and his is at your throat. you slice upward. he dodges, barely. his mask is gone now. you don’t remember tearing it off, but his face is all you see. sweat on his brow. blood at his lip. steel in his eyes.

then somehow, you’re on top. knees on his chest, gun drawn again. finger trembling. he doesn’t fight. doesn’t move. just looks at you like he’s already dead. your hand shakes. the metal is cold in your grip. his chest rises under your knees. he doesn’t break your gaze.

slowly, so slowly, he moves. not to attack. but to press your hand, the one holding the gun, up. to his forehead. your breath catches.

“pull it,” he says. “if you mean it.” your finger curls tighter and your lips part.

you don’t know if it’s hate or love or something so much worse, but you don’t pull the trigger. you lean down instead, gun still trembling in your hand, and let it slowly trail from his temple down across the sharp angle of his cheekbone, dragging the barrel along the stubble of his jaw. he doesn’t move. nor breathe. and then god you hit the corner of his mouth. he parts his lips just slightly. just enough for the cold muzzle to kiss the edge of his bottom lip. his tongue flats over metal. his lips curl around the barrel not to take it, not fully, but enough that your stomach twists. and his eyes never leave yours.

you’ve played with death before, but never like this. never so intimate. never so quiet. he looks like he’s daring you to pull the trigger now. and a part of you wants to. but then— his knee slams up. fast. hard. brutal. your body lifts off him with the force of it, air ripped from your lungs as you crash backward. the gun slips from your grip mid-fall, skittering across the cathedral floor. you hit the stone like a dropped doll, bones jolting.

he’s on you. bucky barnes. the winter soldier. knees on either side of your hips, hand pinning both wrists above your head with terrifying ease.

you twist, snarl, spit blood at him. he doesn’t flinch. his metal hand grips the gun now. cold barrel pressed low to your stomach just beneath your ribs. both your chest heave. you can feel the war between you like it’s alive. like it’s its own living, breathing thing. he presses the gun harder against you right below your bellybutton. right where it would hurt the most.

you laugh. bloody. bitter.

"i want you to remember what it felt like. right here." he taps the barrel against your stomach. "how close you came." then he pulled the trigger. the sound cracked through your body. your spine arched. a sob got caught in your throat. fire bloomed through your gut. your vision blurred at the edges. the ceiling twisted above you like it was turning away.

blood poured out of you, warm and fast, you could feel it—feel yourself— leaking into the cold stone beneath you. he leaned in, eyes on your face. he watched your eyes lose focus. your blood was soaking his gun and gloves. your head turned sluggishly. you could feel yourself fading. your gaze met his, your lips moved but only a thin hiss of breath came out. his eyes were hard to read in the shadows. he presses the gun firmly into your wound. the pain snapped you back. your body jerked with a strangled screech. your hands flailed, grabbing for the gun. he just watched, his body like a block of steel above you, eyes on your face.

he leaned in until you could see the sweat on his face. the tendons in his clenched jaw. he was bleeding a bit. you hadn't even noticed. you spit a mouthful of blood onto his cheek. his gaze fell to your wound. your shirt was sticky with blood, your eyes were starting to glaze. you barely notice that the gun hasn't moved. it's still there. pressed to the same spot slick with your blood. then he slowly pushes the barrel deeper. it sinks into the wound with a wet, sucking resistance. your breath stutters. blood smears up the barrel, warm and dark.

your fingers twitch at your side. your eyes shined with pain. pain so deep it goes quiet in your bones. "feels different when it's slow, doesn't it?"

he twists the gun, just a little. and your body jolts beneath him. mouth open in a silent cry. he pulls the barrel free, blood and ruin clinging to it. you lay there, gasping for breath. his hand tightened on the gun, dragging it up your body from your stomach to your chest, between your breasts, resting finally at your throat. then— he was gone. just like that. leaving you alone in the ruins. heart pounding. body aching. you were still breathing. but you hadn’t survived him.