Stucky oneshots

Sick Kind Of Proud

TW: self-harm, suicidal thoughts/ideation
I'm not proofreading this before publishing it so there may be mistakes

Steve was in the living room, having fallen asleep during a movie the couple was watching earlier. Bucky planned on carrying him to bed after he got ready for bed but he'd gotten side tracked when he spotted his knife.

Now, Bucky was sitting on the bedroom floor, rocking himself back and forth as he clutched his pocketknife in his metal fist. He was trying hard to convince himself not to act on his urge to cut again but it was a losing battle.

His mind argued with itself, part of him begging him not to do it and the other part urging him to just do it.

What if Steve sees?

Do it anyway, you'll heal.

He'll be disappointed.

So what? It'll feel so good.

But you really shouldn't. It's been two months.

And? Do it. Cut until there's blood everywhere.

Don't. The blood will stain and you won't be able to hide it even if it heals quick.

Cut. Cut. Mutilate your entire body. Wouldn't it be so nice? Come on, do it. Don't be a bitch.

Don't do this. You shouldn't relapse.

Kill yourself. Cut until you bleed out and die.

And Bucky gave in. He opened the blade, rolled up his shorts, and began unleashing his self-hatred on his thighs.

Yes. Keep going. One for every flaw.

Bucky continued to draw the blade over his skin repeatedly, each time a different word coming to mind.

Worthless. Cut. Awkward. Cut. Murderer. Cut. Stupid. Cut. Monster. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut.

He finally forced himself to stop, staring at the blood running down the side of his legs with a sick smile on his face. It had felt so good. He had forgotten how good cutting felt, being able to physically punish himself for all the things he hated about himself every waking moment.

He dropped his knife on the carpet beside him, the blood staining the white fabric immediately. Bucky didn't care. He couldn't make himself care about the carpet, the same way he couldn't make himself feel guilty about cutting again.

He laid down on the floor, his legs continuing to bleed and form red puddles on the carpet. He stared up at the ceiling, embracing the stinging pain in his legs.

A smile was still present on his face, his entire body full of pride for what he did. A sick kind of pride. A pride that he knew he shouldn't be feeling but couldn't dismiss.

The door creaked open and Steve walked in, freezing at the sight. "Bucky, are you—what did you—Jesus, Buck." He sputtered, feeling his heart constrict at the sight in front of him.

Bucky didn't say anything, he didn't even look at Steve. The smile faded a bit but was still there as Steve used bathroom towels to put pressure on the cuts.

Bucky lay still and silent as Steve wordlessly used the first aid kit to clean and bandage the wounds. None of them looked deep enough to require stitches and he knew his husband would heal rather quickly anyway. Once the cuts were all properly bandaged, he used the towels to try and scrub the blood off the carpet. The red simply spread around, staining more of the carpet. Steve tossed the towels into the laundry basket, deciding to just clean the carpet later.

He looked at Bucky helplessly, seeing him smiling. "Bucky, why?"

Bucky shrugged. "It felt good and I wanted to." He said emotionlessly.

Steve sighed sadly. Nothing could be done to undo what had just happened, it was time to move forward. "What should you do next time instead?" He asked like he was speaking to a child.

Bucky sighed, not moving from his spot on the floor. "I know what I'm supposed to say. I'm supposed to say I'll come to you or I'll try the alternatives you and Sam and everyone else have told me to try but..."

Steve waited for Bucky to finish his sentence but he didn't. "But what?" He finally urged after a few minutes.

"You want the truth?" He asked, an uneven shake in his voice that could easily be missed by anyone besides Steve.

"Please." He spoke softly. Bucky was in a weird place mentally, he was never like this with Steve. Every other time he was caught self harming, there was usually tears or regret or apologies. This time, none of that was there and it scared Steve. This was uncharted territory. Bucky was numb and not hiding his thoughts.

"I'm not sorry and I don't regret it. If anything, I'm proud I did it. It felt so good and I want to do it again. But not tonight because I'm tired and my head hurts." He said honestly, finally looking at Steve's tear-soaked face. He didn't feel bad that those tears were there because of him. He didn't care anymore.

"Please don't. You've been clean for two whole months. Relapsing happens but don't throw all the progress away by planning to continue cutting." He begged desperately, not sure how to get through to him because he'd never seen him like this.

"Fuck progress. It felt so good. You know when you finally stretch after being stuck in the car for hours?"

Steve nodded, knowing Bucky was referencing their recent road trip to visit Sam in Delacroix, Louisiana together. He was trying to help him understand.

"Better than that. The relief is so good and...comforting."

Steve closed his eyes, nodding in acknowledgment of his words. He didn't know exactly what Bucky was going through but trying hard to understand.

"Okay." He sighed, giving up on the conversation until Bucky was in a better headspace. He looked at his husband, still laying on the floor clearly exhausted. "Let's get you in bed instead of the floor."

Bucky nodded, allowing Steve to help him stand up and get into bed. Within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, he was asleep and snoring slightly.

Steve stared at the blood stains in the carpet and choked out a sob. He took he knife and cleaned it in the bathroom sink before placing it in the gun safe.

He grabbed stain remover and went back to the bedroom, beginning to scrub at the carpet until no more red could be seen.

Once he was done he sat dejectedly against the bed, sniffling slightly. He didn't understand the addiction of self-harm. He wished he could understand but without going through it himself, he never really would.

He looked at Bucky sleeping peacefully and smiled softly. He didn't understand but he wasn't going to stop trying to help his husband. He got in bed beside him, kissing his forehead gently before wrapping an arm around him.

They would talk in the morning, or whenever Bucky was less tired and less...numb. Until then, he was going to stay by his side and support him as best as he could. Steve laid awake for hours, watching the rise and fall of Bucky's chest and making sure he was safe. Eventually he fell asleep too, knowing he would support and help his man the best he could in the morning.

That was dark and angsty but Bucky isn't the only one who relapsed 🙃