Title: All this and Heaven, Too [2]Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x ReaderSummary: Caught in an anti-her

Title: All this and Heaven, Too [2]

Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Caught in an anti-hero demonstration, you become an unwilling participant in a political game of tug of war. Tony Stark wants you to be the new poster child for his pro-Avengers rhetoric, Nick Fury wants you to fade into the background, and Bucky Barnes… wants something else from you entirely.

Warnings: Near Death Experience, Noncon, Stalking, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Smut, Breeding, Infidelity, Dark!AU, Grey/Dark Avengers AU,

A/N:  i can only hope y’all are as excited to read this next chapter as i am to share it with you. i’m so happy to be back in the Rattler-verse!! bottom divider by @firefly-graphics. 

The work below is my own, and is unbeta’d and unedited. I do not consent for it to be translated and or posted elsewhere by anyone but myself. Minors, DNI!

The makeup artist spritzes you with something, telling you to close your eyes just before the droplets make contact with your skin. You’ve never been much for makeup, and so when Tony asked if you’d like someone to “get you camera ready”, you’d said yes without a second thought. Now though, as she spun you in the chair and positioned you like a doll, you were beginning to regret it. 

“Just stay still, yes?” She says sternly in her thick accent. “Spray need time to set.” She seems rather busy, flitting around the little room with the nervous energy of a hummingbird. “No touch face,” she warns, waggling a finger at you. “I be back.” 

You count to ten before opening your eyes nervously, expecting to see Svetlana waiting with her arsenal of make-up brushes, but instead, you see Bucky. Leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his eyes cloudy and unreadable.

“Oh,” you can’t help the sharp intake of breath as you raise your hand to your chest in surprise. “S-Sorry. I was expecting…” You trail off. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” He says. “I’m just first on guard duty.” The smile he gives you is unsure, like he doesn’t know whether it’s okay to make a joke or not. He  reaches out a hand for you to shake, and you take it, noting the warmth and whir of machinery under your touch. 

“Ah.” You tap your fingers against the arms of the chair you’re in, unsure of what to say. You don’t know if you should bring up that you remember him, remember what he did—he didn’t seem too comfortable with it in the hospital room, and you’re loathe to invite the dislike of one of the people tasked with your protection. 

“I um, I just, God, sorry this is awkward. I wanted to say thank you. Um. For saving me. I’m going to say it, you know, out there, but I thought it might be more meaningful if you, um. Heard it from me personally first.” 

It isn’t quite surprise that graces Bucky’s ; features, his eyebrows rising up his forehead. More like incredulity, like he hasn’t really ever been thankedbefore. 

“You’re welcome.” He says after a moment, like he’s trying to figure out just how to respond. “I know Tony can be pushy.” He rolls his eyes, and it makes you laugh. “But thank you. For what you’re doing.” 

You’re still not sure about it, and the thought of standing in front of the press is starting to make your hands clammy. A nervous laugh bubbles from your lips. 

“I wouldn’t thank me yet. I’m not the best public speaker.” You fix Bucky with a wry smile. “There’s still time to find someone better, I think.” 

“You’ll do fine, doll. Just… pretend they’re not there. Would it help if I stood in the audience?” He asks, a small smile on his full lips. “Make it like you’re talkin’ to me. Not them.” His suggestion brings a shy heat to your cheeks—that’s the kind of thing Pat would have suggested, if he’d been able to get the time off from the nursing home to make it, anyway. 

“Yeah, actually. You’d do that? I thought you were just supposed to like, keep people from stabbing me, sort of thing,” You joked, and he laughed. 

“I can do that from the audience, doll. Your guy’s got nothing to worry about.” He jerks his head towards  the modest oval cut diamond on your left ring finger. “Already saved you once, figure I’ve got a pretty good track record.” 

You laugh, and it surprises you because it’s actually real. You’d been worried they would all be like Tony, plastic and terrible and fake,but Bucky seemed… nice, despite his kind of checkeredpast. You’re about to say something else when Svetlana clears her throat behind him. Her foot taps impatiently against the expensive tile as she glares at him. 

“Move, metal man. I finish her now.” 

Bucky holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m goin’, I’m goin’. I’ll be right outside if you need me to,” he pantomimes a chokehold, and you stifle a giggle. He seems… relieved, like he’d been on guard—and you had to admit you had been too. 

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

It wouldn’t be so terrible to come out of this with a friend—maybe one that would enjoy Patrick’s four hour Call of Duty sessions more than you did. 

When Svetlana finishes your makeup, you’re sandwiched between her and Bucky all the way backstage. You swallow nervously at the sight of Tony Stark, locked in a particularly heated conversation with Nick Fury—who didn’t look happy. 

“—options? Creating your own propaganda machine just the next logical step?”

“It’s not propaganda if it’s true. You know we can’t afford another Germany, not now—”

“Buck! And the guest of honor, I presume.” Steve Rogers steps directly into your field of vision, a hand outstretched for you to shake. “Nice to see you again.” You finagle your crutches until you can balance long enough to shake it firmly. His wife peeks out from behind him, and Steve wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “No need to be shy, sweetheart.” 

You watch her give a strained smile. “Nice to meet you.” She’s heavily pregnant—likely about to pop any day now. You recall the news headlines from just months prior, the news footage of Captain America pulling his beloved wife from the firey wreckage of the accident. 

I wouldn’t want to be here after that, either. 

Steve presses an affectionate kiss into her hair. “I’m going to go find a place for this one to sit down. Shouldn’t be on her feet too much.” 

“No, I shouldn’t,” she echoes softly, before giving you a genuine smile. “Good luck out there.” Her eyes flick to Steve and then back to you. “You’re in the snake pit, now.” You can’t ask her what she meant before Steve places a firm hand on her shoulder. 

He steers her away, and you glance at Bucky. There’s a strange sort of… longingin his gaze as he watches them go, and you wonder if he has anyone to go home to. You only have a few seconds to ruminate on it, though, before Tony Stark’s wide grin is all you can see. 

“Thank you for coming, thank you.” He looks genuinelypleased, at least. “I trust Sunshine here’s given you the rundown?” Tony jerks his thumb at Bucky, who simply glowers in his direction. 

“Yeah. I go up there and utterly humiliate myself in front of the city and probably the whole world,” you mutter, wiping clammy palms against the dark blue fabric of your dress. 

“You’ll do fine, kid. Can’t be harder than getting shot, right?” He claps you on the shoulder, and you swallow the urge to shove his hand away. You’re queasy enough as it is without the additional conflict. 

Tony takes the stage before you do, and his solemn expression is reflected on the many screens all around the room. He’s used to press conferences, you can tell—he knows exactly where to look. It’s hard for you to concentrate on his introduction as you shift in your chair, waiting anxiously for him to pass the baton to you. 

You wish Pat was here—he would know what to say, what to do to make these nerves nothing more than an unpleasant tingle in your chest. No, Pat is at work, again,and it’s yourfault. You clench your fists against your thigh, and try to take deep breaths. Slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. 

“You okay?” Even though his hand is made of metal, Bucky rests it lightly on your shoulder. “You need water, or something?” He looks up toward the stage, where you can see Tony’s back as he gesticulates, the same serious expression still painted onto his features. “Hate these things.” 

“You do?” 

“Yeah. I’m… well, you know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Winter Soldier, and all.” 

You nod your understanding. “No, I, um. I get it.” Bucky’s smile is small, but grateful. 

“Say the word, and I’m your man in the crowd, doll.” He reminds you, just as Tony turns and gestures to you. 

“It’s time,” he mouths the words at you, just in case his clear signals weren’t enough. 

“Yes, please. Do that.” You huff out a breath as you situate your crutches under your arms and hobble over to the short set of steps. There’s a podium, and a little red stool beside it, which you gratefully sit on. There are so many people, cameras flashing—your heart thuds in your chest faster than an oncoming train. 

And then you spot him. Close to the front, in the middle, his arms folded but there, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Thanks Bucky.  

You’d missed Tony’s introduction entirely, but you don’t really need it—hands immediately begin popping up as you settle yourself on your seat, and hesitantly, you call on one of the first reporters you see. 

“Yes?”

She stands a little taller, raising her microphone above the crowd. “In your own words, what happened on April 17th?” 

“I, I, um—” You glanced down at Bucky and tried to remind yourself you were just talking to him. A casual conversation between friends. “I’m an art history student. Masters. So I am—I was,”you correct yourself, “at the Museum a lot. I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, because I was in the exhibit room Adrian Kettleton locked himself in when he came to make his demonstration.

I don’t know what happened before he started shooting. But when he did… everyone was on the ground. There was a lady there w-with kids,” your throat goes tight, and blindly, you grasp for the microphone. “S-sorry, I, um, I need a minute.” You turn away from the reporters, cover your face with your hands, and tryto breathe deep. What would Pat say?

“It’s okay, babe, take all the time you need.”

You wait until your heart is steady again before you lower your hands

“Kettleton opened fire, and he said this would all be over soon. That the cops would show up and that—” You choked back a sob—“only a few people would have to die.” You hadn’t even really talked about this with Pat, leaving it for the insurance-provided therapist to untangle. He shot two people before me while the police tried to talk him down, and…” Bucky nods encouragingly at you from the audience.

“Then the Avengers showed up. I… I had already been shot, but… I would be dead if they weren’t there.” 

You’re not sure if you did what you were supposed to do, Bucky’s face is passive, and you can’t really look behind you to gauge Tony’s reaction. A man in the front raises his hand, and you point at him.

“So what you’re saying is, the police were ineffectual?”

You frown. “N-no, I didn’t say that, I said—”

“You said that the Avengers showed up. You’d already been shot, isn’t that right?”

You press your lips together into a frown. “Yes. Yes that’s right. But I’m notsaying the police were ineffectual. I’m saying that the Avengers saved my life.” 

“I see.” You wonder how far he’ll run with that, how far they’ll allrun with it, but several more hands jump into the air, and your heart beats faster at the sight of them.

“Do you believe the shooting in Texas and the one in Shanghai are related?”

“Did you know Adrian Kettleton prior to the shooting? You both attended NYU, only a few years apart.” 

“Your father shares some anti-hero sentiment, how does he feel about this?” 

You’re dizzy as Tony helps you from the stage, camera flashes still seared into your retinas.

“You did good, kid. Real good.” 

—

“It’s not that bad.” Patrick’s voice is wheedling through the bathroom door. You’d gotten home a few hours ago, and had been grateful to spend your evening binging the shows you’d missed with Patrick on his night off—

Until your phone began blowing up with clips of you,at the press junket. Different news stations had grabbed different parts, zeroing in on everything. Your speech, your movements, your hair, your clothes—

Rita: you seeing this?

Your little sister had attached a screenshot of a twitter thread, and you huff out a frustrated breath as you glare at it. 

“It’s not you they’re publicly dissecting,” you moan. It’s not justyour friends and sister sending you things, it’s your socials—your twitter mentions are numbering in the tens of thousands, and your facebook friend requests look about the same. Your private instagram account has seven thousand follow requests, and you scroll through them all with your heart in your throat. 

There are people calling you a liar, a con artist, claiming the Avengers were in on it, that they’d paid you to take a bullet. There were people claiming you’d never even been shot at all, which in and of itself was laughable. There were more, kinder folks, sending you well wishes, along with bots attempting to hawk you miracle remedies and diet teas. 

A disaster. 

“You know there’s someone claiming to be my third grade teacher?” You lament. “Which, if that really isMiss Hayes, makes me feel like shit because she called me a petulant little drama-queen.” Patrick sighs, and you can feel the weight of it through the door. 

“One, I doubt that’s her because she would be like, ancient now, and probably not on twitter at all. And two—” The sound of the intercom buzzing cuts him off, ringing loudly through the apartment. You can practically hear the frown in Pat’s voice. “Who the hell…? I’ll be right back.” He clamors away from the door, and you get to your feet, brushing a few cat hairs from your leggings. 

“Oh. I just, I guess we didn’t know you were coming. Starting tonight? Okay. Hold on, I’ll buzz you up.” 

You poke your head out of the bathroom door in time to see Patrick unlocking the front door at the far end of the long hallway. 

“You didn’t tell me you were supposed to have bodyguards,” he shout-whispers at you. “Your first shift is here. I think it’s all the press stuff.” You pad down the hallway to peek around Patrick, listening to the sound of heavy footfalls coming up the narrow stairs to your apartment. 

Bucky’s chestnut hair comes into view first, and then his dark, steel blue eyes light on yours and he smiles. 

“Hey, there, dollface.” Your face warms as Patrick’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly on your upper arm. “Sir.” He nods to your fiancé in greeting, and Pat relaxes a little. 

“I thought I only needed someone, you know. During the speaking engagements,” you say, stepping aside to allow Bucky into the apartment. Patrick locks the door behind him, his face a bad mask of good-will. He isn’t happy about Bucky being here, but the both of you know he’d deposited Tony’s check yesterday—there was little he could do about it now other than ride it out. 

“Some of those folks online are saying some pretty nasty things. Thought it might be a good idea for one of us to be close by in case anything happened.” He doesn’t step further inside than the foyer, like he’s trying to make it clear he knows he doesn’t belong. “I can stay out in the hall if it’s a bother.” 

“No, of course not.” You know Patrick would have told him that was fine—male pride—but it isn’t, not for you. “You came to protect me, the least we can offer is the couch.” 

You hobble around after Patrick, helping set up the couch for your unexpected guest. Bucky doesn’t intrude, toeing off his boots in the entry way and hanging his jacket on the hook while he waits. 

“Thank you. I’ll just knock out here.” He lays down on the couch, folding his arms behind his head. You and Patrick retreat awkwardly into the bedroom, and he turns on a random show on Netflix to cover the sound of his whispered frustration.

“It’s just, you’d think they’d tell us something like that could be a possibility.” He runs a hand through his curly hair. “It’s just… It’s a little scary, I guess.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to go sign up for this,” you shoot back. Patrick relents, throwing his arms up and heaving an irritated sigh. 

“I hate when you’re right.”

“You just hate that I think things all the way through,” you mutter, punching his arm. “Now help me into bed.” You giggle as he sweeps you up, depositing you onto the bed. You haven’t slept with Patrick since you’d been home from the hospital, and he hadn’t pushed, but tonight when he kisses you, there’s intentbehind it that you can feel. You sigh against his mouth, bringing your hand up to cup the side of his face. 

There’s a dull thump and the sound of footfall— was the door always open a crack?— but living in a building this old means your life has a soundtrack of unexplainable noises, and so you dismiss it. 

Pat is careful, his thrusts slow and shallow when he slides in, and you sink your teeth into your lip to hide your soft moan at his entry. He feels good, familiar inside of you, and he brings his thumb down to rub at your clit when he cums just before you can. You whine into your closed fist, your thighs trembling as your walls contract around his still hard cock. Pat makes a pleased noise low in his throat before he slides out of you, kissing the tip of your nose. 

It feels like a walk of shame as you hobble to the bathroom to clean yourself up, but Bucky’s deep, steady breaths assure you of his slumber when you sneak back to bed. That’s ridiculous. I’m an engaged woman and this is my house.  

You lay down next to Patrick, falling quickly into dreamless sleep. 

Hazily, some hours later, you’re aware of the sound of his pager going off, and he shifts with a groan. You’re used to it, him being called in early for a shift, though you hate the loss of him. Your bed is warm and comfortable, even without Pat in it, and you fade softly in and out, time interrupted by the brief stretches of black behind your eyelids. Pat getting up—and then dressed—and then kissing you goodbye, his cologne tickling the insides of your nostrils. 

“Bye babe,” he whispers, brushing his lips over the apple of your cheek. “Be back later.” 

“Mmm,” is all you manage to mumble in response. Something clicks— the front door, maybe? You aren’t sure —and in the silence, you slip back into slumber. You’re dreaming of flying, and then— hands, rough, warm hands, no, one is cold, cold on your skin— you mumble sleepily. 

“Pat?”

“Mmm,” he grunts from between your legs, his nose pushing up against the seam of your panties. He pushes up the hem of your t-shirt, and you feel the cool metal of his orderlies’s tags against your thigh before he moves them away, his lips dragging over the spot the’d just vacated. You’re so tired—the painkillers keep you woozy until at least mid-afternoon—your eyes are barely cooperating as Patrick attaches his lips to your clit through the thin cotton of your panties. His beard rasps against your thighs, burning against your skin deliciously. 

You gasp, thighs tightening around his head. Two fingers edge beneath your panties, tugging them aside so that he can slide his tongue through your folds with an appreciative sigh. You drag a hand through his hair under the blanket, and Patrick chuckles huskily against your core.

“Feel good, sweetheart?” 

His voice is off, somehow, too husky, too low, but the pressure of his fingers at your entrance pushes the thought from your head. The sweet burning stretch of them makes you keen, your hips bucking up toward his face. He doesn’t let up, and you squeal loudly as his teeth scrape against your sensitive clit, and he curls his fingers inside you. 

“Go on and cum, sweetheart. S’alright.” 

Youdo,your toes curling as tears leak out of the corners of your closed eyes. You whine as he wiggles his fingers inside your spasming cunt, drawing them out with an embarrassingly slick noise. There’s another sound, like he’s licking them clean, and he chuckles again. 

“Sweet.”

—

You sit up in bed with a start, wincing at the pounding in your skull. The pain meds always make you feel hung over when you wake up, and today is no exception. A glance at the digital clock on the table tells you it’s after midday, and Pat’s side of the bed is long cold. 

I must have slept through him leaving, again.

You slide out of bed, and your cheeks heat at the wetness between your thighs. You’d known Patrick missedsex, but you hadn’t thought he’d missed it that much. You couldn’t keep the little smile off of your face as you limped to the kitchen, and found Bucky seated at the table, a newspaper in hand. 

“G’morning, sleepy head. Your honey left you some breakfast on the stove.” He jerked his head toward the plate on the bottom right burner. You lifted a corner of the paper towel, and saw he’d left you scrambled eggs, with a few slices of cheese on top. “He always leave so early?”

You popped the plate into the microwave, nodding. 

“Yeah. They’re really short at the nursing home, so it happens a couple times a week. But if he left that early, he should be back—” Patrick’s key clicks in the door, and you laugh. “Right about now.” 

You hear him kicking off his shoes in the entryway, before he pokes his head into the kitchen. “Oh, look, you’re up.”

“Blame the pills,” you grumble, grinning as he presses a kiss to your cheek. You run the backs of your knuckles over the smooth curve of his cheek, and you furrow your brow. “When did you shave?”

“This morning, before I left.” He cocks his head as you swallow thickly. “Why?”

Your eyes slide to Bucky, casually skimming the paper as he lifts a mug of coffee to his lips. 

“No reason.” 

To be continued… 

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