fandom-cuties

[fandom-cuties]

Chase request...

NSFW A-Z

Chase Collins NSFW A-Z

(I love knowing I’m not the only one who remembers and loves this little cutie! There aren’t many but I’m not totally alone😅)

This will be written as Y/n and Chase still being in school however everyone involved is of legal age

This is a NSFW Alphabet, there may be triggering content such as abuse, severe possessive behavior or murder

A stands for AFFECTION: how would they show affection?

•Chase is big into affection, hugging you, kissing you, cuddling you always

•He always wants his hands on you, his lips touching some part of you constantly and whispering how beautiful you are

•He also tries to show you his affection by anticipating your needs, always somehow knowing what you’re in the mood for and getting it for you, even if it’s just covering you with a blanket before you even notice that you’re cold

B stands for BLOODY: how bloody are they willing to get for their object of obsession?

•Chase enjoys killing and so blood isn’t really a problem for him

•If it comes to defending you in some way he loves to end up covered in their blood, knowing that he protected you gives him almost as good a high as using his Power does and watching you clean it off of him let’s him know you know exactly what he did, what he would always do for you

C stands for CRUELTY: would they ever hurt their object of obsession?

•No, Chase does not like seeing you in pain in any way and he would never want to be the one to cause it

•He enjoys causing others pain but you are a different story, and if he did cause you pain he would be taking care of you instantly

•You are the only person ever exempt from Chase Collins cruelty

D stands for DARLING: would they cross their object of obsession’s limits?

•If he needed to in order to keep you safe or keep you with him, then yes he would

•You hate him using his Power in order to trick you or manipulate people for you, he often crosses this line when you have problems with your science teacher (who you hate and seems to hate you right back)-creating extensive illusions to make you think everything is fine while he’s threatening or even assaulting the man or other teachers for whatever they’ve done that he perceives as “wrong”

E stands for EXPOSED: how much do they expose their own feelings to their object of obsession?

•Chase tells you constantly how much he loves you and you are the only person he will share his feelings with

•You know about his parents and how he killed them, as well as his real dad and how he got his Power when the man died, finding out about the other Sons and what had really happened to his ancestor

•His honesty causes problems on occasion like admitting to his plan to steal the others Power for himself to keep himself from dying and punish them for what their families did to his-It ended up with him spelling you into silence which he hated doing but had to until you understood his reasons

F stands for FIGHT: how would they react to their object of obsession fighting back?

•Chase would spell you into silence about certain subjects or if needed or he would lock you away in his home and make everyone think you left

•It was an absolute last resort and Chase knew you were his good little girl who would never betray him or try to get away

G stands for GAME: do they think this is just a game?

•Chase loves to play games with you but his life with you and your relationship was not a game to him

•Chase has never really had anything that was his until he became a witch, and even then he was all alone. When he falls in love with you, you become his entire world and he will die before letting someone take you away

H stands for HELL: what would be their object of obsession’s worst experience with them?

•The worst experience was when you argued with him about killing the other Sons

•Caleb had always been good to you, and while Reid, Tyler and often Pouge were assholes you didn’t want to see them dead, and so you told him you couldn’t tolerate this

•You argued passionately with each other, ending in Chase yelling quite loudly and his Power exploding out of him in a moment of passion, throwing you across the room and into the full length mirror you had in your dorm

•He instantly moved to check on you, healing you as much as he could and taking you to his own room to care for you, apologizing for the next 2 hours straight-Chase never wants to hurt you but his Power is addictive and when it gets out of hand it happens in an instant

I stands for IDEAL: what are their plans for their object of obsession?

•He plans to marry you

•Chase truly believes that his plans to steal Caleb’s Power will work and he can be immortal before making you immortal too so that you can live together for the rest of eternity

J stands for JEALOUSY: how they react when jealous? Do they get jealous?

•Chase’s jealousy is notorious around the campus and most guys have learned to just avoid you as much as they can

•He needs people to know that you are his, every single man that lays his eyes on you needs to know that you will never be theirs. Typically he is content with an arm around your waist while you lean into him just to prevent anyone from thinking you’re available to begin with but if he sees someone eyeing you he will pull you close and kiss you every time

•If that still isn’t enough he can sometimes get a bit rough, clutching you tightly, hands trailing up your back to show his hands on your skin as the kiss becomes much more dominant, his tongue ravaging your mouth-usually that will end with him grabbing your ass and glaring at whatever man had the audacity to even look at you in the first place not that the man will be alive for long but he will always take the chance to show his possession of you

K stands for KINDNESS: how they act around their object of obsession?

•Chase is a doting, loving boyfriend

•He buys you whatever you want, even if you don’t tell him-he just knows. He constantly tries to feed you and ensure you’ve had enough to drink as well as insisting you sleep and take care of yourself

•You also need to remember however that he is a psychopath, he doesn’t hide his possessive nature from you or his murderous impulses

L stands for LOVE LETTER: how would they approach their object of obsession?

•Chase approaches you in the pub where everyone hangs out right off campus while you’re picking up dinner and he doesn’t waste any time

•He asks you on a date and is quite honest about how beautiful he finds you

M stands for MASK: how different are their public persona from their true selves?

•Not all that different honestly

•Chase is a confident, sweet guy in public, only showing his true nature to the people he plans to kill, it is 2 sides to the same coin

N stands for NAUGHTY: how would they punish their object of obsession?

•If he needed to punish you he would probably ground you

•He would lock you in your dorm and keep you from doing anything but going to school and being with him until you apologized or your attitude had disappeared

•The only other “punishment” that he had given you was when you were still talking to Pouge who was in Y/FEC with you, (your favorite and only extra curricular as Chase wanted all non-school time to belong to him) even after he had explained why he wanted them all dead. You awoke the next morning with spiders all over your bed causing you to shriek in terror. It was less a punishment and more torture and Chase had to swear on his life that he would never do anything like it again after you had spent 3 days completely ignoring him

O stands for OPPRESSION: how many rights would they take from their object of obsession?

•You still have most of your rights, you do everything you normally do but now you do it with him

•The right to be alone is the only one he really takes, your only alone time is in the bathroom and even then you have a feeling he watches you in the shower…

P stands for PATIENCE: how patient are they with their object of obsession?

•Chase is very patient with you, which is shocking because he has patience for absolutely no one and nothing else in the world

•He gives you time to get used to him, his plan, and your new life, of course he doesn’t leave your side, but he is much more understanding with you than you would expect considering his murderous impulses and overall psychopathy

Q stands for QUIT: if their object of obsession died or escaped, would they ever be able to move on?

•Died: This would mean that one of the Sons killed you and Chase would absolutely lose his mind. He would exterminate them like roaches and then try and find a magical spell to bring you back because he cannot let you go

•Escaped: Chase will not believe that you wanted to run from him but that you were put up to it. Therefore he will come and find you to bring you home to safety, ensuring that no one can ever put scary thought in his Princess’ head again

R stands for REGRET: would they ever regret harming their object of obsession? Would they ever let them go?

•Chase never means to hurt you

•Letting you go however…no. Just a big no, he has his soulmate by his side after a lifetime of loneliness and pain, he will never let you go

S stands for STIGMA: what made their yandere tendencies bloom?

•Chase is obsessed from the moment he first sees you at the bonfire as he met the other Sons however Reid stopped him from talking to you

•Reid tells him how you don’t date and that you’ve turned him down a dozen times, rants about how many times he’s tried getting into your pants and even tells him what kind of panties you wear as he had “coincidentally” seen your skirt flip up one day in the library

•That is what set Chase off, Reid’s obsessive attempts to make you his were an instant trigger and it set him on the path of asking you out that very next day, as well as being a sweet, shy guy when he did as he knew to be the opposite of his asshole “friend”

T stands for TEARS: how would they react to their object of obsession crying/breaking?

•He would immediately jump to assume someone has hurt you and demand you tell him who it was so that he can skin them alive, bathe them in lemon juice and then set them on fire

•Once he realizes you’ve just had a bad day he will try his best to comfort you, he’s not the best at it but he tries and you think it’s quite adorable most of the time when he tries to cook, ruins it, and has to use his Power to fix it

U stands for UNIQUE: something different they would do compared to others yanderes.

•There is no one else on the planet that he so much as tolerates, it is only you

•You can’t introduce him to friends because he’ll find a reason to hate them, Chase would be happy if everyone on the planet was dead and it was just you two, happy until the end

V stands for VICE: what weakness their object of obsession could use against them?

•All you have to do is cry and Chase will do just about anything you want

•He even goes to school functions such as dances just because it will keep you from tearing up-he hates seeing you sad so much, he would rather you be angry at him in all honesty

W stands for WIT’S END: would they hurt their object of obsession?

•Never on purpose

•The only time you get hurt is when you push him too hard and he gets too angry to control his Power-and even then you have the best nurse ever

X stands for XOANON: would they worship their object of obsession?

•Practically

•You are his perfect Princess and if you would like him to bow, he will kneel at your alter though be prepared for his face to end up between your legs once he’s down there

Y stands for YEARN: how long would they pine after their object of obsession before they snap?

•A day

•He couldn’t last a full day before needing to ask you out and stake his claim on you, you’re his girlfriend after the first date

Z stands for ZENITH: would they ever break their object of obsession?

•He does not want to break you, he wants to own you and make you all his

•If he broke you he would desperately need to find a way to fix you again because his baby cannot be hurt, he won’t allow it

Misc. Masterlist

[fandom-cuties]

Taste of trouble

Chapter 1 of: Veil of vengeance

Summary: You meet Bucky for the first time when he is a customer in your bakery. His looming presence becomes a regular feature and he finally asks you out on a date (1.8k words)

Masterlist

Veil of vengeance masterlist

A/n: WOAH! I’m publishing this just a few months short of a year when I first said I would write this series 😬 I’ve had the majority of this chapter sat in my drafts since then but I’ve burnt out so many times during the past months so this has been pushed back. This may not be the best writing I’ve ever done but it’s a start I decided to make this shorter than I planned just so it was more of an introduction. Hope you enjoy please leave any constructive feedback or ideas! (Reader will become badass later on just give her a chance)

-

It was an early morning in Brooklyn, and the smell of freshly baked bread floated through the small, cozy bakery on the corner of Maple and Hudson. You leaned over the counter, watching the sunrise through the large windows of the shop as you absentmindedly shaped the dough beneath your hands. The golden light bathed everything in warmth, making the bakery feel like a small, tucked-away paradise. Your hands moved expertly through the familiar motions- kneading, rolling, shaping- crafting your signature pastries that would be ready for the morning rush. Owning a bakery had always been your dream. There was something magical about waking up before the world, bringing it to life with the scent of freshly made bread, the sweet smell of cinnamon buns, and the buttery richness of croissants. It was an unassuming job, but it was yours, and you cherished every moment.

As the bell above the door chimed, signaling the first customer of the day, you looked up with a bright smile, ready to greet whoever had wandered in for an early morning treat. But when your eyes landed on the man entering the shop, the smile froze on your face. He was tall, dressed in dark clothing, a simple black leather jacket over a gray t-shirt, dark jeans that hugged his muscular legs, and boots that echoed softly against the wooden floor as he approached the counter. As he crossed His arms against his chest, you also noticed his hands were clad in leather gloves even though it was a warm spring morning outside. Your attention was quickly taken back to his face. His presence was commanding, almost overwhelming, and he seemed slightly out of place in your cozy little bakery. His hair, dark and slightly messy, framed a chiseled face that was both rugged and handsome, but it was his eyes that caught you off guard. Icy blue, intense, and focused entirely on you. For a moment, you felt a flicker of uncertainty. He was intimidating, no doubt about it. The kind of man who turned heads without trying. His presence seemed to fill the entire room, making it feel suddenly much smaller.

"Morning” he said, his voice deep and gruff, yet there was a strange softness to it. "Good morning” you replied, hoping your voice didn’t betray the nervousness creeping into your chest. "What can I get for you?" He glanced down at the display case, seemingly lost in thought. You noticed the way his brow furrowed, as if making a decision as simple as picking a pastry was a challenge. It was oddly endearing, watching this intimidating figure hesitate over something so small. "Uh, what do you recommend?" he asked, looking up at you again. The intensity in his gaze sent a small shiver down your spine, but you pushed through the nervousness and smiled softly. "Well, our cinnamon buns are the most popular. Fresh out of the oven, actually”.

His lips twitched slightly, almost as if he were suppressing a smile. "I’ll take one of those. And a coffee. Black”. You nodded, grabbing a warm cinnamon bun and placing it in a small paper bag before pouring his coffee. As you handed them over, his leather clad fingers brushed yours, just for a split second, and you felt your heart skip a beat. He gave you a brief nod, almost as if he was uncomfortable with the interaction, before he took his items and moved to a table by the window. The moment he sat down, you found yourself watching him from behind the counter. There was something about him that drew you in, something that made you curious despite the initial intimidation. He seemed…out of place, not just in your bakery, but in the world around him. Like he carried a weight no one else could see.

Throughout the morning, you kept sneaking glances at him, and every time you did, you caught him doing the same. His eyes would dart away the moment yours met, but there was no mistaking it, he was watching you too. It became a routine after that. Every morning, he would come into the bakery, order the same thing, a cinnamon bun and a black coffee, and sit at the same table by the window. You still didn’t know his name, but you learned his habits. He always paid in cash, always left exactly five dollars in the tip jar, and he always seemed to linger just a bit too long, as if he had nowhere else to be. Each day, you grew a little less nervous around him. His presence became a comfort, even if you still didn’t quite understand him.

After a few weeks, you finally worked up the courage to ask his name. It was a quiet Tuesday morning, and the bakery was nearly empty. He’d just finished his coffee and was about to leave when you called out, "Hey, I don’t even know your name."

He stopped, his hand on the door, and turned back to you. For a moment, you thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he gave you a small, almost shy smile.

"Bucky” he said. "Bucky Barnes”

"Bucky" you repeated softly, smiling back and before you could even finish introducing yourself he said "I know” his smile widening slightly. "It’s on the sign outside”.

You laughed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "Touché”

After that, Bucky began staying a little longer each morning. You’d chat between serving customers, talking about small things at first. His favorite movies, your love for baking, the weather. Each conversation peeled back a layer of his intimidating exterior, revealing someone softer, more vulnerable underneath. The more you talked, the more you realized how gentle he could be, despite his rough appearance.

Still, there was something about him that remained a mystery, something lurking beneath the surface. You noticed the way he would sometimes tense up when someone new walked into the bakery, his eyes scanning the room with a quick, practiced precision. He was always alert, always watching. And while he was kind to you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a part of his life you weren’t seeing.

One evening, after he’d been coming to the bakery for a couple of months, Bucky asked you to dinner. "Are you free tonight?" he asked, leaning casually against the counter. "There’s this place I know- Italian, best pasta in Brooklyn”.

You felt a flutter of excitement in your stomach. Though you’d been hoping for it, part of you never thought he actually would. You agreed, and that evening, he picked you up outside the bakery which you lived above. You had just had enough time after closing to rush upstairs and throw on one of your nicer dresses and doll yourself up a bit. Taking extra time to not mess up your eyeliner and making sure your hair lay nicer than you usually wore it for work.

When you opened your door to Bucky you didn’t know what to expect but wow did he clean up nicer than usual. His usual leather jacket replaced with a suit jacket, his hair had been combed back. You couldn’t help but let your eyes rake up and down his figure several times, drinking up the view in-front of you. You only broke out of his daze when he cleared his throat, feeling a warm flush come over you as your eyes snapped back to his face where he was now wearing a knowing smirk. Diverting your eyes away from his not being able to hold his stare any longer you noticed he was holding flowers in his hands which were still clad in leather, you needed to ask him about that.

The dinner was perfect. The restaurant was small, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, and the food was incredible. But more than that, being with Bucky felt… right. He was quieter than most men you’d dated, but there was something about his presence that put you at ease. His deep voice and rare smiles made your heart race in a way you hadn’t felt before. There was a warmth between the two of you, a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment.

Bucky and you gently strolled back your place it was a warm evening but the breeze had a chill to it leading goose bumps to prickle over the skin of your arms. Buckys keen eye noticed and without hesitation took his suit jacket off and draped it over your shoulders. Warmth engulfed you as did his scent of cologne. You looked up at him through your eyelashes and couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. In a sudden rush of confidence and adoration for the man next to you, you took his hand in yours after them brushing against each other many times. Your heart beat sped up significantly hoping he didn’t pull away, instead he took a tighter grip of your hand and swept his gloved thumb back and forth across the side of your hand. The air felt so much lighter and electrified at the same time.

When you finally reached your front door Bucky stopped behind you as you entered your key into the lock, turning it til the door creaked ajar. You turned back to Bucky now a step taller as you balanced on the door ledge. Neither of you said anything, you just stood there basking in the peace of each other’s presence. He brought a hand up to your face and pushed a loose hair behind your ear before taking hold of the side of your face, stroking your cheek. He slowly lent in as you allowed your eyes to close. His lips brushed yours gently once before he reconnected his lips with yours with a deeper more emotional kiss. You had leant in just a tad too much, lost in the moment causing your feet to wobble on the ledge but Bucky stuck his hand round your wasting steadying you. You were left breathless when you pulled apart but beamed in the afterglow of your first kiss with Bucky. He finally said goodnight to you adding on that he’ll see you in the morning as usual. He watched as you went inside and made sure you had locked the door before setting off for his house.

Once the door had shut you couldn’t help but lean against it, giddy with happiness at how well the date went. You leant your head on your shoulder feeling not your skin but Bucky’s blazer still draped over you. There was no point in trying to give it him back now he would be a few streets away by now it could wait til the morning instead you pressed your nose into the fabric breathing in the scent that followed Bucky everywhere, something that was just so very him.

-

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!!

Do you think I should jump straight into a few years down the line where they’re getting married or does anyone want to see the relationship develop a bit more?? Maybe even this chapter from his pov?

[fandom-cuties]

⋆༺Bucky Barnes Masterlist༻⋆

Each of these are Bucky Barnes x reader. Will only be specifying any unique pairings/AU’s.

Main Masterlist

Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦

Word Count| 600-900 ✦ | 1k+ ✪ | 2k+ ꕤ | 3k+ 𖤓 |Favorites ⏾

Series:

✿⛆❦ Whispers of the Gifted (Masterlist)

A collection of different one-shots with reader having different powers or abilities, each in their own universe. ⏾

✿ Earth’s Mightiest Headache (Masterlist)

A collection of different one-shots with an unhinged reader as a chaotic whirlwind of misplaced confidence, untraceable knowledge, and genuine good intentions. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader) ⏾

⛆ The One You Don’t See (Masterlist)

A story following you, the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included.

✿ Shapeshifting Shenanigans (Masterlist)

A collection of different one-shots with a shapeshifter reader causing various mischief, running into precarious situations, and being an absolute menace in feline form. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

✿⛆ His Sweetheart (Masterlist)

You were just the sunshine girl behind the counter: soft, sweet, and unaware that the quiet man who never missed his coffee order ran the city's darkest empire. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

⛆❦ The Cycle of My Love (Masterlist)

An ongoing story following you, someone who quietly drifts in and out of the Avengers’ lives, caught in a painful cycle of self-doubt, loneliness, and guilt. And yet every time you return, they still leave the door open, especially Bucky, who always sees you even when you can’t see yourself.

Multiple Parts:

𓉸 Obsessive Love & Devoted Possession

You and Bucky Barnes fall into a quiet but intense obsession with each other. While your love is sweet, watchful, and clingy beneath a gentle surface, Bucky’s affection turns darker and more possessive. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x Yandere!reader)

⛆ Even If You Forget & I’ll Still Love You

After a mission gone wrong, you lose all memory of your relationship with Bucky. Even though it pains him to the core with grief, he stays by your side and quietly swears he’ll always love you no matter what happens. ⏾

✿ Out of Time, Into Our Lives [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both. ⏾

𓉸 Crimson Waters, Stolen Hearts [Part 1] [Part 2]

Captain Bucky Barnes, a feared yet controlled pirate, captures you, the beloved daughter of a powerful trading magnate. But even though he claims it’s only for ransom, his eyes linger too long, his commands soften in your presence, and what began as strategy begins to feel like something he doesn’t want to let go of. (Pirate AU | Captain!Bucky Barnes x reader)

⛆ Borrowed Time [Part 1] [Part 2] [Alternate Ending]

You and Bucky fell in love quietly and deeply, the kind of love that felt like coming home after war. But when you were diagnosed with a terminal illness, you chose to protect him the only way you knew how: by leaving before he could watch you fade. (Bucky Barnes x terminally ill!reader)

✿❦ Worth Fighting For & All of the Time

After being diagnosed with polio in 1940s Brooklyn, you quietly endure cruel stares and mocking until Bucky Barnes steps in as the first to defend you, then to stay. Protective, possessive, and unexpectedly gentle, Bucky becomes the one constant in your life who never treats you like you're broken, only like you’re his. (Possessive!Bucky Barnes x reader)

𓉸 To Love and Lie [Part 1] [Part 2]

In 1940s Brooklyn, you're a devoted housewife blissfully unaware that your charming husband, Bucky Barnes, is secretly the head of HYDRA. As small cracks begin to show and your curiosity grows, Bucky works to gently steer you away from the truth while your friends Steve and Peggy, who know everything, say nothing. (1940s AU | Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x Housewife!reader)

✿⛆ Time, Space, and a Grumpy Soldier [Part 2]

You show up in Brooklyn and notice something is wrong, something time unraveling. You then rope a very confused, very grumpy Bucky Barnes into helping you fix it.  (Doctor Who AU | Bucky Barnes x reader)

𓉸 I See You & Under His Watch

You’ve been quietly following Bucky Barnes for months, convinced he hasn’t noticed your obsession. But when he finally confronts you one night, everything you thought you controlled begins to unravel. (Dark!Bucky Barnes x stalker!reader)

Fics/One-Shots:

✿ Prank Wars

You and Bucky Barnes start as chaotic, bickering frenemies locked in a prank war filled with glitter bombs, insults, and grudging teamwork before evolving into a sharp-edged romance. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader) 𖤓

✿ Covert Attraction

When S.H.I.E.L.D. pairs Bucky Barnes with you, a sharp-tongued, effortlessly flirtatious field agent, it's supposed to be a simple mission: infiltrate a suspected Hydra front in Prague by posing as a newlywed couple. The assignment is all business until it isn't. (Bucky Barnes x flirty!reader) 𖤓

⛆ Tangled Threads

You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader) 𖤓

✿ Drenched in Starlight

You’re a sharp-tongued chorus girl unexpectedly paired with studio golden boy Bucky Barnes for a rain-drenched musical number that sparks something real. As old flames, studio politics, and the glare of fame close in, you and Bucky fight to hold onto the love that bloomed quietly behind the scenes. (Singin’ in the Rain AU | Bucky Barnes x reader) 𖤓

⛆❦ Stayed Through It All

You’d spent most of your life convinced you were too quiet, too much, not enough for anyone to stay. But then Bucky Barnes started showing up in your life slowly and gradually became the first person who made you feel like you didn’t have to be anyone or anything else to be enough. 𖤓

❦ Simple Solace

You duck into a quiet bookstore one rainy day, desperate to escape the cameras. There, you meet a man who doesn’t recognize your face or ask for your name. 𖤓

𓉸 The Soft Thing He Shouldn’t Have Touched

You were supposed to be just another protection assignment for Bucky Barnes: high-risk, high-reward, but temporary. However, what begins begins as quiet protection turns into control and the man assigned to keep you alive becomes the one rewriting the boundaries of your freedom. (Bodyguard AU | Dark!Bucky Barnes x reader) 𖤓

⛆❦ A Walk Before the Storm

In the early 1800s, Bucky Barnes meets you, a quiet, guarded young woman, at a gala and becomes determined to uncover the truth behind your sadness. As he slowly earns your trust, he discovers you’re being forced into a marriage to save your family and he offers you a way out, if only you’ll take it. (1800s AU | Bucky Barnes x Noble!reader) 𖤓

⛆❦ The Day He Forgot

Your relationship with Bucky has been strained and when he’s called away on a mission the day before your birthday, you’re sure he won’t forget until the day passes with no message, no call, nothing at all. Wanting to escape the loneliness, you run into your ex who does remember your special day. 𖤓

✿ Sinful Devotion

You slip into Father Bucky Barnes’ church with a smile too sweet to be safe, hiding horns behind charm as you volunteer, help the children, and slowly worm your way into the hearts of everyone but him. While the others see you as a blessing, Bucky watches warily; because no matter how good you act, he can feel what you are... and he's starting to wonder why he doesn't want to stop you. (Priest!Bucky Barnes x reader) 𖤓

⛆𓉸 Winter’s Hold

You were warmth and life, a springtime soul who brought color back into Bucky Barnes' cold winter world. He loved you so fiercely, so fearfully, that his need to keep you safe turned into quiet control, wrapping love in restriction and walls he called protection. (Hades & Persephone inspired AU | Bucky Barnes x reader) 𖤓

✿⛆❦ Built From Loss

You and Bucky were never supposed to be serious, just something casual, simple, and unspoken. That is until a surprise pregnancy sent you spiraling and pushed him into a fury you didn’t expect. After heartbreak, healing, and choosing each other for real, you build a life together, one filled with grief, growth, and the family you never knew you both needed. 𖤓

✿ Thread by Thread

You were used to being admired for your confidence, but never truly seen until Bucky Barnes showed up with awkward sincerity and a horrendously lopsided crocheted animal that you couldn’t help but love. Slowly, stitch by stitch, he unraveled your doubts and earned your heart not with charm, but with quiet effort and genuine care. (1940s!Bucky Barnes x confident!reader) 𖤓

⛆❦ If I Don’t Come Back

You never really cared if you lived or died, throwing yourself into missions and neglecting your health while pretending everything was fine. But Bucky saw through the cracks, and when you pushed yourself too far, he finally forced you to stop running from the truth. (Bucky Barnes x suicidal!reader) 𖤓⏾

⛆❦ The Silence Between Us

When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader) ꕤ

⛆ The Solstitial Truce

You met him at the border between realms every solstice, simply watching the stars together. Two entities out of place, bound by quiet conversation and the kind of silence that speaks more than words ever could. (Demon!Bucky Barnes x Angel!reader) ꕤ

⛆❦ Exactly As You Are

You slowly form a tender, deeply emotional relationship with Bucky Barnes. Despite fears of being a burden, he stays, proving with quiet strength and unwavering presence that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be real. (Bucky Barnes x chronically ill!reader) ꕤ⏾

𓉸 Again

You live in a carefully constructed world with Bucky Barnes, unaware he’s been resetting your memories every time you try to leave him. Each time you begin to remember the truth, he gently erases it, cloaking control in affection. To you, it feels like love. To him, it is. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

⛆ The Kind That Leaves

You’re an emotionally distant, nomadic colleague known for disappearing without notice. Bucky Barnes, quiet and observant, notices anyway. He never asks you to stay, but he never stops waiting for you to come back and stay. And, for the first time, you’re starting to wonder if you actually might. ꕤ

✿ Just a Kiss

In the quiet moments between missions, Bucky Barnes finds clever (and sometimes painful) excuses to spend time with you, the medic who keeps him patched up and grounded. (Flirty!Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

✿ Misfire

Bucky Barnes accidentally botches a summoning ritual, leaving you, a laidback, powerful demon, permanently tethered to him and stranded in the mortal world. (Bucky Barnes x demon!reader) ꕤ

⛆ Until the Ship Went Down

You and Bucky Barnes board the Titanic as newlyweds, leaving behind a life of war and uncertainty in hopes of a peaceful new beginning in America. However, on the fourth night, the illusion of a new life shatters as the Titanic strikes the iceberg. (Titanic AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ⏾

❦ The Quiet Anchor

You’ve always been good at hiding your anxiety behind polite smiles and steady composure. Bucky Barnes notices what no one else does as his quiet presence becomes your anchor, a place where you don’t have to pretend and where being seen doesn’t feel like being exposed. ꕤ

✿⛆ A Love For All Time

When you accidentally time-travel to 1943 Brooklyn, you meet a young pre-war Bucky who doesn’t recognize you, but feels an uncanny, unshakable pull toward you. ꕤ

✿⛆ In Another Life

Bucky Barnes lost you during WWII, and for decades, he buried the grief deep beneath war, silence, and survival. When Wanda creates her new life in Westview, her overwhelming sorrow unknowingly taps into his own, conjuring a second pocket reality where you’re alive and waiting for him untouched by pain or time. (Wandavision AU | Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

⛆ Second Chances

After disappearing years ago without a proper explanation, Congressman Bucky Barnes returns and unexpectedly reunites with you, the one he left behind. As political obligations force your paths to cross again, old wounds resurface, but so does the quiet, aching possibility of a second chance at love. (Congressman!Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ

✿ Off Limits, Barnes

You’re Sam Wilson’s longtime best friend who has been crashing at his apartment for a while. But much to his dismay, Bucky Barnes starts falling for you and flirting in secret to avoid Sam’s constant threats. (Flirty!Bucky Barnes x reader) ꕤ⏾

⛆❦ When You’re Gone

After leaving Bucky to protect him from the weight of your chronic illness, you realize that being without him only makes everything harder. When he shows up at your door, you finally let yourself believe that love doesn’t mean being perfect. ꕤ

✿⛆❦ Trigger Point

When Hydra kidnaps your five-year-old daughter, Bucky unleashes the Winter Soldier to tear through their base with brutal precision, annihilating anyone in his path. But the moment he sees her scared and hurt, all that fury melts away as he returns to being her father: soft, broken, and holding her like she’s his entire world. (Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Reader) ꕤ

✿ The Trouble with Sweetness

You were just being sweet without realizing the effect you had on Bucky, driving him quietly out of his mind. When he finally snaps and confronts you, all that tension explodes into a heated confession and a kiss that leaves you breathless and shaken in the best way. ꕤ

✿⛆❦ Something Like A Family

You and Bucky, bonded by your shared past as HYDRA survivors, rescue a silent little girl from the ruins of a base, slowly earning her trust and protecting her fiercely. ꕤ

𓉸 Because He Always Knows

You're close friends with Bucky Barnes, trusting his quiet, protective nature. What you don’t know is that Bucky is secretly obsessed with you. And he’ll do anything to keep you safe, close, and his. (Yandere Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪⏾

✿❦ Love Letters in the Smoke

During his rehabilitation, Bucky writes anonymous letters to process his thoughts. One night, he drops one at your circus campfire by mistake. You write back as a pen-pal romance begins. (Bucky Barnes x aerialist!reader) ✪

⛆❦ Stay for Everything

After a terrible doctor’s appointment where you were dismissed and invalidated, Bucky doesn’t push you to talk. Instead, he brings you home, quietly cooks your favorite comfort food, and offers gentle presence. (Bucky Barnes x chronically ill!reader) ✪

✿ Wounded Pride

When Bucky overhears you referring to him as not exactly being a badass, he over dramatically makes sure you don’t forget what was said. ✪⏾

⛆❦ Quiet in the Storm

After experiencing a sudden flashback, you spiral into panic. However, Bucky stays calm and gently grounds you, reminding you that you're safe. He offers comfort without pressure, reassuring you that you're not broken and never have to face things alone. ✪

[NSFW, MINORS DNI] Yearning Warmth

The first time Bucky initiates something more with you. ✪

⛆❦ Hold Me Still

You spend the day convincing yourself you're fine, pushing through crowded spaces and overstimulation until the quiet of home cracks you open. (Bucky Barnes x anxious!reader) ✪

✿ Stars, Stripes, and Secret Birthdays

Steve Rogers once claimed July 4th was his birthday in a moment of patriotic panic and now, decades later, he's trapped in an annual circus of fireworks and singing cakes while Bucky Barnes, who knows his real birthday, watches it all unfold alongside you with ruthless amusement. ✪

⛆ Right Through the Fire

Caught in the middle of the Winter Soldier's ambush on Captain America, you barely survive after he unexpectedly spares your life during the chaos. Now recovering in a secure facility, haunted and confused, you can't stop thinking about the way he looked at you. (The Winter Soldier x reader) ✪

✿ Loops and Stitches

You surprise Bucky with a handmade sweater and matching mittens, wrapping him in warmth and love in a way he's never known before. As snow falls and your fingers stay laced together, he quietly realizes that your care is the softest, safest thing he's ever had. ✪

✿ She Already Chose

You set up a traditional doljabi ceremony for your daughter to choose her future path, laying out symbolic items for her to pick from; and what she ends up choosing matters more to you and Bucky than anything else. (Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!reader) ✪

✿ Not Just a Friend

You’re a middle school teacher whose students are convinced you’re secretly dating the quiet, protective man who brings you coffee, Bucky Barnes. When a fire breaks out at school, Bucky races through the chaos to reach you, and neither of you can deny what’s been growing between you ever since. (Bucky Barnes x teacher!reader) ✪

✿ The Diamond in His Den

You stride into Bucky Barnes's world unbothered, confident, and completely unfazed by his power as you spend his money like it’s yours, daring him to stop you. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Unbothered!reader) ✪

⛆❦ When The World Closes In

A walk through the city turns overwhelming when fans and paparazzi push too close as you freeze, caught in the grip of old trauma you never told Bucky about. After pulling you to safety, he listens without judgment and promises he’ll always protect you no matter what. ✪

✿ A Voice He Never Expected

After Bucky walks in on you singing alone, he's completely blown away and instantly becomes your loudest and most shameless fan. Now, you can’t go a day without him melting at the sound of your voice and begging to hear more of it. ✪

✿ Win Over Alpine

You try everything to win over the cat who clearly only adores Bucky, but your persistence finally earns her approval on her terms. Just as you settle into the victory, Alpine flips the script. ✪

✿ Nickname War

After hearing you call him a bunch of cute nicknames and giving him a heart attack saying his actual name, Bucky tries desperately (and hilariously) to come up with pet names of his own to compete, only to realize it’s harder than it looks. (Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!reader) ✪

✿ Catch Me If You Can

You’re the mysterious biker who keeps outrunning Bucky at night—he’s convinced it’s some cocky guy trying to show off, only to find out it’s you, the newest Avenger, and he’s been roasting you to your face for days. (Biker!Bucky Barnes x Biker!reader) ✪

✿ Convert Me Not

You’re part of a cheerful, slightly chaotic cult and keep trying to recruit your grumpy-but-loyal friend Bucky Barnes, who wants nothing to do with it until he reluctantly attends a meeting just to shut you up. (Bucky Barnes x cult member!reader) ✪

✿ The Fire He Chose

You’re a fiery, attention-demanding wife in the mob world, never afraid to storm into meetings or make a scene when your husband is late, but he wouldn’t have you any other way. (Mob!Bucky Barnes x reader) ✪

⛆❦ Failsafe

You were the Winter Soldier’s kill switch, programmed to be the one person he could never hurt. When you call him with your dying breath, Bucky doesn’t recognize your voice, but something deep within him remembers you. ✪

Pout and Protect

You leave Bucky alone for three minutes to make toast, only to return and find him dramatically pouting like you’ve committed a grave betrayal. Once fed and cuddled, he refused to let you go, guarding you like a smug dragon from anyone who dared interrupt. ✪

✿ Date Prank

You prank your boyfriend Bucky Barnes by texting him not to forget “date night,” even though no such date exists. ✦

✿ Arm Dilemma

Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader) ✦

✿ Cozy Morning

You wake up early and surprise Bucky with breakfast in bed, enjoying his sleepy smile and soft cuddles as the two of you ease into the morning together. 

✿ Too Hot to Handle (Literally)

You nearly pass out in the shower after accidentally turning it into a steam chamber from hell, blissfully unaware until your body gives out. Bucky finds you just in time, pulls you out, and takes care of you while lovingly scolding you for almost boiling yourself alive. ✦

Blurbs/Drabbles: (599 words or less.)

✿ Left Alone with the Air Fryer

You leave him home alone with a new air fryer and strict instructions not to use it. He does it anyways.

✿ Target Acquired

You go to Target with your supersoldier boyfriend for one item. You never would have thought the man who survived hell and back would succumb to the Target effect.

✿ Haunted House

You take Bucky to a haunted house. While you add dramatic flare to the experience, he is completely unphased.

✿ Hoarder of Warmth

You wake up freezing in the middle of the night, only to find that Bucky has hoarded every single blanket on the bed. But when you try to reclaim even one, he pulls you under him with a wicked grin and proves he's the warmest thing you’ll ever need.

✿ Operation: Get Up and Run

Bucky tries to drag you out of bed at 6 a.m. for a morning jog, but you stubbornly refuse, choosing cozy cuddles and warm blankets over cardio.

✿ That’s My Spot

Bucky catches you cuddling an oversized pillow in bed and gets adorably jealous.

✿ Grumpy in the Morning

You wake up bright and chatty while Bucky is a grumpy, blanket-hoarding zombie who refuses to let you leave the bed. Despite the protests, he secretly loves your morning rambling, just not enough to let go of the covers.

[fandom-cuties]

⋆༺ His Sweetheart ༻⋆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader | Mafia AU

Summary: You were just the sunshine girl behind the counter: soft, sweet, and unaware that the quiet man who never missed his coffee order ran the city's darkest empire. But when blood stains his knuckles and your world begins to blur with his, love becomes the most dangerous thing either of you have ever touched.

Disclaimer & A/N: This is gonna be a mix of plot & one-shots, mostly the latter. It depends and is subject to change. If you want to be added to the tag list, just ask in the comments or tag me somewhere!!!

Taglist: @hits-different-cause-its-you @muchwita @je-suis-prest-rachel @greatenthusiasttidalwave @the-galaxy-fiend @riot-sounds @starrysummitmercenary

Main Masterlist

Keys | Fluff ✿ | Angst ⛆ | Dark 𓉸 | Hurt/Comfort ❦

Main Story:

⪼----➢ Chapter 1: His Soft Spot

⪼----➢ Chapter 2: His Dangerous Love

⪼----➢ Chapter 3: His World

⪼----➢ Chapter 4: His Home

⪼----➢ Chapter 5: His Compromise

Extra:

✿ Soft Shopping Spree

Bucky notices you never spend his money or let yourself want anything, so he plans a full day of spoiling you determined to show you what you deserve.

❦𓉸 Darling of the Devil

You accompany Bucky Barnes to a high-stakes party, where your presence turns heads, raises questions, and quietly shifts power dynamics just by existing at his side.

✿ Steady Company

When Bucky has to leave early in the morning, leaving you alone for the majority of the day; you manage to find company in his right hand man.

✿❦ His to Guard

After hiding your pregnancy from your husband for a while, Bucky, fiercely territorial and quietly devoted, turns every moment into proof that you and the baby are his entire world.

❦ Still Here, Still His

You hit your head in the kitchen, and Bucky immediately goes into full protective mode: carrying you, demanding a full checkup, and refusing to leave your side. Even after the doctor clears you for rest, he stays close, quietly shaken and fiercely attentive, as if he’s guarding something irreplaceable.

✿ Time for You

You’re hesitant to interrupt Bucky’s work for the third time in a day, but he makes it clear he’d always make time for you.

[fandom-cuties]

The Days We Built Out of Time

Summary: In the years that follow, you and Bucky slowly fall in love, build a life together with four children, and handle storms of joy, chaos, and sadness. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 5.2k+

Disclaimer & A/N: Fluff. ANGST. Hurt/Comfort. Lots of time skips. Other stuff to avoid spoilers. I hope everyone likes this as much as I did. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 3

Things didn’t change all at once. That would’ve made it too easy.

But they changed.

It was in the way Bucky started showing up more often. Not just for missions, not just in the training room, but everywhere. In the kitchen at midnight. On the common room couch, pretending to scroll through news he wasn’t really reading. By your side when the silence between you didn’t need filling.

Neither of you talked about her. Not right away. The grief was too tender, too strange. Like mourning a ghost of someone who hadn’t died, a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

But you felt her. In Alpine, who sat by the door every evening for weeks after, waiting. In the hallway, where you sometimes caught the echo of a laugh that wasn’t yours. And in the mornings, when you and Bucky made scrambled eggs out of habit, not hunger. You always made too much. You never threw it away.

One morning, you found Bucky at the window, holding that same little mouse toy she’d left behind. The string was even more frayed now, Alpine had dragged it around like a treasure for days.

You walked over, leaning against the frame beside him. He didn’t look at you, but his voice was soft.

“She looked like you,” He said. “Same smile. Same way of raising one eyebrow when she thought I was being ridiculous.”

You smiled. “She had your timing. That dry, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sarcasm.”

He laughed once under his breath. “Yeah.”

Silence again. But this one was warmer. Safe. You let it linger, before asking softly.

“Do you think we’ll ever see her again?”

He was quiet a long time.

And then he said, “I think… if she’s real, and that future’s real, then maybe we already will.”

You turned toward him, brow raised.

“She said not to wait too long,” He murmured. “And I don’t want to.”

You blinked. “Bucky…”

“I’m not saying we rush anything.” He turned to face you fully now, the weight of too many years and too many almosts settling in his shoulders. “I just mean… I want to find out, with you.”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding with a soft smile.

“Okay.”

And that was all it took.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t fate snapping into place. Love didn’t sweep in like a storm.

Instead, it came in like fog. Soft and gradual, settling into the corners of your lives without either of you noticing at first.

It started with quiet company. You found yourselves sharing space more often. Not really talking, not planning anything, just… existing together. Reading at opposite ends of the same couch. Sitting on the floor while Alpine played between you. Making tea in the late evening and watching the sun set.

You started swapping small comforts. You kept an extra coffee mug in your cabinet. The black one chipped at the rim, the one Bucky always reached for. He started leaving the lights on in the hallway when you came back late, muttering something about “tripping hazards” despite always waiting in the chair until he heard your key turn.

There were no confessions. No grand, sweeping moments. Just slow trust.

You noticed he laughed more when you were around. It wasn’t the full, careless kind. Not yet at least, but the corners of his mouth tugged easier. His shoulders weren’t always braced. He started sitting beside you instead of across from you, like the distance between you had shrunk without asking permission.

He’d lean in just slightly when you spoke. He’d bump your shoulder with his when you made a joke. He’d start telling you things he hadn’t told anyone else. Like about the noise in his head, the quiet in his heart, and the weight he’d been carrying for decades.

You listened. You didn’t try to fix it. You just let him be seen.

And Bucky… Bucky made space for you, too. When you were too tired to speak, he didn’t push. When you needed to cry, he didn’t offer excuses or explanations. He just held out his hand and stayed close until the storm passed. He remembered things: how you liked your toast, the exact way you flinched when someone raised their voice, which music calmed you best when sleep wouldn’t come.

One night, weeks after the girl vanished, you found him on the balcony with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked like a man balancing on the edge of something, grief maybe. Or maybe hope.

You didn’t say anything. You just wrapped another blanket around your shoulders and leaned into him. He didn’t speak. He just shifted gently, so your head could rest against his.

You both stayed like that until the sky turned dark and the stars began to appear.

After that night, something changed.

You started finding excuses to touch, to be close to him. Your hand would brush his when you passed him the remote or your knee would bump against his on the couch. He didn’t flinch anymore. He didn’t retreat. His fingers started lingering just a little longer on your back when he passed by. His voice softened when he said your name.

You weren’t just comforting each other. You were choosing each other. You learned each other slowly. Not just the surface things, but the deep ones. What made the other shut down. What silence meant. What love looked like when spoken in gestures instead of words.

And somewhere in the years that followed, without ceremony or flashing lights, the “I love you”s slipped in. Not all at once, but in small moments.

Like when he sat at the edge of the bed one night, rubbing a hand over his face after a nightmare, and you handed him a glass of water, kissed his temple, and didn’t ask questions. Or when you walked into the kitchen and found him swaying gently to an old jazz song, holding Alpine like she was a baby. He looked up, grinned sheepishly, and said, “Don’t tell Sam.”

It crept in the cracks. It filled them. And you thought: This is how it starts. This is how it lasts.

You moved in together one late fall, after months of unofficial sleepovers and his things slowly multiplying in your apartment: a second toothbrush, his dog-eared paperbacks, and his hoodies mysteriously appearing in your laundry basket.

He never asked to move in and you never asked him to.

You just came home one day to find him fixing the sink and said, “Is this your way of paying rent?”

He simply grinned and said, “Guess that means I live here now.”

You picked out a little place just outside the city. Not too far from the team, but far enough to hear birds in the morning. The kind of house with creaky floorboards and a porch swing you built together, badly, and kept anyway because it tilted just enough to be charming.

The first night there, you sat on the floor with takeout containers, unpacked books, and no curtains. He looked around and said, “Feels like ours.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder and replied, “That’s because it is.”

You weren’t expecting it.

The proposal, that is.

You and Bucky had talked about forever, sure. In the quiet, in-between hours wrapped in blankets with your legs tangled, speaking without fear. There were promises in the way he looked at you. In the way he reached for your hand even in sleep.

But he never rushed. He always let the love grow like it needed to. Warm and steady.

Therefore, the proposal came not with a grand speech or some elaborate spectacle. It came on a Sunday morning.

You were in pajamas, hair tied up, reading the news on your tablet with Alpine curled against your leg. The smell of pancakes lingered from breakfast. Bucky was puttering in the kitchen, humming something low and probably old.

He walked in, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and knelt beside the couch.

You didn’t even register what he was doing until he held up a small ring. It looked handmade. Delicate, brushed metal. The stone in the center was a simple pale blue, like his eyes when he was soft with sleep.

He looked at you like he had all the time in the world. Like he’d already chosen you a hundred times before.

“I’ve loved you in every way I know how. And I want to keep learning. I want to build the rest of everything with you.”

You sat up slowly.

“Marry me,” He then quickly added. “If you want to.”

You blinked once. Twice.

Then: “Bucky, are you seriously proposing in socks and a coffee-stained T-shirt?”

He smirked. “If I waited for the right outfit, I’d chicken out.”

You leaned forward, took his face in both hands, and kissed him so hard the ring nearly fell from his hold.

“Yes,” You breathed.

He rested his forehead against yours and let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”

“Of course yes.”

Alpine meowed loudly between you both.

You didn’t want anything over-the-top. Neither did he.

So it was just the two of you and a handful of people who mattered most. Sam gave a toast that made you cry. Steve cried through the ceremony but denied it. Natasha smirked when Bucky almost dropped the ring. Wanda caught the bouquet with a knowing look and a wink. The others watching proudly, happy another of them found love.

Bucky wore a navy suit with clean lines. His hair was slicked back, but the same old dog tags were present and tucked under his collar. Meanwhile, you wore something soft and flowing with little sewn stars in the hem because he said once you reminded him of constellations. Like something he was always trying to find his way back to.

When you walked toward him, Bucky looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle he still didn’t think he deserved. His hands were steady when he took yours, but his voice cracked when he said his vows.

“I didn’t think I’d get this,” He whispered. “Not in this life.”

You squeezed back. “You do. You get all of it.”

“I don’t have a lot of firsts,” He told you quietly. “But this… this is my favorite.”

Your vows were messy and tearful. You forgot half of what you meant to say and had to laugh through the rest. He kept glancing down like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And when you kissed him, Bucky held you like he never planned to let go and kissed you like he’d been waiting for years. And maybe he had.

You found out you were pregnant on a quiet Tuesday.

You waited until after dinner to tell him, too nervous to find the words, so you just handed him the test and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Bucky held it in his hands for a long time, saying nothing. His thumb brushed over the faint pink lines again and again. He looked stunned, hollowed out.

You weren’t sure what that meant.

And then, so softly you barely heard him: “I get to be there from the beginning this time.”

You cried. He held you so close you could feel his heartbeat echoing in your spine.

The pregnancy was hard sometimes. Your body tired, your heart terrified of how deeply you already loved someone you hadn’t met yet. But Bucky never missed a single appointment. He stayed up late with you through cravings, through nerves, and through every little kick.

And when your baby was born, when he screamed for the first time and Bucky’s face broke open like sunrise, you knew.

Steven James Barnes.

Born with lungs full of determination and fists already clenched like a fighter. The moment Bucky held him, held this small, furious miracle, he stared down at him like time had cracked open.

When Steve met him for the first time, he didn’t speak either. He just held that baby in his arms, eyes full and voice thick when he finally whispered:

“You gave him my name.”

Bucky nodded.

“You gave me back my life. Seemed fair.”

Steven grew fast. He had your fire and Bucky’s eyes. Curious, bold, loyal. Always the first to throw himself into a sibling’s defense, even if it was just against a scary vacuum cleaner.

And throughout it all, Bucky? Bucky was all in.

Baby monitor clutched like a comms device. Diaper bag packed with military precision. He read Steven bedtime stories like they were classified briefings. He paced with him through fevers, nightmares, tantrums; never missing a beat.

He never once complained. He just loved quietly and fiercely.

“Steven’s gonna be better than me,” He said one night, watching him sleep. “That’s the whole point, right? Make sure they don’t carry the same ghosts.”

You reached over, threading your fingers through his. “And he’ll have you to keep them away.”

A year or two later, when life had settled into something beautiful and real, your first girl arrived.

She was gentler, quieter, but sharp. Watched more than she spoke. She clung to Bucky like a second shadow and slept best curled in the hollow of his arm.

She looked just enough like that girl from years ago to make your heart ache. But now, you didn’t fear it. She was yours in every way that mattered.

Steven adored her instantly. He named her favorite stuffed animal and promised her cookies in exchange for her blocks. He stood guard over her crib. Declared himself “first responder” for baby cries.

Bucky just kept looking at her like he knew. Like somehow, deep down, he remembered.

Even so, your family didn’t stop growing.

The morning started with the chaos only a house full of Barnes children could bring.

Pillow forts had been overtaken by war games. One sibling shouted something about spies; another had hidden Alpine in a basket as “hostage,” and the cat was not pleased. You stepped around building blocks and toy shields, holding a cup of tea like it was a peace treaty.

“Steven!” You called, raising the mug like a white flag. “We don’t hold Alpine for ransom, remember?”

A mop of tangled hair peeked out from behind the couch.

“She walked into the base willingly,” Your son declared solemnly. “We merely questioned her loyalty.”

You sighed and gave him the look. He groaned in defeat and unzipped the basket, and Alpine padded out with wounded pride.

From the hallway came soft, measured footsteps.

You turned and there she was. Not the stranger from years ago, not a time traveler with secrets. But your eldest daughter. Seven now. Barefoot, braid trailing down her back, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized shirts as pajamas and holding a book half as big as her face.

She blinked sleepily at the commotion, then glanced at you and smiled. Small, crooked, and familiar. The same smile she’d given you before, when neither of you had known why it felt so natural.

“Morning,” She murmured.

“Hey, baby.” You brushed her hair back and kissed her temple. “You slept in.”

“Had a weird dream,” She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “Felt like déjà vu.”

Bucky came in from the kitchen, coffee in one hand, his other already reaching for her instinctively. She leaned into him without a word, wrapping both arms around him and resting her cheek against his chest.

He bent down, kissed the top of her head. “Good weird or bad weird?”

She hesitated. “…Both?”

The other kids were too busy constructing a “shield launcher” out of couch cushions to notice the stillness in the room. But you and Bucky noticed.

You both looked at her and you both remembered. The girl in the hallway. Her sleepy grin. Her wide, knowing eyes. Her quiet heartbreak when she’d said goodbye.

And now, she was here.

The memory of that event wasn’t sharp, not anymore. Time had blurred the edges. Neither of you had talked about it in years not since she was born. It felt impossible to explain, impossible to believe.

But when she tilted her head and gave you both that same mischievous, unguarded smile, you knew.

You had really met her before. She didn’t remember it. Not really. But maybe… some part of her did.

Because she looked between you and Bucky now, then glanced toward her siblings causing a ruckus and said, offhandedly:

“I dreamt this, that we were all here. You two. Me.”

She paused. “Even Alpine.”

Bucky’s hand stilled on her back.

You said gently, “What happened in the dream?”

She shrugged. “I was older. And I… I think I missed you.”

A moment passed. Then she pulled back, brightening like she always did when she decided she’d thought too hard about something.

“Anyway,” She said, flipping the book open. “Can you read me the story about haunted space pirates again?”

And like that, the moment moved on.

Later, after the kids had fallen asleep in a tangle of limbs and blankets, you and Bucky sat on the porch swing.

You held hands without needing to say why.

“She really doesn’t remember,” You said softly.

“She doesn’t have to,” Bucky murmured. “She’s here.”

You looked out across the quiet yard, moonlight silvering the grass. The wind was warm. The house behind you pulsed with life and love and noise. And in the middle of it all was her, yours.

The girl from the future. Now exactly where she belonged.

The years moved fast. Faster than you ever thought they would.

But they were full, achingly full. And Bucky, for all his years spent frozen in time, finally started measuring life not by wounds, but by moments.

And those moments were everything.

Like when Steven was nine and he made his first “shield.” It was a pizza pan, dented from being used as a Frisbee too many times, painted red, white, and blue with permanent markers. You found him in the backyard with it as he held a mop like a spear.

“He says he’s gonna be a ‘peace soldier,’” Your daughter whispered to you from the kitchen window. “Like Uncle Steve and Dad but without punching.”

Bucky snorted into his coffee.

“He’ll still punch someday,” You murmured. “Just diplomatically.”

Later that week, you caught Steven trying to sneak out in a cardboard costume to patrol the neighborhood. You and Bucky stayed near the porch steps to watch until he tripped over the hose and blamed Alpine.

Or another time when the twins were walking now, and your house had stopped functioning like a normal space.

Someone was always crawling under the table, someone else scaling the cabinets like a mountain goat. One child asked for Bucky’s knife “just to look at it” while another sobbed because they couldn’t make their toy train “phase through walls like Vision.”

Bucky looked at you one night as he held a screaming toddler under one arm and a bottle of Pepto in the other and said deadpan:

“I think we’re outnumbered.”

You laughed until you cried. You’d never felt so full.

Five years passed in a blink.

Your son turned fourteen and started asking about being a superhero already. Your daughter started sketching out inventions of her own and trying to create them. One of the twins declared she would be the next Iron Man, but with better color coordination while the other found an old watch of Bucky’s and took it apart just to put it back together perfectly.

And you,

You were still you.

Still the heart of the house. Still the calm in the storm. Still the one they all turned to without thinking. The keeper of scraped knees and burnt cookies and early morning talks under too many blankets.

But lately, Bucky started watching you more closely.

You’d say you were just tired. Just a little sore. He’d nod. Trust you. But his eyes always lingered.

It started with small things. You were always the one up first, putting the kettle on, checking on whoever had wandered into your bed in the night, or moving around the quiet house like morning was something sacred.

But lately, Bucky was the one making the tea. Noticed it when he stood in the kitchen waiting, and you didn’t come. The first time, he figured you’d just slept in. He didn’t question it. Carried the mugs back anyway, set yours by your usual spot, waited to hear the sound of your footsteps padding through the hall.

You didn’t come.

Then it happened again. And again. You said you were tired.

“It’s nothing, honey. I’ve just been running around too much. It’s been a week.”

And it had been. Kids with fevers. Broken furniture from indoor superhero games. A trip to the city for a check-up that left everyone overstimulated and cranky. You’d smiled through all of it and kept everything moving like you always did.

But that smile… it had started to falter around the edges.

The next clue came when you forgot the grocery list.

Not just misplaced, forgotten. You stared at the fridge like it was supposed to write it for you, frowning in that quiet way you always did when your brain refused to keep up with your will.

“You okay?” He asked softly.

“I think I need to write things down more,” You muttered, and laughed like it was funny. “I’m going to turn into my own mom.”

He said nothing and simply kissed your cheek.

But he started watching. He noticed the way you held your side when you stood too fast. The way you let the kids climb all over you until suddenly, you didn’t. Until you started sitting out more. Hand on your stomach. Or your back. Or your head.

He asked once, “Should we go in?”

You waved it off. “I’ve got a weird bug or something. Just tired.”

You always said just tired.

And he didn’t push. He didn’t want to smother you. But the fear in his chest was a quiet, growing thing. A seed that had planted itself after all those years of learning what it meant to lose something. What it meant to feel a silence that lasted forever.

So he continued watching. He held your hand more often. He found himself counting your breaths while you slept. He memorized how your voice sounded when you called his name, just in case there came a day when you didn’t anymore.

One night, it was just the two of you.

The kids were finally asleep. The living room was littered with little bits of invention and toys from the day, scraps of wire, half-finished Lego sculptures, drawings on small chalkboards. The TV was playing low as the moonlight came in soft, spilling across your face.

You were curled against him, quieter than usual, eyes fluttering with the edge of sleep.

Bucky held you tighter than he meant to.

“You’re hurting,” He murmured. “Aren’t you?”

You were silent for a long time.

Then: “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He swallowed hard. “You won’t.”

“I didn’t want them to be scared.”

He closed his eyes.

“They won’t be,” He said. “They’ve got me.”

You laughed once, too softly. He rested his forehead against yours. His voice cracking.

“We’ll go in tomorrow.”

“…Okay.”

He held you tighter than usual through that night. Because somehow, without needing to say it, you both already knew what was to come.

The word treatable came first. Then: slowed, not stopped. Then finally, the one they all danced around like it was a cliff edge… Terminal.

It came wrapped in smiles, soft voices, and long timelines. But Bucky heard it for what it was. The beginning of goodbye.

But the house didn’t fall quiet overnight.

It happened in waves.

At first, life looked the same. You still smiled through breakfast, still tucked hair behind ears and kissed cheeks and pressed bandages onto scraped knees. You still hummed around the kitchen sometimes, still smoothed wrinkles out of Bucky’s shirt collar with a hand that trembled more now.

But the air had shifted. Like someone had opened the windows too wide in winter.

The kids didn’t know the details.

Only that something was wrong. And that their father, who never raised his voice and never missed a school drop-off, had stopped sleeping through the night. Who had taken to memorizing your favorite mug, your slipper placement, your cough patterns.

You tried to keep things light. Made jokes about “boring old people pills.” Laughed off Bucky trailing you room to room like he was on some invisible leash.

“I’m not made of glass,” You said once, swatting at his arm.

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you like you were made of time instead. Fragile. Precious. Finite.

The youngest two started asking questions. They didn’t know how to phrase them yet. The closest was:

“Why is Mom always tired?”

Bucky crouched down, hands on small shoulders, forcing his voice not to shake.

“Because her body’s fighting really hard right now,” He explained gently. “And that makes her extra sleepy. But she’s still here.”

Still here. Those words clung to everything.

Meanwhile, your daughter stopped building things for a while. Then quietly started again. But different this time. Not gadgets or play-weapons.

But comfort items. A heating pad you didn’t have to plug in. A headband with cooling gel beads. A remote that paused every speaker in the house at once so you could rest. Even if some of them didn’t work perfectly, you accepted each one with the proudest smile. You called them genius. Your voice was softer now sure, but still full of pride.

Bucky kissed the side of your head when you weren’t looking.

“She gets that from you,” He murmured.

You rolled your eyes. “She gets it from love.”

However, Steven took it the hardest. He didn’t say much. Just became… vigilant. Like if he stayed good, if he kept his grades up, if he helped with the dishes and fed Alpine and read bedtime stories to the twins, maybe the world wouldn’t take you.

He didn’t cry in front of anyone. But Bucky found him once in the hallway, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles had gone white. He didn’t speak.

Bucky just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and let silence do the holding.

Throughout everything, you tried to stay up late some nights like you used to. Curled next to Bucky on the couch, as the firelight danced across both your faces. But your body, traitorous thing that it had become, began giving out earlier.

Some nights, Bucky would carry you to bed.

Some nights, he’d just sit there after you’d fallen asleep; your head against his chest, your breath shallow as he’d memorize the weight of you again.

Your laugh. Your warmth. Your heartbeat pressed close to his.

He never stopped being grateful. Even as grief slowly moved in like fog. He still thanked the universe for you. Every single night.

Until it took you away.

It rained the morning of your funeral. Not a storm. Nothing dramatic. Just a slow, gray drizzle. Gently falling, like it was trying not to interrupt. It was like the sky mourned you softly. No thunder. Just the kind of quiet that gets into your bones.

The kids sat in the front row, pressed in close beside Bucky like they were trying to hold each other up with the weight of their grief. Small hands in his. Shoulders tucked beneath his arms. No one cried loudly.

It wasn’t a loud kind of grief. It was the kind that hollowed things out.

The kind that made the world feel tilted, just slightly, like everyone was pretending not to notice that something vital had slipped out of place and wasn’t coming back.

There were flowers, but you never were a fan of flowers at funerals.

So they brought other things.

Letters. Little toys. A book you always read at night. A sketch one of the kids had drawn, stick figures with big smiling eyes.

And in the center of it all: your wedding ring looped around a ribbon.

Bucky didn’t wear his suit jacket that day. He couldn’t. Not without your hands tugging the sleeves right, smoothing the collar. So he stood there in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back, jaw clenched like he was holding in the ocean.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. His silence was the loudest thing there.

Afterward, the house was full of people trying to help.

Steve came. Wanda, Natasha, even Tony too. Sam kept the kids entertained in the backyard for hours. Everyone brought food. No one touched it. The house smelled like casseroles and clean laundry and the faint trace of your perfume on your pillow.

Bucky sat in your spot on the couch and didn’t move for almost an hour.

And at night, it was even worse.

He waited for your footsteps out of habit. Waited for your voice in the dark. Sometimes he swore he could hear it, the soft hum of you brushing your teeth or the quiet click of the porch light.

But the house didn’t answer him anymore.

He folded your cardigan and left it on your pillow. He put your coffee mug back on the shelf, even though no one else would touch it. He whispered “good night” to the empty half of the bed.

The kids also changed in small, invisible ways.

Your daughter got quieter. The oldest got louder, like he was trying to take up the space you left behind. The twins asked fewer questions but clung more. At bedtime. At the sound of thunder. At the way Bucky hesitated before reading your favorite story.

He never got through it. Not all the way. Not yet.

When someone would come over to help babysit, Bucky took to walking late at night. Through the neighborhood. Past the trees you used to point out in the fall. Past the shop where you used to get extra muffins for the kids when no one was looking.

He’d walk until he could breathe again. Until the ache in his chest dulled just enough to let him go home.

And of course, there were photos. You’d insisted on them. Snapshots of life, pinned to the fridge and framed on the mantle or tucked into books, pockets, and memory.

You laughing. You braiding someone’s hair. You and Bucky at the kitchen table, arms tangled, foreheads pressed close, with that soft look that only ever belonged to you two.

He didn’t look at them often. He couldn’t yet. It was still too close. Still too raw.

But he never moved them. Never turned them face down.

You were gone. But you were here, too. In their faces. In their voices. In the quiet way your family still knew how to love.

And due to that love, it may have been why your eldest daughter grew more obsessed with her inventions; more specifically, time travel. Working with others to find a way to see you once again.

[fandom-cuties]

Dreamscape

summary: When Bucky falls under the spell of a Djinn, the line between fantasy and reality blurs. In order to survive, he must fight his way back to the real world - even if it costs him everything he's ever wanted. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 11.1k warnings: suicidal thinking/behavior (but only within the context of forcing a dream to end, no graphic descriptions, fades to black – if you have questions, please ask!), angst with a happy ending, bucky needs to learn he’s worthy of love!! a/n: Is this based off that one Djinn episode in supernatural from like 13 years ago? Yes. Did this idea stick with me for over a decade even though I stopped watching spn after season 11? Also yes.

Bucky woke to the smell of apple pie and fragrance wafting in from the kitchen over the light hums of La Vie en Rose crackling on the radio. He straightened his back, eyes narrowing upon the lace table cloth and generational china laid neatly upon the dining table. Familiar scratches on the floorboard under his feet, chips on the edge of his plate from when he’d dropped it as a child, soft yellow wallpaper lining the room.

He blinked a few times, unable to recall how he’d ended up in his mother’s dining room.

“You doing okay there, Buck?” Steve asked from his left, chuckling as he took another bite of mashed potatoes. He was dressed in his formal military uniform – olive green overcoat, golden buttons, and a display of colorful pins against his left chest. It tugged at his broad shoulders, the fabric straining against muscle.

Bucky nodded wordlessly, though there was a strange twist in his stomach. It was as if something sat on the tip of his tongue, an idea filtering in the headspace above the clouds he couldn’t reach, sitting just beyond his fingers. He looked down and found himself dressed in the same uniform as Steve. Olive green. Golden buttons. A bright display of his service pinned to the jacket.

A sharp pain burned in his left shoulder and Bucky pressed the heel of his palm into the muscle along his collar to massage the tender tissue. A slight jolt caught him off guard when the muscle gave way and he dug his fingers against the tension, against the tissue on his shoulder. He’d been expecting resistance – a solid block preventing him from attending to the nerves under his skin – though he wasn’t sure why.

When the pain subsided, Bucky looked down to find an empty plate staring back at him where he’d assumed his meal had been. He didn’t remember what he’d eaten, but he supposed he must have enjoyed it. There was barely a crumble left behind. Still, his stomach growled.

“You boys doing alright?”

A woman walked into the living room with a frilly pink apron wrapped at her waist and wrinkles around her eyes. Bright smile on her face, she brushed her hands along her apron, flour turning the fabric white.

Bucky jolted up from his chair at the sight of her, lips parted, breath caught in his throat. He was on his feet and imagined he looked rather strange as he struggled to find his voice. It was like he was looking at a ghost.

Bucky’s mother raised an eyebrow in his direction, a laugh shared with Steve, but Bucky did not dare to tear his eyes away. His vision began to blur he longer he looked at her – his gaze transfixed upon the rosiness of her cheeks, the scruff on her favorite baby blue shoes, the faded pink of a mark on her right hand from when she’d burned the Thanksgiving turkey years ago.

His mother – truly standing just steps away from him.

She must have spotted the tears swelling in Bucky’s eyes because her smile slowly dipped into a frown. Carefully, she crossed the room to him, guided him back down into the chair and gently set a hand against his cheek. Her palm was warm to the touch and Bucky found himself leaning into it, seeking more as if he were a fevered child, as if he would never have the opportunity again.

“My sweet boy,” his mother eased, running her fingers along the short whisps of his hair. “You missed me terribly out on the front, didn’t you?”

Bucky brushed his eyes as he looked up at her. “Sorry, Ma. Been a long time, I guess.”

She nodded, a bittersweet smile through the pink stain on her lips. Bucky realized then he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her. It felt like decades, though he supposed time moved differently behind enemy lines.

“I thank the stars every day you came home to us,” she cooed, leaning own to press a kiss to her son’s forehead. “It is by the grace of God that the war is finally over and my son is home safe.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, the seed of doubt sowing back into his stomach. “Over?”

“I should hope so,” came a voice emerging from the kitchen door – familiar, foreign. Peggy Carter walked into the room dressed in red and with lipstick bright enough to match. She slid into the seat next to Steve and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek like she’d done it dozens of times before. “Considering the extravagant ceremony they threw in honor of the Howling Commandos, I think it’s safe to say you boys have done enough for your country. Retire in peace, will you?”

Bucky’s mind clouded with flashes of a party with red, white, and blue streamers, of celebration between muddied men in the trenches and cheers loud enough to drown out the soaring fighter jets above. He caught glimpses of strapping handcuffs to the wrists of a scientist with a round face and the whistle of a train as it whipped around a mountain. He could hear the sounds of his friends singing in the bar that night in victory.

The memories were distant – distorted. They had a glimmer to them that felt like a reel on a film, almost as if they were outside of himself. He shook his head, eyeing the way Steve smiled in Peggy’s direction, how she seemed to glow in return.

“It’s nice to see the two of you together,” Bucky said, happy his friend had finally worked up the courage to ask his girl for a dance. They spent enough time tip toeing around one another, Bucky was worried they might have missed their window.

“Gee thanks, Buck,” Steve chucked. “You were the best man at our wedding, you know.”

Bucky paused, brows furrowing. Sure enough, a band of gold wrapped around Steve’s ring finger, a sparkle of a humble diamond on Peggy’s. Bucky was about to object, the memory of his best friend’s wedding nowhere to be found, when the squeak of the kitchen door opened once again. This time, he did not have a chance to prepare for who walked through before his heart sank down beyond his stomach and through the hardwood floors.

“Pie’s ready!” you called cheerily, carrying the warm tin in your oven mitted hands before you set it at the center of the table.

Steve gaped at the pristine crisp layer of the crust, while Peggy praised how wonderful it smelled. Bucky couldn’t catch his breath.

You wore pins in your hair, tying it up away from your face in perfect curls that must have taken hours. The light blue of your dress cinched at your waist, flowing out around your hips and settling at your knees. It seemed... strange to see you like this, though he had trouble recalling knowing you in any other way.

The voice in the back of his head started to scream. An alarm was blaring, but Bucky shook it off.

“Darling? Are you alright?” you asked and it took Bucky a second to realize you were talking to him. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure and found nothing behind him but the tall cupboard lined with china.

You frowned, pulling up the chair beside him. A hand touched his forehead and Bucky swallowed back a sigh.

“Are you feeling feverish, sweetheart?” you eased, your hands sliding down the sides of his face, cupping at his cheeks. Bucky could hardly string a sentence together with how intently you were watching him, how intimately you touched him and held him as if it wasn’t the first time.

“I’m... I’m alright,” Bucky said, though he wasn’t sure he was convincing anyone.

You pouted, though you resigned. It was then he noticed the flash of a ring on your finger. Before he could quite stop himself, he reached for your hand, bringing it closer. The gem sparkled against the florescence of the lights; a diamond bigger than he’d ever be able to afford in his lifetime.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you offered, admiring the ring yourself.

Bucky nodded, his throat burning. “He’s a lucky man.”

Peggy and Steve began to laugh and Bucky’s cheeks flushed red. He moved to drop your hand, but you slid in closer to him, close enough he could feel the heat of your breath on his skin.

“Lucky man, indeed,” you nodded and then, you kissed him.

Bucky jolted back, stunned, as if his heart had burst straight out of his chest.

“This creature will play to your deepest fantasies,” Tony said as he paced along the front of the conference room, file in hand. “It will construct a world you would not even dare to dream for yourself while it drains the life from your body. You must find a way to wake up before it kills you.”

“How will we even know if it’s taken us?” Natasha asked, arms folded tight over her chest. “How are we supposed to know we’re dreaming?”

Tony exhaled a tense breath. “There are some things that we know deep down could not be true. In this reality or the next.”

Bucky breaths were coming in too quickly, Tony’s words echoing in the back of his mind. He understood now his reaction to seeing his mother – a woman he never had the chance to say goodbye to, who he hadn’t seen in nearly eighty years. He understood why he didn’t share Peggys’s memories of the party for the Howling Commandos or his best friend’s wedding. Because it never happened.

It was why his perception of VE Day was so warped. He'd still been behind enemy lines.

He never apprehended Zola on the train.

He never came home to his mother with his best friend at his side.

He didn’t survive the war.

And you – you hadn’t agreed to marry him. You didn’t even belong to this time. He’d been a fool to not catch the flaw in the code the second you walked through the door; an even bigger one to not have doubted the tenderness with which you touched him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if he weren’t the hollow shell of Hydra’s greatest assassin.

He scrambled out of his chair, holding up a hand defensively as he scanned the room. Nothing seemed to give way to the fantasy surrounding him. It was perfectly constructed to hold him in place, unaware, as his life was drained another world away.

Steve and Peggy rose to their feet, concerned glances between them.

“Sweetheart,” you called nervously, approaching him as if he were a frightened animal, “what’s wrong?”

Bucky shook his head, retreating a step back for each one you progressed. “This isn’t real.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. This. Everything,” Bucky gestured to the room. “It’s in my head. The Djinn... it must have... shit. It’s not—It's not real!”

You sighed, shoulders slumping, as if he’d figured out the surprise you were meaning to tell him at the end of the dinner, as if his realization were little more than a bump in the road. When you looked at him again, it was with a renewed hope.

“It can be, if you’d like.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes on you, surprised at your response. You looked at Steve, then Peggy, and then to his mother, before you stepped to him, grabbing his hands in your own. Slowly, you guided them to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Flesh and bone. Not a trace of metal in sight.

“Stay with us,” you eased with a purr in your tone that nearly buckled his knees. "There is a kindness in this, don’t you see? Here, you can have your family back, your time. You can live a normal life without ever looking over your shoulder. You can have me.”

Bucky stared at you – or not-you. He was having trouble convincing himself as his gaze flickered to the faded scar on your jaw line, the one he’d given you in under the control of the Winter Soldier. It hadn’t been there seconds ago; he was sure of it. You started to inch closer to him and Bucky closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to recall the last moment he saw you.

“Don’t try to be a hero, Barnes,” you chuckled, grip tight around the handle of your Glock. You peered around the corner into the adjacent hallway. Covered in decades of cobwebs and soot, it looked untouched save for the dozens of bodies Tony had found on the floor below – drained and mummified by the feral creature they were after.

“Certainly no chance of that,” Bucky retorted. It was part of your usual banter. Charming smiles and witty lines. While you laughed under your breath, Bucky could still catch the flicker of concern in your gaze, wondering about the sliver of deprecating truth in his statement. He wasn’t a hero, not by a long shot. If anything, he considered himself to be on the farthest end of that particular scale. No one seemed to know that better than you did.

“Stark wants me to check out this quadrant,” you said, eyeing the empty hall. “You’ll be okay on your own?”

Bucky laughed. “You know I’ve got a few decades on you when it comes to this stuff, right?”

You stuck out your tongue at him; a childish taunt, though it made Bucky smile in the grimmest of places. It was a victory within itself.

“Just watch your back, will you?” you argued in that playful sort of tone that made Bucky’s stomach week. “Since I can't do it for you?”

Bucky paused, admiring the sincerity past the teasing. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve your kindness, but he was determined to hold onto it as long as he could manage.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

A weight seemed to lift from your shoulders. You smiled at him and he was certain he’d never know another rainy day again.

“Good. I’ll see you in ten.”

Bucky grinned as he watched you disappear into your hall. “See you in ten.”

Bucky couldn’t shake the dread forming in his stomach. He glanced around the 1950’s dining room, wondering where he was laying in the abandoned factory. He wondered if he’d been tossed into the pile of bodies Tony found or if he’d stumbled upon something more horrific. A moment of panic flickered in his heart as he questioned whether you were laying in the dark next to him – trapped in a fantasy of your own.

“Sweetheart?” your voice called again. It was too loving, too affectionate. He should have known it was only in his head. “You don’t have to return to that world. You’ve suffered enough, my love. There are no monsters here. No Hydra. Don’t you deserve that? After all you’ve been though?”

Bucky swallowed the bile in his throat. The nerves in his shoulder began to burn.

“Stay here,” you urged again, your voice a siren’s melody. “Stay with me.”

Bucky shook his head. He’d chewed through his cheek, could feel the sting of it and the copper on his tongue. “You’re not real.”

“Does this not feel real?”

Before Bucky could realize what you were doing, you stepped into his space, your hands sliding along his cheeks, and your lips touched his cheek. He felt the pressure of it, the warmth of your breath. He felt the chill in its absence. He shuddered.

“Stay here, Bucky, where it’s safe.”

“No,” he strained, stepping back out of your hold. The disappointment on your face was enough to clench his heart. “I’m dying as we speak. That... that thing... it’s killing me.”

“Time is different here, pal,” Steve spoke up, an arm wrapped around Peggy’s shoulders. “What may be minutes out there is a lifetime here. You can grow old, Buck. You can have the life you always wanted, the life you were meant to have.”

Bucky stared helplessly at the image of his best friend. He looked so much like the Steve he knew. He bore the same blue of his eyes, the same half assured grin to his smile. He looked so impossibly real.

“Stay here, son,” his mother tried, tears swelling in her eyes. Suddenly, she was dressed in funeral black, clutching a folded flag to her chest. Bucky tore his gaze away, unable to look at her. “Please don’t leave me alone again.”

Bucky held his breath, his hands shaking as he curled them to fists. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“We’re trying to save you, sweetheart." Your hand slid down his arm, coaxing the tension from his muscle where there was once metal. Slowly, he dared to meet your eye and he wondered for a helpless moment, whether he might allow himself to fall into your trap.

“You don’t want to go back to that life, pal,” Steve sighed. “There’s nothing there for you.”

“Nothing but a life always looking over your shoulder. Scrambling to earn the trust of a nation who will never see you as anything more than the weapon Hydra created,” Peggy said, though her words were not of malice, but a reminder of the horrors he could leave behind in favor of something gentler. She paused, glancing sadly in your direction. “An unrequited love for the woman you’d trade your life for.”

Bucky closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at you – the version of you he’d created in his mind. It didn’t matter that you might love him here, that he might have the life he’d been dreaming of in his own time; with his family and free of the nightmares that have plagued him for decades. None of it was real.

That wasn’t Steve. Or the Peggy he’d known only briefly in his youth.

The woman crying in the corner wasn’t his mother.

And as much as he had longed for the way in which you were currently watching him with love and affection in your gaze, Bucky would rather have his friendship with you in the real world than the imagined love of a copy constructed in his deepest fantasy.

“I have to wake up,” Bucky muttered to himself, just to remind him that he must.

He thought of his worst nightmares, of the moment that always brought him screaming back to the surface. There would be kinder ways, easier ways, but this was the most efficient. It was the air catching his foot as he walked down a flight of stairs. It was the pavement he would never hit as he fell and fell and fell—

You shared a worried glance with Steve.

Bucky lunged for the carving knife.

***

It smelled of rotten flesh.

Bucky groaned, struggling to open his eyes. The room was impossibly dark. He couldn’t see beyond his own fingertips. Beside him, a bag was hung from the ceiling connecting a line to the needle prodded into his forearm. He swallowed, though there was little to ease the sandpaper in his throat.

“Bucky!” your voice echoed down the hall. It cracked in the effort. Panicked. It wasn’t the first time you’d screamed his name. “Damn it, Bucky! Where are you!”

“M’here,” he called, though it barely escaped in a whisper. Bucky struggled to move his arm to rip the IV line from his vein, but he couldn’t so much as clench the muscle. He was paralyzed. His gaze flickered to the door – sealed shut. “Y/n...”

“Steve,” you choked out beyond the room, skidding to a stop. Your breaths were labored, like you’d been running for hours. He heard a thud against the wall, like you’d collapsed against it. “I can’t-- I can’t find him. He’s been gone too long. I’m— Oh God—I can’t—”

Bucky was certain he could only make out your voice because of his enhanced hearing, and even then, it was like you were standing above water as he drowned under the ocean currents. You were too far away. You could have run right past him and never know it.

“Here...” Bucky tried again, but he wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud. His fingertips reached towards the door, trembling in the effort. His back was still firm on the concrete.

“I know, I know,” you replied, likely to Steve on the coms. “We’ll find him. We have to.”

And then you were running. But the echo of your footsteps were fading down the hall. Quieter. Quieter. Until he heard nothing at all.

No. Wrong direction. No. No—come back. Come back!

Bucky used whatever strength he could manage to clench his hand around a broken stone from the concrete. He tossed it towards the wall, hoping the sound might alert someone to his presence. The thought crossed his mind only briefly as he wondered whether the Djinn itself might find him first. Though he supposed it already had.

“I’ve got something.”

Bucky held his breath. He never suspected Stark’s voice to be one to elicit relief but as he heard the iron of Tony’s knuckles tap against the outer wall, assessing the stability, the fear loosened its grip on Bucky’s chest.

“Heat signature matches Barnes’ description,” Stark continued. The mechanics of his suit were buzzing. “It’s fading. He doesn’t have much time. I’m making a door.”

Bucky prepared himself, though he couldn’t have shielded his body if he tried. The explosion was short lived, the rubble contained to the edge of the room. Only the dust of stone and a few vagrant pebbles made their way to his body.

“Got him!” Stark called into the coms. His suit was blinding against the dark of the room. He’d only made it halfway across the room before you sprinted through the opening, across the rubble, and skidded on your knees to where Bucky laid paralyzed on the floor.

“Bucky!” you cried, hovering over him, hands roaming along his body though you did not dare to touch him. It was only as he caught sight of the fear burned into your eyes that he noticed the blood coating your skin. It dripped red and angry over your suit, into your hair. It dried against your cheeks, with small streaks running from your eyes as if your tears had cleaned a path of their own.

He stared blankly at the layer of blood, shaking as his hand reached towards you though he couldn’t find the strength to lift it. He wasn’t sure you’d noticed his effort.

“Blood...?” It was all he could manage.

You shook your head rapidly, understanding him as you always did. “Not mine. I got the Djinn. Messy, but it’s over. You're safe.”

It wasn’t his safety he was worried about, but he didn’t bother correcting you. He was too busy studied the glossy reflection in your eyes, the nervous bite of your teeth over your lower lip.

“We need to get him to medical, now,” Stark urged. It wasn’t a good sign when his voice was devoid of humor.

You gathered Bucky’s hand in your own, squeezing it tight enough that he could feel the pressure of it despite the venom in his bloodstream.

“You’re going to be okay,” you told him, though it seemed more like you were trying to convince yourself. A smile pushed out onto your lips, cracking through the blood of the Djinn. You freed one of your hands only long enough to brush the hair from his eyes. Impossibly gentle. “Stay awake for me. Can you do that? I need you to try, okay?”

Bucky nodded, though he could feel himself slipping. The darkness was pulling him under quicker than he could hold on. He tried to focus on the feeling of your hands, how tightly they enveloped his own. So small in comparison. Warm.

But it was fading.

“Bucky! No, stay awake!” you cried, your voice distant. Tremored and pulsing and panicked. He could hear the inflection of fear in your voice and all he wanted to do was calm you, to tell you that it was okay, that there was nothing to be afraid of.

But the darkness claimed him before he could.

***

There was a pressure on his right arm when he woke.

Bucky stirred under thin, cotton sheets. It smelled of disinfectant, the lighting of the white room too bright to adjust as he opened his eyes. He groaned, wincing at the steady pulse of the heart monitor beside him.

When his vision finally came to, his already shallowed breath caught tight in his throat as he saw you hunched over the side of his bed, curled tight around his right arm. The edge of a plastic chair pulled up close to the bedframe barely held your weight. Your hair was sprawled over Bucky’s thigh, arms circled under his forearm as if clutching a stuffed animal to your chest.

You were still asleep, though Bucky wasn’t sure how you’d managed it in that position. He wondered how long he’d been held up in this room, how long you’d been laying watch by his side. Your skin was cleaned of the Djinn’s blood, your suit traded for leggings and a crewneck a few sizes too big for your frame.

Bucky glanced down to find himself dressed in a hoodie and grey sweatpants from his own closet. Enough time must have passed for the med team to be willing to trade the hospital gown for something more comfortable. He wondered whether it was you or Steve that made the argument to Dr. Cho.

He untucked his left hand from the blankets, lifting it just slightly in the hopes he could brush the hair from your eyes as you slept. It would be an intimate gesture; one he’d never dared before. But hoped, perhaps, it would be safe to offer while you were asleep. A gentle touch. An innocent one. Just to keep the hairs from scratching your nose.

“Buck?”

Steve was standing at the doorway, two mugs of coffee in his hands.

“Hiya, Steve.”

Slowly, the surprise on Steve’s face rose to that of relief, and he quietly made his way inside the room. Coffee was placed on the bedside table, the wafting smell of your vanilla creamer instantly easing the tension in Bucky’s muscles.

“Good to see you awake, pal,” Steve whispered, cautious not to wake you. Bucky nodded in appreciation.

“How long’s it been?” Bucky dared to ask.

As Steve sank into the chair on the left side of the bed, opposite yours, a frown pushed onto his features. He sighed, trying to find an ounce of comfort in a distinctly uncomfortable chair.

“Longer than we’d hoped.” Steve pressed his lips to the thin line, though Bucky’s supposed it was his effort to smile. He glanced over at you as you remained asleep, arms still curled around Bucky’s.

Bucky hadn’t minded when he noticed the tingling sensations or when he lost feeling in the numbness. He much preferred the ease of your comfort instead – how easily you’d fallen asleep beside him, how you found comfort in his closeness rather than revulsion.

“She hasn’t left, you know,” Steve said quietly. “I’ve only been able to drag her out long enough to shower. If she had it her way, she’d still be coated in Djinn blood. I suspect she’s only sleeping now out of pure exhaustion. Natasha’s been bringing her meals and Sam dropped off a duffle bag of books a yesterday morning. She was terrified you’d wake up alone.”

Sure enough, the evidence was clear around the room. He hadn’t noticed the cardigan draped over the chair in the corner or the blanket from your bedroom hanging on the arm rest. The latest book you’d been reading was propped open on the nightstand by his bed, a faded photograph of the team from last year’s holiday party used as the bookmark. A tray of barely touched food sat on the table.

He’d never known you to do something like this. Though he supposed he’d never been out this long before.

“We weren’t sure if you’d wake up again,” Steve admitted. “It’s been almost four days. Without the serum, you would have been dead before Tony found you. The Djinn... it’s different than what we’ve fought before. It went for your mind and... well... we know—”

“—it’s already pretty messed up to begin with,” Bucky finished, though Steve scowled at his frankness.

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” Steve said. He set a hand on Bucky’s left shoulder. Brotherly comfort. He sighed. “I should let Dr. Cho know you’re awake. She’ll want to do some tests.” He paused, glancing in your direction. “Should I give you a few minutes before I track her down?”

Bucky swallowed; his throat suddenly dry. He nodded.

The smile that graced Steve’s face did not go unnoticed. With that, he picked up his mug – black, no sugar – and left yours waiting. He gave a casual salute and headed for the door.

And then, the room was quiet again. Except for the heart monitor.

He was about to call your name when you started to shift. Your nose scrunched, eye pressing tight to avoid the inflection of florescent lights. A light groan as you turned your head, setting your forehead on Bucky’s hand. Slowly, as if it took most of your strength, you leaned back into your chair. Your hold on his arm did not waiver.

It took a moment as your eyes fluttered open before you noticed he was awake. Bucky didn’t dare say a word, his breath suddenly caught in his throat. You cracked your neck, stretched your back. A short glance to the bagel Natasha had brought, still left uneaten several hours later. She’d scold you for that, certainly.

Then, as if time itself had slowed, you looked at him.

It only took a second. A short, panicked realization that you could see the blue of his eyes, before you scrambled out of your chair. It fell on its side and you nearly tripped over it yourself as you backed up a few paces, your grip on his hand flinching back to cover your mouth.

“Bucky? You’re— You’re awake?” you gasped as if you weren’t sure whether to trust your own eyes. You were staring as if you’d seen a ghost.

“Seems that way,” Bucky chuckled lightly, pushing out a smile in hopes to ease your panic.

You wasted no time before you lunged at him. The force of it caught him off guard, but suddenly, your arms were wrapped around his shoulders, your face pressed to the crook of his neck. Bucky only realized as he finally pushed past the surprise to set his hands against your spine that you were shaking.

“We thought— I wasn’t sure if— God, Bucky you almost—”

“Hey, I’m all right. I’m okay,” Bucky quickly replied, running a hand along your back. Slow, soothing motions to draw the trembling to the surface and expel it from your body. He’d never held you like this before and he held his breath to keep his heart from jumping from his chest.

“You can’t do that again,” you mumbled, holding him tighter as if being pressed to his chest was not close enough. “I don’t know what I would have—”

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Dr. Cho stood at the edge of the room, clipboard in hand. She smiled as you reluctantly unwound yourself from around Bucky and sank into the chair next to him. It didn’t slip his notice when you reached for his hand, squeezing it tight in your own. He wondered whether you’d done that for his sake or yours.

“It’s good to see you awake,” Dr. Cho said as she stepped into the room. She wore a soft smile; a kindness of a woman who was both physician and friend. “How are you feeling?”

Bucky swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

“Why don’t we let Agent Y/l/n step out so we can run some tests?” Dr. Cho advised. Your grip tightened on his hand. “I’d like to talk to you about your experience with the Djinn and when you were in the dream state.”

Bucky nodded. When he turned to look at you, your muscles were taunt. You were staring at Dr. Cho, but your shoulders were squared on Bucky. Your hands nervously squeezing at his, thumb tracing at the line of his palm. It was the same mannerisms he’d caught hazed glimpses of when you’d begged him to stay awake in the factory. If he wasn’t mistaken, you appeared as if you were afraid.

“It’s all right,” Bucky told you, offering a smile. “Get some rest. I can’t imagine you slept well here. I’ll come find you when I’m cleared, okay?”

You paused, uncertain. The edge of your cheek tugged between your teeth, gnawing at the flesh. You spared a short glance in Dr. Cho’s direction before you turned back to him. Your shoulders sagged; a heavy breath pressed from your lungs. Bucky wondered about your hesitancy – what it meant that you so clearly did not want to leave his side, how you’d spent days cooped up in his hospital room waiting for him to wake up.

It wasn’t until you started to untangle your fingers from around his own, that he realized you’d still been holding his hand. Slowly, you began to stand and gathered your things around the room. You were quiet as you made your way to the door and Bucky couldn’t help the sense of dread in his stomach as he watched you leave.

But then, in the frame, you glanced over your shoulder. “Meet me on the roof?”

Bucky smiled. It was the one place he’d found respite in when he first moved to the tower. High above the city lights and the traffic below, he could stare up into the stars until he was lost into their endless abyss. You'd taken to wandering around on the roof a few times yourself when sleep was a distant friend. It was the sanctuary you’d once bonded over.

“The roof,” Bucky confirmed with a gentle nod. He didn’t know when he’d be able to get there, but he knew you’d wait for him.

***

Nightfall had swept the city before Bucky was cleared by the medical team. He didn’t bother changing or returning to his room before he set off for the back stairwell. The door, whose hinges were often stuck with disuse, was left ajar. The stairwell was colder than he remembered, though he supposed it had been some time since he’d ventured his way to the roof. Lately, he’d found midnight comfort in the kitchen by a pot of tea and the quiet murmur of the infomercial you’d fallen asleep in front of.

He tried not to think about the dream Dr. Cho had asked him to walk through again in excruciating detail. The Djinn they’d encountered was apparently not the only one SHIELD had a radar on. Several agents had fallen victim to the fantasy world within the last few weeks. None has survived. Except Bucky.

Dr. Cho was kind enough not to react when Bucky explained the obvious trigger that woke him to the fabricated natural of his reality. She simply scribbled a note on her clipboard, though it was several sentences longer than he would have expected necessary. She emphasized that he was safe, that the Djinn had been killed and he would not be subjected to that world again.

Bucky ignored the lingering feeling of disappointment.

He pushed open the door to the roof with a little extra effort from his shoulder and was met with a wave of cold air. He hissed, crossing his arms over his chest as he stepped outside.

The first thing he noticed was the strings of Christmas lights draped overhead and tied to a banister at the edge of the roof. A cardboard box marked as ‘YULETIDE OR WHATEVER’ in Stark’s handwriting sat propped up by the door. Bucky was almost certain the decorations had been taken down weeks ago.

He followed the lights, stretching a hand up to touch the bulbs. They were warm with electricity. The wind seemed to pick up as he turned the corner, though suddenly he couldn’t feel much of a breeze at all when he spotted you.

You were sitting on the edge of a blanket you’d draped out on the floor, fidgeting with your phone. The light illuminated against your skin, highlighting the lip you tucked so nervously between your teeth. A bottle of unopened wine sat on the ground beside you – two empty glasses on either side.

“Y/n?”

Your eyes snapped up, startled. A hand clutched at your chest. “Bucky!” You scrambled to your feet, quickly brushing out the lines in your clothes. “I didn’t hear you come up! How are you feeling? Did Helen clear you okay? Do you want to go inside? I know it’s a bit cold out here but I thought—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky chuckled, amused by the sudden shift in your energy. He was used to the teasing and the banter. Nervous rambling was entirely new, though he wasn’t complaining. It was endearing.

“Good, good,” you nodded, exhaling a heavy breath. You glanced out to the city lights.

“You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” Bucky added, gesturing to the lights and the bottle of wine. “I’ve spent a lot of nights up here in the dark without one of Stark’s good bottles of wine and managed just fine.”

He was teasing, but when you returned his smile, it was smaller than he’d expected. Almost forced.

“Oh, I know,” you chuckled anxiously. “I just—um, I wanted it to be different tonight.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Different? Why?”

You wrung your hands and Bucky realized you’d barely met his eye since he’d approached you. It wasn’t like you to be this nervous. His heart started to pick up, his body on edge. Something was wrong. He was half prepared to take a walk around the perimeter to make sure the two of you weren’t being watched. An old habit, but a safe one.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you... and um... and I wasn’t sure how,” you explained, though Bucky wasn’t following. You’d started to pace along the open space, giving Bucky the chance to eye for listening devices while you were distracted.

“I’ve been trying to work up the courage for a while actually,” you laughed under your breath. It faded quickly in favor of something grimmer. “But then—then last week I was confronted with the possibility that I might not ever get to tell you. When you stopped responding on coms, it felt like the floor had been ripped out from under me. You were missing for almost twenty minutes. That thing has drained our agents in less than ten and when Tony found you... Bucky, I’ve never felt fear like that before.”

Bucky stilled, his attention quickly diverting from his mental reconnaissance. He watched you as you relentlessly paced, unable to meet his eye. You only spared quick glances in his direction, as if to make sure he was still there, still listening.

“I didn’t know if you would—” you clenched your jaw, unable to say it. You pushed out a tense breath, forcing yourself to stand still. Slowly, you lifted your eyes to his, a sort of relief beginning to wash through you. “But you’re okay now. You’re alive and you’re here. And I can’t let another day go by without telling you. Our jobs are dangerous. Every mission could be our last. It’s what we both signed up for, but—”

Bucky shook his head, his brows knitted together. “I’m not following.”

You pressed your lips to a smile. Carefully, you took a few steps closer to him. When your fingertips touched his own, he almost flinched. It wasn’t something you’d done before today, so easily taking his hands – hands that had killed and tortured, hands that were barely human. You did so without the slightest trace of hesitancy.

A breath filled your lungs. Then, an exhale that seemed to carry years of weight.

“I’m in love with you.”

Bucky's heart plunged as he jolted two steps back. His hands slipped out from your own, flinching back to his sides. Tremors began to shake in his right hand and he curled it to a fist, for the first time wishing more of his body were made of metal to shield the utterly human panic coursing through his veins. If he glanced down the concrete under his boots, he was nearly certain it would have pulled out from under him.

There was a short flash of hurt of your face as you studied his reaction, swallowing nervously through a lump quickly burning in your throat. Bucky tried not to notice.

“You don’t have to feel the same way,” you offered quickly, voice wavering now. “I just thought you deserved to know that someone—that I—”

“Oh God, it’s happening again.”

The words slipped out the moment they entered his thoughts. It made sense now – why you’d been so attached to him in the med wing. All the hand holding. The embraces. The sudden shift in your outward affection towards him. And now... your confession. It was as real as his mother’s dining room and the version of his friend seated at the table beside him. It was a dream. A fantasy.

He never woke up.

Fuck.

“What’s ‘happening again?’” you asked cautiously, a hand extended in his direction as if taming a frightened animal.

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t have time to explain or argue with a figment of his imagination. He didn’t want to consider how long he’d been under the Djinn's spell, whether the team would find him in time or if he’d be little more than a mummified husk by the time they discovered his body. He supposed it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stay here.

“I need to wake up,” he muttered to himself, quickly glancing around the roof for the tools at his disposal. He pushed past you, looking for a corkscrew for the wine bottle. It would be messy, but it’d be efficient. He imagined he’d wake up before it even got the tip of it to his throat. There was nothing in his memory beyond lunging for his mother’s carving knife. No pain. Not even a scratch. A simple means to an end.

It wasn’t as if he was looking to end his life. Quite the opposite, actually.

This was him fighting to survive.

“’Wake up?’ Bucky, what are you talking about?” You chased after him, grabbing a hold of his shoulders and forcing him to meet your eye. There was a panic laying within them that hadn’t been present in his mother’s dining room. Your fingers dug into his right shoulder, pressing into the muscle there. He vaguely registered the grip on his left – still metal, still solid.

“This isn’t real,” Bucky grumbled and you released him immediately. You stumbled back a few paces in shock. He had to admit that wasn't the reaction he’d been expecting. You hadn’t played these games with him last time. The desolation in your eyes seemed so real.

“You think you’re still under the Djinn’s spell.” It wasn’t a question.

Bucky swallowed. He shouldn’t be wasting time talking to you and yet— the devastation in your voice nearly buckled his knees. Knowing it would be a mistake, he forced himself to look at you anyway. Your lips were parted and trembling. Your eyes wide, pupils blown. You took a step towards him and he retreated.

“You’re not going to convince me to stay,” he warned, tearing his eyes away from you and the trembling of your lower lip. He returned back to the task at hand. “I have to get back.”

“’Back?’” You rushed after him, following on his heels as he tore apart the roof in search of a stray crowbar or an exposed wire. He picked up a rock and studied it for a moment, contemplating, before you swiped it from his hand and chucked it across the roof. “You’re already awake! Bucky, this is real!”

He groaned, unable to find a single weapon on the roof. Until he remembered he stood on the top of one of the tallest skyrises in the city. The building under his feet would serve as a weapon itself, his own body the bullet. He looked at the ledge, but it seemed even in the fantasy world you were better at anticipating his next moves than he remembered.

You jolted out in front of him, blocking his path. You held your hands up and it was only then he noticed how badly they were shaking. Violent tremors to match the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Your eyes were near black with how wide your pupil had blown.

“Bucky, stop! What are you doing?!”

“I need to wake up,” he said again, shoving his way past you. It didn’t stop you from chasing after him. As you always did.

You grabbed his hand, yanking him to a standstill, demanding he meet your eye. “What makes you so sure this isn’t real?!”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “The same way I knew the last one wasn’t real.”

“And how was that?” you challenged, the fear in your voice suddenly laced with fire. But it was smothered to smoke the second Bucky turned on his heels, stilling you in your tracks as his eyes met yours.

“You kissed me.”

He didn’t bother waiting for the fabricated look of surprise.

He yanked his hand from your grasp and turned back to the ledge.

It was easier than he expected to climb onto the railing. He wondered whether Stark or the architects had considered the height of the single barrier between surface and the open air. He steadied himself, balanced on the beam no wider than his boots. From there, Bucky could glance down and see the endless stream of blurred traffic lights in perfect reflection to the lights glimmering from the stars above. The wind was brutal against his ears.

He’d wake before he touched the ground. He might even come to the moment he stepped off.

He closed his eyes.

Ready to go home. Back to a reality that was unkind, but real.

To his best friend.

To you.

Then, a clicking sound.

“You want to jump?,” you snapped. “Fine.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to the handcuff now secured on his wrist; its twin clasped tightly around your own.

He knew this wasn’t real and yet seeing you standing next to him, so close to the edge, only a breath away from a fall that could end your life... it crippled him. He began to wonder whether it was possible for his heart to leap straight from his chest and fall to the pavement before he had a chance to jump.

“What are you doing?” he gaped, wide eyes staring at you.

You shrugged. “If you’re so certain this world isn’t real, then it shouldn’t matter if you pull me off the roof with you.”

Bucky froze. The wind could have knocked him off the ledge in either direction. Adrenaline began to pump wildly in his veins. “That’s one hell of a bluff.”

“I know you, Bucky,” you replied, deadly calm, gazing out to the skyline and the empire state building lit bright in the distance. It was quite beautiful if it weren’t for the plunge a hundred stories less than a step away. “You might not mind risking your own life... but on the chance you’re wrong about this world, I can bet you won’t risk mine.”

“I’m not—I'm not trying to kill myself,” Bucky argued. He groaned, gazing out to the skyline and staring longingly to its abyss. “I’m trying to wake up. I’m trying to survive! Don’t you get that? This is me saving myself. I’m trying to get back home. I don’t belong here!”

A devastating moment of silence passed as you seemed to absorb his reasoning. Bucky held his breath, trying to convince himself to take the step forward anyway, before you could manage to break his will and convince him to stay. He was so painfully close to staying...

“You truly think you’re that unlovable?” you whispered under the wrestle of wind. Bucky turned to find tears spilling over your cheeks. His heart lurched. “Do you really believe the only world I could possibly love you is in a fantasy built by a monster?”

“You don’t think I want this to be real!?” Bucky shouted, the sudden rush of anger – built of a torturous longing – quickly infiltrating through his veins. “You don’t think I would have killed to have survived the war and see my ma again? To—To have grown old in the time I was supposed to and to have never heard of Hydra again? To have watched Steve marry the love of his life like he was supposed to? You don’t think I would have given anything to be the man you were going to marry? To just stay there and be happy? And now this! When everything is the same and I was almost fooled by it all... and you stand there and tell me you love me as if I haven’t dreamt of those worlds since the day I met you?!”

Bucky shook his head, tears sliding over his jaw line and spilling down a hundred stories to the pavement below. Exhaustion tugged him under, anger washing into a sorrow he couldn’t give a name to.

“You have no idea how badly I want this to be real,” Bucky choked out. “There’s a reason you’re at the center of these dreams, Y/n.”

He could hear you crying, though he did not dare to look at you. Your hand slipped into his, handcuffs chiming together, the metal links flowing against the wind. It was warm against his own, taking away the sting of the chill in favor of something kinder. You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t know how else to get home to you,” Bucky muttered, defeated. “You have to let me go.”

He could feel your eyes on him, blurred by your tears; could feel the warm pressure of your hand encasing his. Security, safety. Even if it was a delusion. How strange a monster would offer something so kind as it drained his body to a husk.

Bucky closed his eyes as you rested your forehead to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. Sterilized from the hospital room and still – lingering with the evergreen candle he burned in his bedroom to avoid the cold embrace of total darkness. He wondered how it were possible he could smell the pretzels and hot dogs from venders on street corners a hundred stories below.

“Bucky?” There was a renewed hope in your voice, a realization in the slight hitch of your breath. It was more painful to him than he cared to admit.

“Yeah?”

“There was something else Tony said the day of our briefing,” you began steadily, “another way to challenge the Djinn’s fantasy world. Do you remember what it was?”

He pictured Tony standing at the front of the conference room, Steve tucked in the corner behind him with his arms folded over his chest. An image of the Djinn was displayed on the monitors behind him. Bucky held back a shiver at the memory of it.

“There are some things that we know, deep down, could not be true. In this reality or the next,” Tony warned.

“Under this logic, how do we prove anything is real?” Sam scoffed, kicking his feet up onto the table. “I could be strung up in the Djinn’s layer right now and not know it. What if I don’t recognize this all-telling universal lie?”

“You’re telling me this is your fantasy world, Wilson?” Nastasha teased, winking at him from across the table. “Debrief meetings?”

“He has a point, though.” Steve pushed himself from the wall to stand beside Tony.

Tony sighed. “The fantasy is just that. A fantasy. A world where no harm can come to you. It’s why you’d wake up the same way you would in a dream if you were to die. The Djinn would not construct a world only to torture you. What would be the point in that? It wants to keep you sedated and calm... happy. It’s a dream world for a reason. The characters in it cannot hurt you.”

“So basically... draw some blood,” Natasha offered.

Tony frowned, though it curved into a slow smile as he hung his head.

“Let me prove it you,” you begged, slowly pulling yourself away from the ledge, sinking back to the safety of the roof. “Let me prove to you that this is real.”

Bucky paused, watching you from his position on the edge. He tried to force himself to take the final step off the other side, to let the air catch him in his descent, to not care what it might do to the dream-state version of the woman he loved. But his body would not allow him its reprieve, not while your fate was tied to his.

Slowly, Bucky nodded. He allowed you to ease him away from the ledge and guide him to the center of the roof, far enough away from the drop. Despite the cuffs between you, it was your grip tight on his hand that offered him a sense of security to solid ground.

Once you were certain you were as far from the edge as you could manage, you pulled the corkscrew from your pocket, eyeing him suspiciously as he tensed at the sight of it. He supposed he hadn’t given you a reason to trust him around it given how eagerly he’d scavenged the roof for a weapon just moments earlier.

“Remember what Tony said?” you asked, setting the tip of the corkscrew against his forearm in no more than a gentle scratch. “That the people the Djinn creates in your dream—”

“— can’t cause you pain. Yeah,” Bucky finished. His heart was pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. It hadn’t crossed his mind to test the world before he escaped from it. Why would he? He was already convinced it wasn’t real. And yet, his hand started to shake so badly, he could help but wonder whether you could feel it.

“I’ll stop the second it draws blood, okay? The absolute second, I promise,” you reassured him, not moving an inch until he met your eye again. “You’re safe with me.”

Bucky stilled. His breath held tight to his lungs.

You’re safe with me.

It was a phrase you used often. One he sought out in the dead of night when he could not drive the mad scientist from his head or the feeling of a scalpel to his bones. You’d whisper it until the cover of night with your arms encased around his shoulders and his heartbeat to your chest. He’d memorized the tone of your inflections, the cadence of your breath, until he could call upon it even when you were worlds away.

That sense of safety – of security – extended beyond the terrors plaguing his dreams. It found him sunken into the living room couch, two movies in, with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and you nestled beside him. Teasing and smiling and tossing M&Ms into his mouth until your laughter carried in echoes down the hall. Brightness extending to him even when he spent the day locked in his room and sheltering from the light. You’d reached your hand to him with eighties films and microwave popcorn and he took it willingly.

It dawned on him with the full force of a freight train that he was the first person you sought out in every room. It was your eyes he caught watching him from across the field and your bullets clearing his blind spots. His was the position you ran to when hope was crumbling and his name was the one you called when you were scared. It was his presence that eased your worry. His comfort that brough your relief.

Stolen glances. Shy smiles. Nervous habits. Moments he’d dismissed in favor of one excuse or another under the adamant truth that your love was not one he could possibly earn. But as you watched him, waiting patiently for permission to cause him merely a fraction of pain as if you might feel it yourself, Bucky remembered every moment you proved him wrong.

“Wait,” he choked out, staring at the point of the corkscrew as you quickly held it back from his skin. Bucky took in a shaken breath, slowly daring to meet your eyes. They watched him with such concern, such compassion, it nearly crumbled him. “If I had jumped—” he clamped his jaw, barely able to say it. And still, he forced the words out. “You really would have let me kill you?”

You smiled solemnly at him, your hold on the corkscrew relaxing. The hand cupped under his forearm pressed gently against his skin – your fingertips dancing over muscle like keys on a piano. Smooth movements. Tender touches. The panic slipped from his veins.

“Maybe that’s my universal truth, Bucky,” you told him simply. “In this reality or the next, I know you could never hurt me.”

Bucky nodded so slowly he wasn’t sure you saw it. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed you, not knowing what the Winter Soldier might do if he were to cross your path again. But there was a reason Bucky so often threw himself in the line of fire to protect you in the field, why he hadn’t called to you for backup when he caught the first glimpse of the Djinn after you split up. It was the same reason he couldn’t bring himself to jump while you were cuffed to his side.

You caught his eye again, ever so patient, and adjusted your hold on the corkscrew.

“You ready?” Asking permission again because you knew what it was for him to have his consent taken away.

The sharp edge of the screw hovered over his arm. Your thumb stroked against his forearm to ease his fear.

Bucky decided before the tip broke his skin that this world was his own.

He didn’t watch as you pressed the corkscrew to his skin in a short, careful line barely hard enough to scratch. He didn’t look at the tiny pebbles of blood prickled in its wake. Even as he felt the slight sting of open air on the cut, Bucky was entirely focused on you.

On the way you tugged your teeth between your lips in concentration. On the wince in your expression as you drew blood. On the sorrow in your eyes in being the one to cause him pain, if only for a moment.

The cut was already clotting when you released his hand. The corkscrew still closed tight into your grip and your eyes were focused on the center of his chest, as if you were afraid to discover whether or not he believed you.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky exhaled, sinking down to his knees. He bowed his head as the reality of what he’d nearly done crashed into him; weight crippling into his chest as if he’d been flooded by the heavy current of an Atlantic undertow. His curled his hands into his sweatpants seeking purchase, his forehead leaning to rest against your thigh to ground him. “I’m so sorry. God—I'm—”

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” you soothed, kneeling to his level. Your arms enveloped him, tugging him against your chest and he gave you no resistance. He hadn’t even noticed you had unlatched the cuff from his wrist as he began to shake in your arms, his body heaving under the weight of a choice that could have ended his life. And yours.

“I’ve got you,” you eased, fingertips tracing along his spine.

He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this to be real; to not have a chance to redo the moment he’d spent years dreaming of. But Bucky’s life had never gone according to plan. He’d spent his years free from Hydra analyzing every moment he could remember; wondering if he had made one different choice, would he have been subjected to the horrors he faced. He couldn’t change his past or what had already been done. But he could start somewhere new – somewhere he could believe that the love of a woman he adored could be real and earned and something he could be worthy to receive.

“Will you tell me again?” He could hear how broken he sounded, the whispered request to try again, to react differently this time. As you cupped the side of his face, slowly drawing his gaze to yours, he wondered whether he might have to clarify, to ask through the heat of his cheeks to hear the words he’d dismissed without a second thought.

But you began to smile and all Bucky could feel was relief.

“I’m in love with you, Bucky.”

His heart could have caved in if it weren’t soaring ten stories above. Bucky wasn’t sure how to handle the swell of unbridled affection in your gaze and the reprieve it gave him. All he could do was return your smile until it ached in his cheeks, turn his face just enough to touch his lips to the palm of your hand, and sigh.

“One more time?”

Your laughter brightened the night sky at his request and Bucky wondered how it was possible that his lifetime of pain and suffering had led him to this moment with you.

“I love you,” you laughed through glossy tears.

Bucky leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours, the heat of your breath on his lips. “Tell me every day?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his arm. Inching closer. Your mouth grazed his. “Until you get sick of it.”

“Not possible.”

Then, he kissed you. And he questioned how he could have ever believed this was made of anything but the tangible fabric of his reality. No dream could possibly come close. No fantasy could have predicted the way you breathed new life into his bones or how your tongue swept across his lower lip or the knots that bloomed in his stomach when you curled your fingers into his hair. His imagination wasn’t nearly clever enough or kind enough to consider how beautifully you kissed him.

When you finally pulled back, Bucky realized he was near short of breath. His lungs were burning and his chest rose quickly, but he was still eager for more. He kissed at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, and training along your neck as you laughed enough to make him forget what he almost lost.

Bucky stilled, closing his eyes as the breeze swept chills down his spine. With his nose tucked to the crook of your neck, giving him the chance to breathe in the smell of your shampoo, he decided he would not turn his back from the roof or the barrier he’d nearly jumped from. He couldn’t keep sweeping his trauma under the rug, forgetting the moments he’d rather ignore. If he couldn’t find the strength to do it for himself, he knew he could do it for you.

He pulled back, though you kept a hand on the side of his face, gently brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.

“Do you think...” he sighed, nervous now. “If I told Sam I wanted to talk to his friend... the therapist down at the VA... do you think you could go with me?”

The relief in your smile was enough of an answer, but Bucky spoke up again before you could respond.

“Just to, um, the appointment, I mean,” he continued, his cheeks flushing red. “You don’t have to sit in or anything. I just... I might need a little push to get me to the lobby. But I’ll go. I promise. No more trying to fling myself off roofs when the woman of my dreams tell me she loves me.”

He laughed despite himself, chuckling through the awkwardness of it – the trauma of it, too – and you tried to catch your own laugh as it fought against the frown tugging it down.

“That’s not funny,” you warned, though you were smiling. Still, you softened, leaning in to press a chaste kiss against his lips. “But of course, I’ll go with you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured into another kiss. The wind began to pick up again and Bucky pulled you closer into his arms. Resting his chin on the crown of your head, he guided you down to the blanket you’d laid out on the ground hours earlier. The unopened bottle of wine stood untouched within arm's reach.

He was content to lay there with you until the morning – warm in your embrace and soothed by the gentle hum of your breaths. His fingertips traced in patterns along your spine; spirals and circles and following the lines he’d spent admiring from a distance. Then you began to stir, propping a hand up against his chest to get a better look at him.

“Woman of your dreams, huh?” you teased, a brightness returning.

Bucky chuckled. “In this reality and the next, sweetheart.”

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[fandom-cuties]

Princess

Summary : You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

Pairing : Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x CEO!reader

Warnings/tags : implied sex, cursing, mutual pining, canon-typical violence, you have a dad in this one, post FATWS and pre CABNW, forced proximity-ish, slice of life fic taking place over 15-ish months.

Word Count : 16.2k oops

Notes : Hi!!! I just got home from a holiday and I’m still super jetlagged when I realised my queued posts aren't posting! I will post one fic a day until the schedule catches itself up. Will take the next couple of days to reply to all your comments, so please bear with me! Enjoy!

Day 1. 

Bucky grumbled the entire ride to your penthouse, arms crossed like a sulking teenager.

“I’m a super soldier, not a glorified babysitter,” he muttered to Sam as the Quinjet cut smoothly through the air. “I’ve fought aliens. Now I’m stuck protecting some spoiled heiress who probably throws tantrums if her latte isn’t the right milk-to-coffee ratio.”

Sam barely spared him a look, busy in whatever he was reading on his tablet. Bucky glanced over his shoulder— Sam was reading your profile. 

Apparently, someone tipped off that an assassination attempt would target you soon, and it wasn’t a threat Sam took lightly. Your father had gone to him, but still new to his Captain America mantle, Sam had government contracts to fulfill, and passed this private contract to Bucky. “First of all, you don’t know her, so maybe reserve some judgment. Second, this ‘spoiled heiress’ is the acting CEO of one of the most important cybersecurity firms in the world.”

“Acting CEO?” Bucky snorted, leaning his head back against the seat. “That’s just rich kid code for ‘daddy does all the work, and I pretend to help.’”

Sam shot him an unamused look, finally setting the tablet down. “Do you ever stop to think before you talk? This woman keeps half the world’s secrets under lock and key. If she’s taken out, it’s not just her life that’s in danger—it’s the lives of millions of people. National security, Buck. You know, the thing we’re supposed to care about?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, waving his concerns off. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

When Bucky finally made his way to your front door, he was… surprised. 

He convinced himself he was going to be walking into some modern-day palace. He pictured marble floors, gaudy chandeliers, and some butler answering the door for you while you lounged in designer silk pajamas, sipping champagne.

Instead, when the door swung open, his expectations shattered.

The image of a pampered heiress was gone. You were dressed in a crisp, tailored suit, a book in your hand. When you saw him, you looked with mild disinterest before you gave a curt nod.

“Ah. The babysitter,” you said dryly. It was clear that you weren’t thrilled about this arrangement, either.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard for a moment, before frowning. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Right. Babysitter.” Then, without further comment, you stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.

Bucky hesitated, his brows knitting together as he stepped into the apartment. The space was meticulously organised— modern, clean, and completely devoid of the overindulgent luxury he’d envisioned.

As he followed you into what appeared to be your home office, he stopped dead in his tracks. Your desk was a controlled chaos of monitors, blueprints, encrypted code streams, and neatly stacked documents.

You set your book down, not sparing him a glance as you continued your work.

“I told my father I didn’t need one,” you said, sliding into your chair and typing something rapidly.

Bucky could only stare, unsure of what to say. He was ready to handle a woman too busy Instagramming her designer handbags to care about anything important. He was certainly not prepared to face someone who seemed to run her empire like a general commanding an army.

On top of that, Bucky could tell you were frustrated, and honestly, who could blame you?

You had been put under mandatory house quarantine until the assassination threat passed— that’s what your security advisors had decided. Which meant you had to settle for video calls instead of in-person meetings, you had to rely on food delivery instead of doing your own damn groceries, and that you couldn’t work from your office building— you had to take calls and manage the company from your home office. Your world, once meticulously structured under your control, had suddenly shrunk to the square footage of your penthouse.

And the worst part? The only person you were allowed to interact with in person for the foreseeable future was the bodyguard who took the contract: Bucky. He didn’t even seek it out, Sam offered it to him and he reluctantly agreed. You were going to have to spend weeks alone with someone you barely knew. Maybe months. Who knew when the threat would pass?

“What were you expecting?” you asked, finally glancing up from your monitors. “A pretty princess?” you mocked, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

He crossed his arms, furrowing his eyebrows. “You could say that,” he admitted.

“Let me guess,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You thought I’d be… what? Lounging around, eating bonbons, and counting Daddy’s money?”

Bucky’s jaw clicked, the faintest hint of heat creeping up his neck. “Something like that.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Typical.” He could hear you were a bit irritated, but also a bit amused. “Let me make one thing clear, Barnes— I don’t need you here. The only reason you’re standing in my office right now is because my father insisted the assassination threat is a real threat. I think it’s bullshit. So let’s keep this simple: you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

Bucky can help but feel a little bit of admiration. In fact, he found himself both annoyed and oddly intrigued.

“Fine by me,” he said, voice gruff.

As you turned back to your monitors, ignoring him completely, Bucky took a moment to watch you— the way your fingers flew across your keyboard, the slight furrow in your brow as you concentrated.

He’d seen it before, in Howard Stark, in Bruce Banner, in Shuri, and even perhaps, begrudgingly, in Arnim Zola. it was clear you were brilliant, maybe even intimidatingly so.

What he didn’t realise was that you were stealing glances at him too. Irritated, yes, but mostly because the so-called babysitter was annoyingly (and objectively) attractive.

Neither of you said it, but you both were two sides of the same coin: two people who were both frustrated and intrigued by each other.

Day 2.

The first day or so with Bucky was strained, a battle of selfish wills in which neither of you conceded an inch. He was curt and distant. His default expression was a scowl, and you weren’t exactly going out of your way to make him feel welcome. If he thought he could scare you with his threatening looks, he was in for a surprise. You had faced tougher opponents— CEOs, board members, government officials. Compared to them, James Buchanan Barnes was almost charming. Just… almost.

It was just so annoying that he had to live here, with you, in one of your guest bedrooms for god knows how long.

Day 3.

It was late, the kind of late that blurred the lines between night and morning. You were in your office as usual, the glow of your monitors projecting colourful shadows on the walls. That’s when Bucky’s voice startled you.

“Do you ever sleep?”

You looked over the monitors, finding him leaning against the doorway. His hair was slightly tousled, his face softened by the dim light, and he looked… annoyingly attractive.

“Do you ever stop hovering?” you glared back, though the crack in your voice hinted at exhaustion.

“Just doing my job,” he replied, his lips curving into a smug smile. He tilted his head toward your desk. “What’s keeping you up this time?”

You hesitated, glancing at the encrypted files on your screen. “Work.”

“Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s classified.”

“Fine.” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “But you still look like you could use a break.”

His tone surprised you— it wasn’t mocking, or patronizing, it was just… genuine. For a moment, you almost let your guard down. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he muttered, retreating to his post in the living room. But as you turned back to your screen, you couldn’t help noticing the way he lingered in your thoughts longer than he should have.

Day 5.

The next crack in the ice came during an impromptu kitchen encounter. Bucky, ever the stoic, was rummaging through your fridge with a look of increasing disapproval (to be fair, you had given him full access to it the day before).

“Do you eat anything that isn’t green?” he asked, holding up a bottle of your favourite smoothie like it was a biohazard.

“I’m sorry,” you said, folding your arms, “I didn’t realise I needed to stock the fridge for Captain America’s sidekick.”

He turned to glare at you, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. “First of all, I’m not his sidekick. Second, this—” he shook the smoothie for emphasis “—cannot be good.”

“Be my guest,” you challenged, and you knew he wouldn’t turn down the challenge. 

As he lifted his brows, he twisted off the cap and took a long sip. The look of betrayal that crossed his face as he gagged was priceless.

“That made my day,” you said, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.

“God, that’s vile,” he muttered, rinsing his mouth under the sink. But when he turned back, he was grinning, his blue eyes adorably crinkling at the corners.

Your grin widened, and for the first time, the tension between you felt… easier.

Day 7.

By the end of the first week, Bucky had moved his post from the couch in the living room to the armchair across the room to your home office desk. You’d never admit it, but his presence was becoming a source of comfort in your day-to-day isolated life. He’d bring his coffee in the morning and sit there while you worked, making sure no one harmed you. 

This morning, as you typed furiously at your desk, you felt his eyes on you.

“Take a picture,” you said without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”

He snorted, ignoring your remark, though he didn’t know how to really respond to it without denying it. 

Week 2.

The teasing had become second nature by now. 

Over the last couple of days, Bucky started finding reasons to linger— whether it be sitting closer to you during your brief movie breaks, offering to carry things that you could definitely carry yourself, or asking questions about your job that he probably didn’t even understand.

Today, you were standing on the balcony, staring out at the glittering city lights when Bucky joined you.

“Not bad,” he said, leaning on the railing beside you.

“You mean the view?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Sure,” he replied, but his eyes weren’t glued to the skyline. They were on you.

You leaned in closer. your shoulder brushing his. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through your spine, and you swore he looked at you like he’d had, too.

“Something on your mind, Barnes?”

He smirked. “Just wondering what you’d do without me.”

“Sleep better, for one,” you quipped, though your voice was just a bit gentler than usual.

He chuckled kindly. “I think you’d miss me.”

I think so, too, you wanted to say, but kept your mouth shut. 

Week 3.

The line between professionalism and… whatever this was became increasingly blurred. You caught him watching you more often, studying you as if his days with you were numbered. It was as if he was desperately trying to memorise your face. 

You’re thought weren’t exactly innocent either. You noticed the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders during workouts in your home gym, the way his stubble framed his face, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking of: him. 

This afternoon, you found yourself standing closer to him than necessary as he handed you a cup of coffee. 

“Thanks,” you said, shyer than usual.

“Anytime,” he replied, heartbeat racing in his chest.

The moment passed, but the tension didn’t.

Week 4.

Bucky had always been good at noticing patterns, that’s why he was an expert in tracking enemy movements and ambush tactics.

So, of course, he noticed your pattern, albeit in a more… innocent manner. He noticed the way you skipped meals, ran on caffeine, and buried yourself in work until exhaustion practically dragged you under. 

At first, he figured it wasn’t his problem. You were a grown woman, fully capable of making your own choices. But somewhere along the way, he started caring.

And when Bucky Barnes cared, he didn’t do it halfway.

So, on the first day of the fourth week, he placed a plate of food on your desk. You didn’t look up, just kept typing.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Then don’t leave the desk. Just eat here.” He insisted.

You finally glanced at the plate— it was Italian takeout. Nothing fancy, but definitely better than your usual liquid diet. You looked up at him. “I’m not a child, Barnes.”

“Look, you haven’t eaten a full meal in days,” He crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping against his bicep. “If you collapse, you’re gonna make my job harder.”

You sighed, glaring at him. He simply raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

“Fine,” you gave in, stabbing a fork into the food. As soon as the food entered your system, you realised how right he was. Everything hurt a little less, even when you hadn’t noticed it hurting in the first place. “You know, for someone who claims to be my bodyguard and not my babysitter, you sure act like one.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Just eat your damn food.”

After that, it became a thing.

At first, he made a point to bring you food just to annoy you. But the more he did it, the more he found himself relieved that you’re keeping yourself alive.

One night, he even cooked.

You walked into the kitchen for a short water break to find him at the stove with both sleeves rolled up. You crossed your arms, watching him with a smile.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

He didn’t look up as he plated dinner for two. It wasn’t part of the job, but he found himself wanting to do it.

Month Two. 

Like clockwork, Bucky would plop a plate of food on your desk at least once a day. And you had fully accepted that you weren’t getting out of it.

So, one evening, when he placed dinner in front of you and made himself comfortable in his armchair across the room to eat his dinner, you frowned. “Why do you always eat all the way over there?”

He glanced up, mid-bite. “Because this is where I sit.”

“I mean— I know that, but,” You rolled your eyes, gesturing at the empty seat beside you. “Just sit here. Might as well.”

Bucky hesitated, eyebrows raising slightly. “Might as well?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze by stabbing at your food. “You’re already making sure I don’t starve. We might as well eat at the same desk. At least I’ll have…” You trailed off, suddenly a bit too self-conscious.

His lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “Company?”

You scoffed. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

Still, he pushed himself up and took the seat across from you, resting his metal forearm on the desk. The two of you ate in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

“Y’know, if you wanted a friend, you could just say so.”

You shot him a flat look. “Oh, please. If I wanted a friend, I’d get a cat.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’d be a terrible cat owner.”

“Why?”

He took a sip of water. “You barely remember to feed yourself. The poor cat wouldn’t last a week.”

“Shut up, Barnes.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, taking another bite.

And just like that, it became routine. Every night, he pulled up a chair at your desk, and you ate together. Somehow, it was starting to feel like the best part of your day.

One night, you finally asked a question that had been on your mind for a while. “How much of your arm is vibranium?”

Bucky froze for a second, fork hovering midair. “Why?”

You shrugged, typing something quickly before taking another bite. “Curious.”

He hesitated, then slowly set his fork down. “It’s all vibranium now. Wakandan upgrade.”

You nodded, eyes trailing over his arm, impressed. “The integration with your nervous system must be seamless for the reaction time you have.”

His lips twitched, somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Most people just ask if it’s heavy.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a stupid question. Weight distribution clearly isn’t an issue, considering you fight like it’s part of you.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. Most people looked at his arm like a weapon, an extension of his failures. He knew it wasn’t Hydra anymore, but it wasn’t exactly comforting knowing it was the reason he was here, now. But you… you were looking at it like technology. He realised that it was the only language you understood.

“Oh.” He could only say.

“W-we don’t have to talk about this anymore,” you quickly backtracked, unsure how to read his response. “I know it can’t feel good to talk about your uh… your past.”

“Did… you read my file?” he finally said, voice quieter now.

You hesitated, fingers stilling on your keyboard. “… yes.”

A pang of guilt flashed across his face. “So you know everything.”

“I know what the files say,” you admitted. “Which is different from knowing you.”

Bucky tapped his metal fingers against the plate absentmindedly. “And what do they say?”

You considered your words carefully. “That Hydra turned you into an asset. That they wiped your memories, controlled you.”

He looked away. “Sounds about right.”

He didn’t like talking about this— you knew that. So, softly, you said, “That’s not who you are now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched. He swallowed, the muscle on his neck flexing. “Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. “It does.”

And just like that, you realised you weren’t just tolerating each other anymore. You were understanding each other.

Month Three.

It wasn’t long before Bucky became comfortable enough to just sit next to your desk, even when you weren’t eating. At first, it was a little odd—he’d just sit there in silence, watching you with that signature stare.

“If you’re going to sit there like a guard dog, at least read something,” you said, grabbing a book from the stack on your desk and handing it to him.

Bucky took it, turning it over in his hands before reading the title. He snorted. “This is some dense reading, doll.”

You raised an eyebrow, mostly at the increasing use of pet names over the last few days. Not that you were complaining. “I thought you were a hundred years old.”

“I am.” He said. “Doesn’t mean I want to spend my day reading Advanced Cryptography and Security Protocols.”

But he read it anyway.

That became a thing, too. When you worked, Bucky sat across from you, flipping through one of your books. And that led to more conversations.

“So, explain this part to me.”“No, Bucky, I’m not giving you a lecture at midnight.”“Why not? You love hearing yourself talk.”

“Wait, this actually makes sense. The firewall acts like a shield.”“Yes, exactly! It’s kind of like—”“Like a cap’s shield being hit by a laser beam.”“I hate that that analogy works.”

Month Four.

Bucky had been through a lot in his lifetime, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the absolute terror in your voice when you screamed from your bathroom.

His blood ran cold.

The worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

This was it. Someone had broken in. The assassination attempt must be happening now.

Bucky bolted down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t even think. 

His shoulder slammed against your bathroom door, forcing it open—

Only to be met with you.

Standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

His brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds before he snapped back to reality. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the threat. “What happened? Where are they?”

You blinked. “Where’s who?”

“The assassin!” His hands curled into fists, ready to end someone.

You just… stared at him. Then, slowly, you lifted one hand and pointed toward the corner of the bathroom.

Bucky followed your finger.

There, in the corner, sat a spider. A tiny spider.

Bucky’s eyes twitched. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You crossed your arms, holding the towel tightly around yourself. “Kill it,” you whispered.

He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. “You screamed bloody murder… for this?”

“Yes!” You gestured aggressively toward the tiny intruder. “It lunged at me.”

Bucky gave you the flattest known to man. “I’m sure it did.”

“It did!”

The spider, for its part, remained still.

With an exaggerated sigh, Bucky stepped forward, reached out, and plucked the spider off the wall with his bare hand.

You gasped. “What the—Bucky!”

He rolled his eyes, walking over to the window. “Relax.”

You backed up toward the sink, clutching your towel like it was a shield. “You touched it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“With your human hand.”

“Mmm.” He slid open the window and dipped it on the windowsill. “Crisis averted.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fuck, thank you.”

Bucky turned back around, ready to deliver some sarcastic remark—

And then his brain finally caught up with what was happening.

But what was really distracting was the fact that you were still standing there, dripping wet, wearing close to nothing. He shouldn’t be staring.

He should not be staring.

And yet, here he was, looking at the curves your skin molded. The way your collarbone peeked out just above the towel. The droplets of water trailing down—

Nope. Abort mission.

He tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “So, just to be clear… the tough CEO of a cybersecurity empire, the woman who runs meetings with government officials like they’re her subjects… you are scared of a tiny spider?”

You scowled. “First of all, it was huge—”

“It was not.”

“—and second, yes, I am, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “… but it’s just a spider.”

You glared. “Get out of my bathroom, Barnes.”

And ever since then, you have been more comfortable around Bucky. To be fair, he had seen you almost naked, and to your surprise… things hadn’t gotten weird.

Well, until one night… 

You were sitting on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through channels, when Bucky joined you, his presence a quiet weight beside you.

“You ever stop working?” he asked when you noticed you were still arranging charts on your tablet, even in your downtime.

“No,” you replied, glancing at him, “what about you, do you ever think you’ll stop working?”

Bucky shrugged, “I take breaks all the time.”

“I mean,” you finally put your tablet down, “I mean… for good.”

Bucky squinted at you, “like retiring?”

You could only nod.

For once, there was no teasing in his eyes, “Maybe I should,” he finally said, “get a farm, settle down.”

You gulped when he leaned closer, his arm brushing yours.

“Sounds nice,” you whispered.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long time. And though nothing really happened that night, you knew it was inevitable.

Then, it was mid-morning the next time anything notable happened. You were just hanging up from yet another tense phone call with your father. You tossed your phone onto your desk with a little more force than necessary and sighed, leaning back in your chair.

Bucky, who had been leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, raised a brow. “Rough call?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “My dad is impossible. He’s always checking in, double-checking, triple-checking everything I do like I’m still twelve. It’s exhausting.”

Bucky walked in and settled in the chair across from you, crossing his arms. “Sounds like he cares.”

“Yeah, well, caring is one thing,” you said, your frustration bubbling over. “This is micromanaging. He doesn’t trust me to make a single decision on my own. To him, I’m just a kid playing dress-up.”

Bucky tilted his head, sipping his coffee.

“And then,” you continued, pacing in front of your desk now, “He insists on sending a bodyguard—sorry, babysitter—like I’m some helpless damsel in distress. It’s ridiculous! I mean, It’s not like you’re bad company or anything—��

“Appreciate that,” he said dryly.

“—but it’s like he doesn’t trust me to handle myself. I’ve worked so hard, Bucky. So hard. And he still treats me like some little girl who can’t handle the real world.”

At that, Bucky chuckled and muttered under his breath, “There’s the spoiled princess I was expecting on day one.”

You froze mid-pace, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said innocently. “I’m not saying you’re ungrateful.” He paused, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “Or maybe… just a little.”

Your jaw dropped, sitting on your desk and looking down at him. “Excuse me?” You demanded.

“Look,” he said, shrugging, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying… People have harder lives than you, Princess. People would kill for a dad who loved them, who cared enough to be overbearing. Your dad loves you. That’s why I’m here— because he cares.”

You opened your mouth to respond with some smart-ass comments, but then closed it again. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. “That’s…,” you said begrudgingly, “that’s— you’re… right.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Glad you see it my way.”

You rolled your eyes, but a sad smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “To be fair, you’re not the worst part of this arrangement. At least I get some eye candy out of it.”

Bucky choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide. “What?”

“What?” you said nonchalantly, leaning against your desk. “I’ve got a little crush on you. No big deal.”

“Crush?” he repeated, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“Don’t act so surprised.” You shrugged, feigning indifference, though your heart was hammering out of yourself. It didn’t matter, right? Someone had to say it, and it might as well be you. “I know you find me attractive too. I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His mouth opened, then closed again as a deep blush spread across his cheeks. “I—uh—well—”

“You’re not subtle,” you teased, biting back a laugh at his flustered expression.

Bucky groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… fuck.”

His shyness was disarming, and you couldn’t help finding it endearing.

For a moment, you both stood there, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Then you sighed, breaking the silence. “But there’s nothing we could do about it anyway.”

Bucky frowned, his blush fading slightly. “Why not?”

“Oh, you know,” you said as if it was obvious. “Professionalism. My dad hired you. Technically, I’m the acting CEO, which makes you my subordinate. Power dynamics and all that. Workplace misconduct. Can’t have that, right?”

“Right,” Bucky echoed, though the reluctance in his tone was impossible to miss.

“We’re professionals,” you said, almost as if trying to convince yourself. “Right?”

“Right,” he said again.

That night, as you said good night to Bucky, you realised you were in trouble. Serious, heart-racing, palm-sweating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him trouble. And judging by the way Bucky had looked at you, he was too.

Month five. 

You were starting to think the assassination threat was just that. A threat. 

Oh, you were proven wrong.  

One moment, you were wrapping up a phone call in your office, and the next, a muffled explosion rocked the building. The power flickered, your monitors shut off, and the emergency lights bathed the room in an eerie red glow.

Bucky was already moving, shoving you behind the massive desk as he scanned the room with quick, practiced precision.

“Stay down,” he barked, pulling his gun from its holster just as the door to your office was kicked open.

Three armed men stormed in, their faces masked, their weapons raised. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He fired twice, taking out the first man with a clean shot to the shoulder. The second dropped his weapon as a bullet clipped his hand, and Bucky was on him in seconds.

The third man lunged toward you.

Big mistake.

You grabbed the heavy paperweight on your desk and hurled it with surprising accuracy, catching him square in the jaw. He stumbled, and before he could recover you kicked out, your heel connecting with his knee. Perhaps you were riding on adrenaline, but that was satisfying. He collapsed with a grunt, and you didn’t hesitate to grab his dropped glock, aiming it at his chest.

“Don’t,” you warned.

The man froze, his eyes wide as Bucky turned to glance at you. “Remind me not to underestimate you,” Bucky muttered, finishing off the last of the attackers with a solid punch that left the man crumbling on the floor.

The commotion outside the office was growing louder— you could hear more shouts, and footsteps. Bucky grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the door. “We’re not done,” he said.

The rest of the fight was a blur of chaos and adrenaline. More assailants flooded the building. And even as Bucky led the charge, you managed to hold your own. While he handled the bulk of the attackers, you were able to incapacitate two of the men who had the audacity to think you couldn’t throw a punch.

When the dust finally settled, the assailants were either unconscious or restrained, their weapons scattered and useless. Sirens wailed in the distance— authorities that Bucky had alerted. 

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath as Bucky surveyed the scene. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. You?”

“Been through worse,” he reassured. 

Later that afternoon, you were seated on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, the adrenaline finally wearing off. Bucky stood nearby, his arms crossed, his.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I guess my job here is done.”

You looked at him, your chest hurting slightly at the thought of him leaving. “I guess so.”

There was an awkward pause before he cleared his throat. “If you ever need, uh, bodyguard services again—like, if you’re traveling or something—just let me know.”

That made you laugh, though there was no real humor in it. “I think I’m good, Barnes. I don’t want you working for me anymore.”

Oh. 

Oh. You didn’t want him around? What… what changed?

Were you just married to your job? Did you think he was going to become a distraction, an obstacle? 

Sadness flickered across his face—but he masked it quickly. “Right. Of course.”

You hesitated, studying him. The way he stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, avoiding your eyes—it made your heart ache.

“Bucky,” you said softly, standing up and walking to him until you were standing just a foot away.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice quieter now.

“You know why you can’t work for me anymore, right?”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

Instead of answering, you reached up and pulled him down, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that was sudden, intense, and utterly consuming. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back with equal passion.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours as he stared at you, his blue eyes wide.

“That’s why,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. 

Bucky blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Right.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you teased again, echoing your previous conversation.

“I’m not,” he said, but failed to hide the blush crawling up his neck. 

You chuckled, your fingers brushing against his jawline. “So, what do you say, Barnes? Think you can handle a spoiled princess like me?”

His hands gripped your waist a little tighter. “Pretty sure I already have.”

And when he kissed you again, he couldn’t possibly imagine letting you go. 

Month six.

After the threat had been neutralised, you were allowed out of the house again. Stepping back into your office building felt like reclaiming a piece of yourself. No longer confined to the solitude of your home, you could finally immerse yourself back into the workspace. And your office, oh how wonderful it was to have it back. 

It had always been more than just four walls and a desk to you; it was a sanctuary, a fortress. Every detail, from the sleek desk to the subtle personal touches, reflected both your meticulous nature and your need for control in a world that rarely offered it.

And dating Bucky Barnes was just the cherry on top.

Of course, by now those who worked closest to you knew about him— how could they not? He was the only one you ever allowed inside with unquestioned access. Still, they had to sign NDAs, just in case. You weren’t ready for the world to see you with him yet—not because you didn’t want to show him off, and certainly not because you were ashamed. But your relationship with Bucky was a ticking time bomb, a potential scandal waiting to happen. 

What would the world think of you, a high-profile cybersecurity CEO with government contracts spanning the globe, romantically involved with a freelance superhero with a past that made governments nervous? That would make headlines and invite scrutiny you couldn’t afford. For now, keeping your relationship under wraps was the only way to protect Bucky. 

That was why, beyond that small working circle, no one had a clue that you were dating him. Not even your father, who lived comfortably in semi-retirement a few countries away.

The first month of dating Bucky was equal parts exhilarating and intimate. There was the night he cooked a proper dinner at your place. You had laughed when he furrowed his brow in concentration as he scrolled through a recipe on his phone like it was a mission briefing. Later, he sat on your couch, fingers lazily tracing circles on your waist as you talked about nothing and everything, just being there for you as your boyfriend and not your bodyguard. 

Then there was the time he surprised you at the office late one evening. You had been drowning in reports, when he walked in with a donut and hot chocolate in hand. “Figured you needed a snack,” he had said, placing the bag on your desk.

Of course, there were the challenges, too. The first time he stayed over, he woke up before dawn, hyperventilating, fists clenched in the sheets. You just reached for his hand and whispered sweet reassurances in his ears. 

When he let out a shaky breath and laced his fingers with yours, you held on until he fell back asleep. 

He never said much about those nights, but he always held you a little tighter the next morning, as if grateful you were still there.

Month Seven. 

One particularly hectic afternoon, you sat at your desk, surrounded by stacks of reports that seemed to multiply the more you worked through them. Your brows furrowed as you scribbled notes in the margins, the pen in your hand moving with exhausted strokes. 

You didn’t hear him come in.

Bucky had a way of moving like a shadow, the ex-assassin that he was, always watching before making his presence known. This time was no different. You felt him before you saw him when you caught a faint whiff of leather and steel.

“You’re going to burn out, you know,” he murmured, his voice a rasp that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Nope,” you replied, not bothering to look up, “not today.”

But then he stepped, his fingers brushing the small of your back. And then he leaned in. Close enough for you to feel his breath against the shell of your ear.

“You work too hard,” he murmured, tone smooth as silk.

You smiled sadly, still keeping your eyes on the document in front of you. “And you don’t work hard enough.” The words were a tease. You both knew they weren’t true, it’s just that world-ending threats weren’t exactly a daily occurrence.

Bucky chuckled, that deep, rich sound that sent warmth blooming in your chest. Before you could react, Bucky spun your chair, and suddenly you were facing him.

Your pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the desk.

He towered over you, his hands braced on the armrests, trapping you. His blue eyes darkened, flickering between your lips and your eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Say that again. I dare you, Princess.”

The nickname sent a chill through your spine, though you’d never admit it. Your lips parted to reply with another half-hearted joke, but you never got the chance.

Bucky’s lips were on yours before you could think. It was slow at first, like he was teasing, testing. His fingers slid from the armrest to your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss. And you gave in. Always. 

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer as heat flared low in your belly. He tasted like coffee and vanilla— and it was addictive. The world outside faded, the reports forgotten, because all you could think about was the intoxicating drag of his lips against yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and aching for more.

“Think I’m working hard enough now?” His voice was rough against your skin.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

Bucky smirked that cocky, confident, and  devastatingly handsome smile of his. “Yes, ma’am.”

This time, the kiss was hungrier. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward until you were perched on the very edge of your chair, your knees brushing his thighs. You gasped as he took full control, tilting your head back as his tongue swept against yours in a slow stroke that had fireworks exploding low in your stomach.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, earning a low groan.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, logic whispered that this was your office, that the walls weren’t exactly soundproof, that anyone of your clients could walk in. But when Bucky kissed you like this, it was impossible to care.

His hand skimmed the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the hem of your blouse. You felt his hesitation, and you answered by pulling him impossibly closer.

Month Eight.

Late nights in Bucky’s apartment became your favourite escape from the chaos of your life. It wasn’t extravagant and fine-art decorated like your penthouse, but it was him. The mismatched furniture, the slightly scuffed hardwood floors, the mud stains on the carpet, and the faint smell of aftershave made it feel lived-in.

Sure, your penthouse was bigger—modern and intimidatingly expensive—but it was cold. It was sterile, and you had made sure it stayed that way, because it was designed for hosting high-profile clients and meetings, not for unwinding. Not to make a charming mess in. Everything was neutral because it had to be. The few personal touches you’d tried to add had been swallowed by the size of the place, but Bucky’s apartment, on the other hand, felt like home.

One night, as you sat cross-legged on his couch in a pair of leggings and one of his old Henleys, you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh. 

Bucky was unpacking a greasy bag of Chinese takeout, carefully arranging the cartons on the coffee table like it was some kind of grand feast. He glanced at you sheepishly.

“Sorry it’s not… y’know, fancy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you were used to dating guys who paid for five-course meals or somethin’.”

Before accepting the bodyguard contract, he had done his homework on you. He’d looked into your background, your lifestyle, your friends and family, and, perhaps most frustratingly, your dating history: the it-guys, the celebrities, the athletes. He was none of those things.

He would never say it outright, but some nights, he would feel insecure about it. 

He’d fret that creeping feeling that it wasn’t enough because he spent so long being feared when your past lovers had been admired. But what he didn’t seem to understand was that, to you, he was worth so much more. He wasn’t drawn to your money or the power. He saw you for you—not for your name, not for your influence. And that made him better than every single one of your shitty exes.

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh, no,” you said quickly, leaning forward and reaching for his human hand. “What are you apologising for? I love this.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a still-skeptical smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I can’t even remember the last time I felt this… normal.” You picked up one of the cartons that contained lo mein. “No cameras, no meetings, no press conferences. Just greasy takeout and…” You gestured vaguely to the room. “... you. Us. This is perfect.”

A faint blush crept up his neck as he sat beside you. “Didn’t think ‘normal’ would be high on your list of things to love, princess.”

You chuckled, scooping a bite of noodles onto your chopsticks. “You’d be surprised. The whole ‘spoiled rich girl’ thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How so?”

You hesitated, toying with your food. “It’s like… you’re in this golden cage. Everything you do is scrutinized, and… it gets… lonely. “

Bucky nodded, almost giving you permission to go on. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you continued, “I’m grateful for… everything. I know I was born with an insane privilege. But it’s exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations all the time, you know?”

“Sounds rough, Princess,” he shook his head. “Almost makes my life of alien invasions and missions sound easy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Hm,” he said, feeding you a little bit of sweet and sour chicken, “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You leaned back slightly. “What, did you think your princess couldn’t handle a night in Brooklyn?”

“Guess I was wrong,” he shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The rest of the night included sweet conversation, kisses, and laughter. You leaned against him, listening to him recount stories about his time in Brooklyn before in the 40s. He listened just as intently when you opened up about your father’s expectations, your struggles to prove yourself.

When the food was gone, you found yourself curled up in his arms, your head resting against his chest.

And to think you hated the idea of him just months ago. 

Month Nine.

It started small, of course—practical, subtle gestures you could justify as "just looking out for him." Bucky wasn’t the kind of man to ask for anything, so you had to fill in the gaps yourself. 

You bought him a new pair of waterproof boots after you noticed his old ones had a tear on their side. He grumbled and said “I didn’t need them”, but the next time it rained, there he was, thankful you did buy them.

But it didn’t stop there.

You ordered him a tactical knife after seeing it in catalogue and couldn’t resist. It was sleek, durable, and so perfectly Bucky. 

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously when you handed it to him, like the idea of receiving gifts was still foreign to him.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you replied, your voice light, your heart racing at his reaction.

Bucky stared at the knife for a moment, then at you, “You… you didn’t have to.”

“You deserve it,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against his.

He laughed. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten.”

You took that as a challenge.

Because once you realised how much Bucky secretly loved being cared for (despite the grumbling and insisting that it was too much), you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted him safe and comfortable. And, maybe selfishly, you wanted to see that stunned, almost vulnerable smile he had when you gave him something new.

A custom upgrade for his arm was next, complete with enhanced plating, fine-tuned joint control, and a sleek matte-black finish. You had worked together with Shuri to get it to him, making sure to give him some… personalised software upgrades in the process. When you gave it to him one evening, he stared at the box, then at you, before finally pulling you into his lap with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he joked, thanking you profusely with kisses afterwards.

Month Ten. 

Then there was the tactical suit.

It had taken weeks of planning, but it was worth it. You had meetings with the best designers in the industry (Luke Jacobson was an honour to work with) and came up with reinforced kevlar, adaptive camouflage, and more holsters than he probably needed. When you presented it to Bucky, you’d half-expected him to refuse it outright.

Instead, he stood frozen, stunned as he turned the suit over in his hands. “You got this? For me?”

“Who else, James?” you teased, pretending to fuss with his hair just to see him scowl. “You’re the only super-soldier boyfriend I’ve got.”

Sam caught on fast.

“So,” Sam started casually one day as they cleaned their gear. “Where’d you get the fancy new suit?”

Bucky barely looked up. “What suit?”

Sam pointed at the table. “The ones that look like they belong in a vault.”

Bucky rolled eyes, turning his attention back to his new gear. “They’re not that fancy.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Sam whistled, “You’ve got yourself a rich girlfriend, don’t you?”

Bucky glared at him, but the faint pink creeping up his neck gave him away.

“And to think,” Sam rambled on, clearly enjoying being right, “you whined about being her bodyguard for four months. Now look at you—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

The towel Bucky threw hit Sam square in the face, but it did nothing to hide the telltale blush that had spread to his ears.

The truth was, Bucky wasn’t used to anyone noticing the little things he needed, let alone going out of their way to provide for him. But the more time you spent together, the more you noticed everything. 

The worn-out gloves he wore on missions? You replaced them with a pair lined with heat-retaining tech. The ancient motorcycle helmet he refused to replace? You handed him a new, high-tech model with advanced HUD capabilities. The faint shadows under his eyes after sleepless nights? You arranged for the softest, most luxurious bedding money could buy, complete with blackout curtains for his room.

“You can’t keep buying me things,” he told you half-heartedly one evening as he tested the thermal lining of a new jacket you’d slipped into his closet.

You only shrugged. “Sure I can.”

He gave you a look, both exasperation and affection present in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you, and I want you to be safe.” Your voice softened. “You’ve spent so much time fighting for everyone else, Bucky. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

He didn’t respond right away. But later that night, as you lay curled up together, he kissed the top of your head and mumbled “thank you.”

You knew he loved it—being spoiled, being cared for—even if he’d never admit it.

Month ten. 

Bucky’s version of spoiling you was less flashy but still every bit as thoughtful. Where you splurged on gifts, whisking him off on surprise weekends to private villas or showering him with new tech he insisted he didn’t need, he poured his affection into acts of service. It started small. He stocked his kitchen with your favorite coffee blend, even though he rarely drank the stuff himself. “A man can learn to make an espresso,” he’d said with a casual shrug, but the first time you saw him carefully frothing milk to perfection, you realized it was his way of saying I love you.

Then there were the notes. You’d find them tucked into your purse or slipped into your laptop bag before work, little scribbles in his tidy handwriting. Sometimes they were sweet, like “Don’t forget to take breaks.” Other times, they were cheeky: “Try not to buy another building today, Rockefeller.”

But it was in the kitchen where Bucky really poured his heart into spoiling you.

One particularly brutal day, you’d stumbled into his apartment late, your heels dangling from one hand and your bag slung over the other shoulder. You were ready to crash out but the moment you walked in, you could smell the love.

“What’s all this?” you asked, padding into the kitchen barefoot, watching as he stirred something on the stove. His broad shoulders stretched his shirt, the sight of him standing there so domestic making your heart melt.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes lighting up. “Dinner,” he said simply. “Figured you’d had a hell of a day.”

After dinner— a hearty stew, crusty bread he’d bought fresh, and a glass of your favorite wine—you were sprawled on his couch, your legs draped across his lap, a blanket pulled over you both, his metal thumb absentmindedly rubbing your calves. 

Month Eleven. 

On Valentine’s Day, you handed him a plain white envelope. He took it with a curious smile, but as he slid out the paper inside, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

He was expecting a fancy gift card, not the paid-off deed to his apartment.

He just stared, breath hitching as his brows pulled together, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

“Doll, you didn’t—” His voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Of course I did.” You smiled, slipping onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love this place. It’s yours now.”

He laughed, almost nervously, fingers curled around the paper as though he didn’t really believe it. “You didn’t have to—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. “I know,” you muttered, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “But you’ve given me so much more than money could ever buy. Let me do this. Please.”

His arms tightened around you, 

“And—” you hesitated, looking into his beautiful blue eyes and wanting him to understand. “It’s not like it’s ours. It’s yours. Only your name is on that paper. No strings. No expectations. Just… peace of mind.” You nudged your nose against his. “So you never have to worry about this again.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hands curled the fabric of your shirt. “Thank you, he mumbled, “I— I love you, princess.”

You only smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”

Year One, Month One.

Your penthouse has become even more of a sterile workplace than ever before. It was perfect for entertaining, but never felt quite real. It wasn’t home. 

Bucky’s apartment, though—that felt more and more like capital H home.  

It was where you smelled of freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, where the couch cushions were always just a little lopsided from the way he curled up with a book, where you’d kick off your heels when you got back. It was where he pressed a kiss to your forehead after a long day at work, where grabbed your toothbrush before bed, where he made you feel like the richest woman in the world with a love that couldn’t be bought.  

Tonight, the air didn’t feel so suffocating. Bucky walked beside you through the quiet streets of Brooklyn, his gloved fingers laced with yours. 

Bucky let out a small sigh, stealing a glance at you. “You know, princess… you practically live with me already.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Mmhmm?”

“Your shoes are by the door, your clothes are in my drawers,” he pointed out, “I can’t remember the last time we actually slept at your penthouse. Even my fridge has more of your favorite snacks than mine.”

You let out a chuckle , but he wasn’t done.

“Move in with me. Officially.” His voice was quiet but sure, and so heartbreakingly filled with hope. 

You let out a small laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Bucky, we’ve only been together, what? Eight months?”  

“Almost a year,” he corrected.

“We’ve only known each other for a year, Bucky,” you pointed out. 

“So?” He turned slightly, stopping at the corner. “We spend most nights there anyway. What difference does it make?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But it wasn’t that simple.

“You know how this works,” you said softly. “One of these days, I’m going to get caught sneaking in and out of your place, and when that happens, it’s going to be a thing for the press. I don’t need a moving van, making it worse.”  

Bucky’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t argue. He exhaled, tilting his head with that maddening smile. “Then do it slowly. One bag at a time.”  

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’ll take forever.”  

Bucky shrugged. “I have time.”  

You stared at him for a long time, at the man who had taken your chaotic world and turned it into something worth coming home to.  

“Not now,” you said finally, “But one day.”  

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll hold you to that, princess.”

Year One, Month Two.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Bucky said as he appeared in your office doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you like he could see straight through the exhaustion behind your eyes.

He stepped inside, bracing his hands on the edge of your desk as he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the leather and metal.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “If I don’t keep up, I’ll have half the world breathing down my neck.”

“They do it anyway,” Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

Before you could protest, he was already dragging you out of your chair, stealing your work phone right from your grasp and slipping it into his pocket.

“Bucky—”

“Later.” He laced his fingers through yours, pulling you out of the building. You sighed, but you knew it was for the best. Bucky could tell you were slowly losing your mind in your work, and he was right— you needed a break. 

When he dragged you out, the city was alive around you, and you wouldn’t trade your hand in Bucky’s for the world. Yet, the idea of work still gnawed at you. Your free hand moved towards your pocket—only to find it empty. Your eyes flickered to Bucky’s jacket, where he’d stashed your phone, and he caught it immediately.

Without warning, he veered off-course, steering you into a dimly lit alleyway between two old brownstones. 

“Bucky, what are we—”

He didn’t let you finish.

His hands framed your face, palms cradling your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. His lips crashed onto yours, cutting off whatever half-hearted argument you might have had.

The kiss was slow at first. Like he needed you to feel this—his frustration, his longing, the way he missed you even when you were right beside him. 

You gripped at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before slipping beneath, your palms meeting the hard muscle of his abdomen. He groaned into your mouth as one of his hands slid down, skimming over your waist, gripping your hip like he was staking a claim.

Your back hit the brick wall, and his mouth traveled along your jaw to down the column of your throat, each kiss intended as a brand, a distraction, a reminder of everything you’d been neglecting in the name of work.

“Bucky,” you whispered, nails dragging along the bare skin of his back. His name had never sounded quite that desperate before—half moan, half plea—and he felt it.

“Do you ever stop?” he murmured. You barely had time to process before he kissed you again. 

He let out a quiet groan against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest and settling low in your stomach.

His grip tightened on the curve of your bum as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You gasped, heat pooled in your core, your mind turning hazy and drunk off his taste. 

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, a little cocky, a little breathless. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he murmured. “You looked like you needed a distraction.” His hands hadn’t left you, his thumbs still tracing maddening circles against your skin.

“Hmm,” you sighed, eyes half-lidded with want. And you knew exactly what you wanted when you went back to your office. “You succeeded.”

He hummed in satisfaction, but suddenly, body tensed, just for a second. He tried looking to the far end of the alley and found nothing. Did he hear something? Footsteps, maybe?

“Bucky?”

It was probably nothing. Probably no one.

And yet, his arm curled around you just a little tighter.

The next day, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Calls, messages, and alerts were stacking up faster than you could dismiss them. 

You didn’t realise why until you saw the news. 

Shit.

“Heiress and Assassin: Secret Romance or Conflict of Interest?”

Your breath hitched as you stared at the screen. The accompanying photo was unmistakable— Bucky kissing you in the alley, your fingers twisted in his jacket like he was the only thing that mattered to you.

The image was grainy, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.

Your assistant rushed in with a tablet in hand, her face pale.

“You need to see this.”

“I’ve already seen it,” you said, not looking up. 

The story had gone live less than an hour ago, but your company’s media monitoring team flagged its progress within minutes. 

Your desk phone rang, and you had a couple guesses on who it could be. Bucky. The PR team. The board. Government contacts who normally kept their distance unless something was on fire. Your father. Your inbox soon filled up with official statements demanding explanations, thinly veiled threats wrapped in professional language.

“The diplomatic channels are blowing up,” your lead strategist announced when you stepped into the emergency briefing. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto you as if you alone held a gallon of water that could put out this fire.

“They’re questioning your judgment,” he continued, tapping at the stack of reports in front of him. “The optics of being involved with someone like Barnes, his past, his ties to the original Avengers, are problematic, to say the least.”

“They’re worried I’m compromising national security,” you said flatly, “Because of a kiss?”

“Because of what it represents,” he corrected. “You’re the acting CEO of the most powerful cybersecurity firm in the world. Governments trust us to protect their most sensitive data. And now they’re wondering if you’re using that position to—”

“To sell them out to the public-facing heroes?” you snapped, though you knew this scrutiny would come sooner or later. “That’s absurd. You all know me better than that.”

“It’s not about what’s true,” your PR director cut in, her sentences coming in clipped. “It’s about what looks true.”

By the time you got to Bucky’s home that night, your head was pounding, your nerves frayed from the day’s endless barrage of scrutiny. You had looked over your shoulder more times than you could count, half-expecting to see a reporter lurking in the shadows or a government agent ready to pull you in for questioning. The paranoia was sinking its teeth into you.

The second you stepped inside, you kicked off your heels and slumped onto the couch, pressing your fingers to your temples in a desperate attempt to ease the tension pooling there.

Bucky was already by your side, jaw tight as he scrolled through the headlines on his phone. The dim glow from the screen cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look every bit as dangerous as they made him out to be.

“‘Heiress Caught in Lip-Lock with Winter Soldier,’” he read aloud, his tone dripping with disdain. “Really? That’s the best they could come up with? Do these people have nothing better to write about?”

You let out a dry laugh. “It’s not just the tabloids, Buck. This is more than gossip columns and viral photos.” You sighed, dropping your head back against the armrest of the couch. “Governments are questioning whether their data is safe with me. My credibility?” You raised your hands, mimicking an explosion, “Hanging by a thread.”

Bucky set his phone down, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to sit even closer to you. “This isn’t your fault,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with… guilt.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “But it doesn’t matter. Perception is reality. And right now, the whole world thinks I’m compromised.”

Bucky cursed under his breath. His hand found yours, his vibranium fingers cool yet grounding against your skin. He held on a little too tight, like he wished he could shield you from all of this. Like he blamed himself.

“What can I do?” he asked, low and urgent.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Nothing. I just have to fix this.”

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let out a slow breath, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to fix anything,” he muttered. “They don’t get to question your loyalty because of me.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning to him, squeezing his hand. “But they do anyway.”

When he looked away, you could see it— the self-recrimination, the way he was blaming himself for this. He was the one who convinced you to go for a walk, the one who pulled you into the alleyway because he just couldn’t fucking help himself.

“This isn’t on you, Bucky,” you said gently, tilting his chin toward you. “We both knew what we were getting into.”

“Did we?” he asked. “Because I thought you wouldn’t have to pay for my past.”

God, did your heart break at the fact that perhaps the world could never truly move on, no matter how much he tried to outrun them, no matter how much he came to terms that it was not really him on the steering wheel all those years ago.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your fingers trailing his chin. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you whispered. “I just need to figure out how to make the rest of the world see what I see.”

He kissed you then, hands firm as they traced over your skin. You melted into him, hands sliding under his shirt and feeling the ridges of his scars and the heat of him beneath your fingertips.

Then, your phone rang. 

With a groan, you reached for it, already knowing who it was before you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Dad.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his forehead pressed against your shoulder for a brief second before he pulled back. You swallowed hard, bracing yourself before answering.

“Hi, Dad—”

“What the hell is going on?”

You flinched, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

“Dad, I—”

“I wake up this morning to my inbox exploding with concerned emails from investors and heads of state,” he barked, “And not one of them was about our new initiatives!  All I see headlines about you making out with that… that vigilante in a back alley? Are you serious?”

You pressed your fingers against your temple. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, it never is, is it?” His words dripped with disbelief. “Why didn’t I know about this? About him? What, you’ve been sneaking around behind my back? How long has this been going on?”

Bucky’s hand found yours, squeezing before letting go. He could hear your father’s raised voice even from where he sat.

“It’s not sneaking around,” you muttered, your patience fraying. “You’re just… blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh really?” he repeated, incredulous. “I hired that man to protect you last year! And now you’re telling me you’re dating him? Do you have any idea how bad that looks?”

“Dad, please,” you groaned, frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t even about the company—”

He cut you off, his voice sharp. “If people think you’re compromised—if they think you can’t keep your personal life separate from your professional responsibilities—”

“I know, Dad!” you snapped, your voice finally matching his. “I know how bad it looks! I’ve been dealing with it all day while you sit in your fancy cabin three countries away and shout at me over the phone!”

Bucky’s fingers tightened again. 

You could hear your father exhaling through the line. “Fine,” he breathed, “lf you think you’ve got it all handled, then handle it! But I swear to God, if this relationship jeopardises our clients, our reputation, or your future—”

“It won’t!” you fired back. “And for the record, Bucky isn’t some random fling. He’s serious about me. He—”

You hesitated, only for a second, and swallowed hard. 

“He cares about me,” you finished, quieter this time. “And I care about him.”

For a while, there was only silence. When your father finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its bite. It sounded like… Consideration.

“Is he actually serious about you?” he asked. 

Bucky could hear him clearly even when he was not shouting— courtesy of his super soldier hearing. He nodded. 

“He is,” you answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

Then, softer, your father asked, “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You rested your elbows on your knees. “Because I knew you’d make it about the company and the board and my future when all I wanted was to keep it private. Just… for us.”

Your father sighed, and you could picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose— just like you always did.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not coming to the city to deal with it. That’s on you. But… for what it’s worth, I don’t want to see you hurt. And I don’t want to see this company—your company—take the blow, either.”

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’ll handle it. I promise.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if I hear one more thing about this in the news, I’m the one who’ll come down there to straighten it out. And I’ll start with your boyfriend.”

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head.

You couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Deal with it now. I got it.”

“Good.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line clicked off, leaving you in silence.

You stared at your phone for a moment, rubbing your temples. The shouting match had left you drained, but at least it was over. For now.

Bucky shifted beside you, his fingers still tangled with yours. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“You okay?”

You turned your head to look at him, at the careful way he was studying your face. He looked guilty, like this was his fault, like he wished he could take the weight off your shoulders.

You exhaled, tilting your head until it rested against his shoulder. “I will be.”

Little didn’t you know, he didn’t really believe you would be.

Not as long as he was around. 

The morning after the scandal broke, the world felt different. It felt smaller, suffocating, as if the walls of your life had started closing in overnight.

News anchors dissected your love life like it was some kind of public crisis. 

"Heiress in a Scandalous Affair with Ex-Assassin”

"Dangerous Liaison: How a CEO’s Secret Relationship Could Threaten Her Empire"

"Should a Man with a Bloodstained Past Be This Close to Power?"

Your phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Your father’s people had practically barricaded the office, because outside, reporters swarmed like vultures.

And Bucky was quiet. Too quiet.

You caught him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the morning news with that expression you hated—it was almost as if he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already made up his mind that this was going to break you apart.

"They act like I’m putting a damn gun to your head," he muttered, tone rough. The news anchor was mid-sentence, debating whether your involvement with Bucky posed a national security threat. As if your relationship was an act of terrorism.

You sat beside him, barely resisting the urge to throw the remote at the screen. "They're sensationalising it. It’ll die down."

Bucky scoffed. "No, it won’t." He rubbed a hand down his face, then gestured at the TV. "They love a good villain. And princess, I was tailor-made for the role."

Year One. Month Three.

You had taken a week of leave at this point, just so you could mentally recover. 

By the time you arrived at your office after your week off, the damage control team was in full force. Half a dozen advisors, PR strategists, and corporate lawyers were waiting, some with their arms crossed, others furiously taking notes.

"We need to get ahead of this immediately," your PR officer said, clicking to the first slide of a PowerPoint labeled Mitigation Strategy like your personal life was a boardroom crisis. "We’ve already drafted potential responses, but the best option is for you to publicly distance yourself from Barnes."

You stiffened. "What? He’s my boyfriend. How would I do that?"

"An official statement clarifying that your relationship is purely professional—"

"That’s a lie."

"A necessary lie," she corrected, with the forced patience of a woman stuck in a room with a ticking time bomb. “Say… it was a misunderstanding, shift the narrative. You got too close, it was a lapse of judgement—"

"Are you serious?" You looked around the room. "You want me to pretend I was reckless and naive instead of just admitting that I love him?"

"This isn’t just about you,” your CFO sighed. “The board is already nervous. Investors are threatening to pull out. This could cost millions."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. And yet, all you could think about was Bucky—sitting on your bed this morning, already bracing for the moment you’d walked away.

You swallowed hard. "I can’t do that!”

Your PR officer let out a deep breath, clearly recalibrating. "If you won’t deny it, at least don’t fuel the fire. No public outings, no statements, no contact that can be seen or reported on. We let the story fade, alright?”

When you got back that night, Bucky was sitting on the couch, looking at his phone. Not scrolling. Not texting. Just staring at the screen.

"You should… reconsider.”

You froze. "What?"

He didn’t look up. "It’d be easier for you to not be with me.”

Your heart broke. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His voice was bitter now. "Face reality? Come on, princess, we both know how this ends. You drop me, your life goes back to normal. Your father stops looking at you like you just burned the empire he built. You get your clean slate."

"That’s not what I want."

Bucky sighed, looking up at you with devastating pain in his blue eyes. "You say that now,” he started, "But I’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t end well. People always realise… I’m not worth all this."

Your throat tightened. "I’m not most people." It came out like a squeak.

"No, sweetheart, of course not,” he said with a sad smile, “but you have too much to lose."

You groaned, standing right in front of him, and daring him to look you in the eye. 

"Listen to me, James. I do not give a single fuck what the world thinks. I do not care about shareholders, or press conferences, or what my father expects from me." You swallowed. "I care about you. And if you think I’m going to let you walk away because you’ve decided you’re a burden, then you really don’t know me at all."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He wanted to believe you. He really did.

You reached for his hand. He let you.

"This doesn’t scare me," you whispered. 

Bucky closed his eyes. “Maybe it should.”

That night, something felt off.

The next week, it only got worse.

It started small—little things that weren’t so little when you pieced them together.

Bucky stopped inviting you over to stay as often. When he did, he kept his distance, claiming he was just tired. He started answering texts late, then barely at all. When you reached for his hand in public, he let go a second too soon.

At first, you convinced yourself you were imagining it. But then came the missed calls, the sad sighs, the way he looked at you— like he was preparing to say goodbye.

“You’re avoiding me,” you finally confronted him.

Bucky didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the edge of the couch, unlacing his boots. “I’m just busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” You crossed your arms. “You barely talk to me anymore. You leave before I wake up. You don’t even—” You stopped, breath catching in your throat. “You don’t even…“

You trailed off, not knowing what else to say. 

He froze for a second before he yanked his boots off and tossed them aside. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Bucky? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re trying to fuck off.”

You were only met with silence. 

You stepped closer. “If this is about the media—”

“That’s exactly what this is about.” His voice was a growl. “Every article, every news cycle, every goddamn headline— your name is dragged through the dirt because of me.”

You clenched your teeth. “I don’t care—”

“Well, I do!” He rose to his feet so quickly  you took a step back. His eyes burned as he stared at you, breathing heavily. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be the reason your life went to shit. I don’t want to be the reason your father loses faith in you, or why the world suddenly thinks you can’t run your own goddamn company.”

“What?” You challenged, “you think leaving will fix that?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe it’ll make it easier.”

Your stomach churned with a frustration you haven’t felt in a long, long time. “Easier for who?”

“For you!”

The words hit you like a slap.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt too tight, too suffocated, like hellfire was clawing its way up your throat. 

“You really think I’d be better off without you?”

His eyes flickered with, his muscles twitching. “Hmm.”

Your heart dropped. “Y-you can’t do this to me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’m doing this for you.”

“T-that’s— but that’s so condescending! Do you hear yourself, James?” You shouted this time, hands curling to fists at your sides.. “You think walking away makes you noble? That’s bullshit! You’re just a coward!”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” You continued, voice shaken “You hate feeling like you’re not in control, and I get that, I do, but instead of dealing with it, you’d rather run.” You swallowed. “You’d rather run from me.”

The muscles in his neck flinched. His human  fingers curled into fists.

Then—

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

He didn’t slam it. Didn’t yell. He just… left.

And that hurt worse than anything else.

The first night, you thought he needed space.

The second night, you got worried.

By the third, you were panicked.

You practically lived at his place, probably stayed over four days a week, and he rarely stayed at yours. So when he disappeared and wasn’t in either apartments, you had no idea where the hell he was. 

He wasn’t answering texts. Wasn’t picking up calls. You tried not to assume the worst, but it was hard when the worst was always a possibility.

Was he hurt? Was he drinking in one of those newly opened Asgardian bars? Was he spiraling?

You barely slept. Barely ate. You kept replaying the fight in your head, hearing your own voice, your accusations. Maybe you’d pushed too hard, been too harsh. Maybe this time, he won't come back.

Little did you know, Bucky was staying with Sam. He hadn't planned to, but to be fair, he hadn’t planned on anything. He just walked out, got in the car, and kept driving, and somehow ended up on Sam’s doorstep like a stray cat.

To his credit, Sam didn’t ask questions. He just took one look at Bucky, sighed, and let him in. 

And now, here they were— three days later, Bucky was nursing a beer on Sam’s couch, staring at the muted TV, while Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

“You finally gonna tell me what happened?” Sam asked, even though he knew what happened. He saw it in the news— he just needed to hear it from Bucky. 

Bucky had a hand down his face. “Not much to tell.”

“Right.” Sam snorted. “You ghost your girl and disappear from the public eye for days in the middle of a media scandal. but there’s not much to tell?”

Bucky looked down, staring at the floor. “I needed space.”

Sam hummed. “Uh-huh. And she knows that? Or did you just decide to vanish?”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam wouldn’t budge. He cannot— will not— let his friend self-sabotage a relationship he clearly didn’t want to end.

Bucky muttered, “She’s better off without me.”

Sam actually laughed at that, and the sound was short and dry, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Look, man, I get it. You think you’re doing her a favour.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “But she chose you. Instead of trusting that choice, you’re what? Hiding out at my place and letting her deal with the media fallout on her own?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around the beer bottle. “I’m not hiding.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He had no answer to that.

“I just… I don’t want to be the reason everything falls apart for her,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Sam shook his head. “And what if you’re the reason she holds it together?”

Bucky didn’t respond, and he didn’t know how to. Because it might actually be true

So instead, he just drank his beer, staring at the silent TV.

And then he saw own damn face, plastered across the screen.

And then there you were, giving a statement.

Sam frowned as he watched Bucky grab the remote.

“…and I cannot let the media twist this story,” you said Bucky turned the volume up mid-sentence. 

Bucky sat up straighter.

There you were— standing behind a press conference desk, cameras flashing, reporters practically foaming at the mouth for any ounce of information you would give. 

You looked exhausted, but nothing could erase that familiar determination in your eyes. 

“James Barnes is not a liability,” you continued, voice steady despite the chaos. “He’s not a danger, and he’s not the monster some of you painted him as.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

A reporter cut in. “So you’re confirming your relationship with Mr. Barnes?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“I’m confirming that he’s someone I trust with my life,” you shot back. 

Bucky blinked. You weren’t denying it. Weren’t distancing yourself from him.

You were standing in front of the whole damn world… defending him.

A different reporter raised his hand. “Given his history, do you really think associating with someone like Barnes is wise for your public image?”

You looked at the guy like you wanted to strangle him. “His history?” you repeated incredulously. “You mean the history where he was forced to do things against his will? The history he’s spent every damn day trying to atone, even though it wasn’t his fault?”

The room went silent.

You let out a deep breath, gripping the desk. “You all act like redemption is a myth, like some people just don’t get to have it. But Bucky Barnes is not a story. He is not a headline. He is a person. And I won’t let you write him into being a villain because it’s more convenient for you.”

Bucky only stared, heart hammering out of his ribcage. 

You were risking everything for him—your reputation, your credibility, everything.

And he’d walked out on you.

Sam let out a low whistle, glancing at Bucky with his eyebrows raised. “Still think she’s better off without you?”

Bucky swallowed hard.

The second the press conference ended, he was out the door. Sam barely had time to say goodbye.

You had stood in front of the whole damn world and defended him. You hadn’t folded under pressure, hadn’t let them tear him down just to save yourself. 

And…. he’d walked away.  

Bucky wasn’t sure how long it took to get to you. He barely remembered the drive, barely felt the drift when he pushed open your penthouse door with the key you’d given him months ago. 

Bucky expected to see you when he stepped into your penthouse— you always regrouped here after a media day. 

What he didn’t expect—was to see your father.

He hadn’t met him before, at least not in person. And if you called him in to help you cope, then it must be bad. 

The man was standing near the massive windows, looking out over the skyline, a glass of rum in one hand. The picture of composed authority, as you always made him out to be. 

The fact that he was even here instead of you meant something— Bucky just wasn’t sure what yet.

Bucky hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure if he should step in. Your father finally turned his head, looking at him.

"She must be serious about you if she gave you the keys to her place."

Bucky shut the door behind him. "Guess so."

Your father just nodded, swirling the liquor in his glass.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to call him. Sir? Felt weird— he was a hundred and ten years old, after all. First names seemed too casual. Last name felt too formal. 

"I assume you’re looking for her."

"Yeah." Bucky hesitated. "And… she’s not here.”

"If she were, I imagine you’d already be getting an earful." Your father replied. 

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch. He probably would deserve that.

Your father turned away, walking toward the bar. "Drink?”

Bucky hesitated. "No, thanks."

Your father poured himself another two fingers of rum. "Probably for the best."

The room was silent after that, and your father didn’t feel the pressure to fill that space until he put his drink down. “I hired you to protect her, Barnes." The words weren’t spoken in anger, but there was a hint of disappointment behind them. “Not to break her heart.”

Bucky took a deep breath. "I know."

"Do you?" Your father turned to face him. "Because I was at that press conference. I saw what it did to her. She stood up to the world and defended you, and you—" He exhaled sharply. "You weren’t there."

Bucky clenched his fists. "I didn’t ask her to do that."

“That’s not how she works, Barnes. You should know that by now." Your father sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. "She doesn’t respond well to media attention," he said, quieter now. "Never has. She’s been under this scrutiny since she was a kid. She knows how to handle it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect her."

Bucky looked away, guilt crawling under his skin.

Your father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t give a damn about the headlines." His voice was firmer now. "I don’t give a damn about what the board or the investors think, or whatever bullshit the media’s spewing." He paused, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s. "I care about her."

Bucky’s throat tightened.

"Look, I’ve known her longer than anyone else,” your father continued. "and I— I know— I can tell that she loves you."

Bucky’s head snapped up.

“She wouldn’t have fought for you the way she did if she didn’t,” he said. 

“I…” Bucky swallowed hard. "I love her too."

“Prove it.” He almost snapped.

Bucky took a step back.

"Be careful with her heart, Barnes." Was the last thing he heard from your father. 

After that, Bucky went to your office. Empty.

Your favourite restaurant—nothing.

The city was huge, but he knew you well. He knew where you went when the world became too much. When you needed to be alone.

And that was how he found himself outside his own apartment, staring at the door, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He felt sick.

His fingers hovered over the handle for a moment before he forced himself to knock. It was hesitant— perhaps he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

No answer.

Bucky swallowed hard, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

And there you were.

Sitting on the couch, still wearing the same outfit from the press conference, head in your hands. He could tell you were exhausted— shoulders slumped, breaths uneven.

His heart broke.

You must’ve heard the door click shut because your head snapped up, your eyes wide and glassy.

For a good five agonizing minutes, neither of you spoke. Just stared. Until—

“You left."

When you said it, it barely came out as a whisper, but it still struck like a bullet to his temple.

Bucky swallowed against the lump in his throat, "I know."

"I defended you," you rasped. "I stood there and let the world tear into me because I thought—" You cut yourself off, chest rising and falling unevenly. "I thought we were in this together."

Bucky took a slow step forward, one after another. Then he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. "We are."

"You walked away, James." Your voice cracked. With a bitter laugh, you snapped your fingers. "Just like that. Like it was easy.

His hands curled into fists. "It wasn’t."

"Could’ve fooled me."

His teeth clenched. "I thought I was protecting you."

“Well, congratulations,” You let out a hollow laugh. "You protected me so well that I spent the last three days wondering if I meant anything to you at all."

Bucky flinched. "Don’t," he whispered, pleading, "You know that’s not true."

Your eyes locked onto his, desperate and angry. "Then why did you leave?"

"Because I thought I could make it better," he said again, as if saying it enough times would make it true. "By keeping myself out of this mess—"

"It was never a mess, Bucky!" you snapped, your tone rising. "Not to me! Not until you left!"

He shook his head, meeting your eyes with something close to desperation. "I thought—"

"Do you have any idea what it felt like to wake up and realise you were gone?" You cut him off. 

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t finished.

"I don’t care if the whole damn world has an opinion about us." you whispered. You took his hand, pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heart. "I care that I came home to an empty bed."

Bucky’s throat tightened. "I thought—“

"Stop thinking!” You shouted. 

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as his grip tightened on your hand. "I thought if I made it easier for you, I wouldn’t lose you forever!”

"You lost me the second you walked out that door," you spat out, but even as you said it, you knew you didn’t truly mean it.

Bucky’s breath caught, but instead of backing down, he moved forward, crowding into your space, his hands gripping your waist and holding you in place. "No." He said, almost a growl, his fingers digging into your sides. "No, I didn’t."

Before he could say anything more, your lips crashed against his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, brimming with anger and need and the kind of longing would never go away. He kissed you back like he was trying to prove himself, like he needed you to understand that walking away hadn’t meant he stopped wanting you. That it had killed him to.

You gasped into the kiss, and any protest you might have had dissolved the second his hands moved up your back, pulling you flush against him. His warmth, his scent, the way his breath mixed with yours—it set every nerve on fire.

"I can’t lose you," he murmured against your lips, voice trembling. He kissed you again, his hands roaming your body like he was terrified you’d disappear. "I won’t.”

Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, making him groan against your mouth. "But you left," you whispered, "You left me."

"I’m sorry," he rasped, and he meant it. His lips moving along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse. "I hated every fucking second of it."

A shudder ran through you, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips and pulling you into his lap. You straddled him without hesitation, pressing against him, feeling the way his breath stuttered as you moved.

"Then don’t do it again," you whispered, voice breaking, your forehead pressing against his.

Bucky’s hands framed your face again, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, almost desperate. "Never," he swore, his thumb stroking over your cheek. "I swear on my life, never."

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower— he took his time. It felt like regret, it felt like a confession. His hands were everywhere, exploring, pulling you closer like he wanted to mold you to him.

"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his fingers squeezing your thighs. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "Show me."

And when his lips found yours again, when his hands started to slide under your clothes, when your bodies pressed together in a way that left no space between you—

You knew this time, he meant it.

The morning after was gentle.

Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, warming the bed sheets.

Bucky stirred beside you, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip away.

When his lips brushed lazily against your shoulder, you hummed, shifting in his arms to meet his eyes. His hair was a mess, his eyes still half-lidded. 

God, it’s only been a few days. You’ve missed him. 

“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely.

You smiled. “Morning.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just staring, just breathing. Then, as if reality was starting to creep back in, you sighed, tracing a fingertip along his stubble.

“We should eat,” you suggested.

Bucky groaned, tightening his grip on you. “We could stay in bed.”

You let out a quiet chuckle and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before slipping from his hold. “Let’s go get breakfast, sweetie.”

Reluctantly, Bucky let you go, watching as you stretched, grabbing the first thing you could find to throw on—one of his shirts.

He rolled out of bed and pressed a kiss to your temple, “We’d be in public, you know.”

You sighed. “I know.”

Breakfast wasn’t some Michelin-star brunch spot. It was a small café, tucked away from the busier streets, where the scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air a little longer. The kind of place where no one would look twice at you if you sat there for hours, just talking, just being.

And that’s exactly what you did.

Bucky’s hand never left yours, his fingers tracing circles on your palm, his thumb absentmindedly grazing your knuckles. Every so often, he’d lean over, steal a kiss between sips of coffee.

He was here now. With you. In public. That was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t long before the cameras showed up.

They weren’t subtle. A handful of photographers across the street, lurking. 

The press had been relentless, but after your statement on Bucky yesterday, the world… was quieter.

Ever since you’d stood in front of the cameras the backlash had softened. World leaders, once eager to weigh in, had gone silent. Maybe, for the first time, they respected you. Maybe they respected Bucky, too.

But that didn’t mean the vultures were gone.

Your clients might have been reassured, but the media will always try to sensationalise the story. 

Bucky had been trying to ignore them. 

But when another camera flash went off, too close, too invasive, he snapped.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the pavement. You barely had time to grab his wrist before he was turned marching toward the swarm of photographers lingering just across the street.

“Bucky,” you warned, but it was useless.

The reporters tensed when they saw him approach, cameras at the ready, expecting a fight— maybe even hoping for one.

And Bucky didn’t disappoint.

“Get a fucking life,” he snapped, voice rough with frustration. He gestured wildly to the table behind him, where your half-eaten breakfast sat. “We’re trying to eat like normal fucking people.”

A few photographers shuffled awkwardly, lowering their cameras, but others stood their ground.

“Mr. Barnes, the public just wants to—”

“The public can mind their damn business.” His glare could have turned them to stone. “Unless you want some asshole shoving a camera in your face every time you try to grab a coffee, I suggest you back off.”

Oh? Oh.

You heard a few more murmurs. More feet shifting. 

Then one of them had the nerve to say, “You can’t really be surprised, can you? You’re the winter soldier, and she’s—“

Bucky scoffed, cutting him off. “Fuck this.” He threw his hands in the air, turning back toward you. “They act like we just committed a goddamn crime when all we did was order fucking pancakes.”

You fought the urge to chuckle—because, God, when was he ever this pissed? His jaw was tight, shoulders squared, the restrained fury radiating off him in waves. But beneath all that anger, there was something protective in the way he positioned himself between you and the world, as if it was his job, perhaps because once… it had been.  

And he was given a second chance. He would make it up to you, no matter what.

You sighed, stepping closer and slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for you to reach for him.  

“Let’s go,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.  

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, casting his final glare at the cameras before turning on his heel and pulling you along with him.  

But as the two of you walked, you felt it—the way the usual chaos had dulled. The shutters weren’t clicking. The voices weren’t calling his name, your name, they weren’t desperate for a reaction. It was… quiet.  

You glanced back over your shoulder at the stunned crowd of photographers, their hands hesitating over their cameras, unwilling to lift them.  

An almost-wicked smile formed on your lips.  

“You know,” you murmured just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “we could give them a show.”  

And Bucky Barnes never did anything half-heartedly.  

So the second he heard the words leave your lips, he stopped right there, in the middle of the street and kissed you.  

And it wasn’t a short peck, wasn’t a brief gesture.

It was slow, it was deliberate. It was the kind that sent heat curling in your stomach and stole the breath from your lungs. It left no room for misinterpretation. 

He wasn’t just kissing you. He was claiming this moment. It made you feel untouchable, unreachable.  

And yet—not a single flash.  

Not one camera dared to snap the million-dollar shot they’d been desperate for just minutes ago.

Let them look.  

Let them talk.  

But they would never own this.  

When he finally pulled back, lips still ghosting over yours, his words were meant for you and you alone.  

“Think that’s enough for ‘em, princess?”

-end.

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni@iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko @average-vibe

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol

[fandom-cuties]

Black Sheep

Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.2k 

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions

The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate. 

The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.

It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. You’d be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said. 

When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreements—dozens of them. They didn’t let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.

Your official title was “Classified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.” It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you weren’t allowed to say more.

You were happy you could finally help— 

 they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.

And… They were proud.

If only they knew.

You were told you’d be assigned to “classified subjects.”

When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasn’t listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasn’t on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.

You should have run then. But you didn’t, because they paid in advance.

You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising you’d be earning more over the next couple of years. 

The facility you were assigned to didn’t have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too dense—like the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching. 

You weren’t allowed to ask names. You weren’t given files.

You weren’t allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.

They never called it a hospital, because it wasn’t.

It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine you’d ever known. The men you reported to didn’t wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the same— pale-faced, dressed in black. You didn’t know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.

But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.

See, they knew the kind of people to look for— desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldn’t afford to ask where the money came from. 

And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag. 

Hydra was predatory like that.

—

You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were good—efficient, clean, and silent. You didn’t pry, and what made you valuable.

You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bones—you treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didn’t get in the way of the mission.

One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you went—thicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.

They didn’t tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.

He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.

And still— he didn’t look away.

You’d heard whispers about him before— the Asset.

They called him It.

Not a name. Not a person. A living weapon— built, not born.

You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handler— Colonel Vasily Karpov. You’d met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.

"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,” Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.

Your mouth went dry. "And I’m next in line?"

“You’re competent,” he said. “And replaceable.”

He walked out before you could respond.

The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.

And then there was just you— and him.

You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didn’t know what you were—but knew how to kill you if you got close.

You didn’t speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically. 

Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensive— fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people would’ve gone into shock hours ago.

But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.

He didn’t flinch when you treated him.

Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.

He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.

It was the first time he looked at you. 

Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.

In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.

—

Over the next year or so, you were his doctor. 

And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.

You’d fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed. 

But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.

You worked in silence. He sat in silence.

Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.

But sometimes, during the worst of the injuries—when your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorry— his eyebrows softened.

At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived. 

The handlers noticed.

You began modifying your ointments—adding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism. 

You weren’t supposed to. They wanted him in pain. 

But you did it anyway.

Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribs— and it was too deep. 

He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.

It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usual— as if he was fighting something.

And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.

Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.

But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.

That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again. 

—

Tonight, he came back worse than usual.

Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythm— as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.

He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animal— one of them nursing a broken arm. 

They left you alone with him and chuckled, “good luck.” 

The Asset’s head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.

You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraints—and his metal hand nearly caught your arm.

You froze.

In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.

He didn’t look at you.

He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.

You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.

“I can’t treat him like this,” you said. If he didn’t calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.

Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was… unprofessional. 

A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.

“That’s too bad,” said Karpov’s cold, detached voice. “It is your job.”

You stared at the glass behind which they watched— always watched.

Then you turned back to him.

You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.

But his body thrashed again.

You dropped the needle.

His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.

He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.

But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.

Your hands shook.

He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious. 

Fuck.

You were losing him.

So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.

You… sang.

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…”

Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been years— you hadn’t sung it since you were small— curled up on your mother’s lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.

You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly. 

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”

He…  didn’t flinch again.

You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.

You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.

“My mother used to sing it to me,” you lulled. “I only realised later what it meant,” you continued. “‘One for the master, one for the dame…’”

You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.

“Servitude, right? ‘One for the little boy who lived down the lane.’ Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe they’re for making people… obedient,”

You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down. 

“Because I think…,” you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. “Obedience it taught. Not born.”

And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, “Were you taught well?”

You didn’t expect a response. 

But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.

His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.

“It was the only thing I remember learning,” he whispered. 

You froze.

It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.

The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned. 

Through all that, he watched you. 

You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.

His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session. 

But something had changed.

—

The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later. 

You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.

He… made a conscious choice. 

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.

Sometimes, when he was lucid, he’d look at your hands while you worked— following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You weren’t sure what he was seeing. 

Then… you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. “This’ll sting a little,” you’d say, cleaning a wound.

“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”

He never answered at first. 

Then one day, he did.

You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. “Sorry,” you said under your breath.

“You always say that.”

You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. “Say what?”

“‘Sorry,’” he managed, “it’s not your fault.”

“Sorry,” you mentioned sheepishly. “I’ll stop saying it.”

Then, you resumed your work.

The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints weren’t used. Maybe they knew he couldn’t stand. Maybe they didn’t care if he bled out.

And he didn’t even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.

When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didn’t pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suit— fifth one this month— or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker. 

Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.

“Don’t they ever give you a break?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

“No,” he said simply. 

You frowned. 

Still, your hands were steady.

You started humming when he came in—low, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at all—just sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.

One night, after they’d brought him in burned—his arm singed, the edge of his jaw blistered—you held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alive after half of this.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, “Sometimes I think I’m not.”

Eventually, he started helping you—lifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear. 

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

One night, he asked for your name.

You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled. 

Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.

—

When he wasn’t in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasn’t technically a cell, but wasn’t anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.

You called it the holding room.

They called it the kennel.

You’d come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missions— tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection. 

But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.

They joked about him.

At first, it was petty things— how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.

But it got worse.

Much worse.

They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he “rutted in his sleep sometimes.” How they’d seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.

“He’s always desperate after a kill,” one of them said once, laughing. “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.”

You had frozen when you heard it. But today—today, it went further.

“Bets?” one of them said. “Ten rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.”

All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed. 

“Stop,” you said, through gritted teeth. “What you’re doing is disgusting. Watching him like that—mocking him— when his agency’s being taken from him? He’s a fucking person and you need to grow up.”

What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life. 

And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you think he’s a person, why don’t you go in there?”

You blinked. “What?"

“Go on,” The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. “If you think he’s man and not machine, let’s test it.”

You stepped back, realising what their plan was. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late.”

Their hands grabbed your arms.

You fought—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood—but there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you. 

You didn’t know where the pain began — your scalp where they’d yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face? 

Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guard’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger. 

And they enjoyed it.

You’d never seen teeth like that — bared in joy at suffering. One of them— Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and another— Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.

You screamed, “He—we— a person!” not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.

But they didn’t care.

One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.

“He’ll definitely go for her pussy,” one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.

“I’d go for the ass first,” another chuckled. “Tighter.”

Then came the worst line.

“I bet the dumb beast doesn’t know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.”

The laughter didn’t stop.

Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.

You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.

“Have fun, soldat!” A guard, Anton, said.

You fell, and started trembling.

Everything hurt.

And then you looked up.

He was there.

The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.

He was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.

You froze.

Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall.  You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.

He’ll fuck you, they had said. He’ll take the choice away from you. He’ll use you as a way to satisfy himself.

You believed it for a second.

You’d seen what he could do — seen the machine they’d made him into. You’d see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions. 

You were terrified.

You curled tighter.

He took one step forward.

And… stopped.

You took a chance and looked at your face.

He wasn’t looking at your chest. He wasn’t leering. His pupils weren’t blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasn’t hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.

He was staring at your injuries.

At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.

And his whole body… melted.

The heat was gone, almost instantly. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”

His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it — nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.

He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldn’t stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.

“Maksimov, Yuri, and Anton,” you whispered, lip trembling.

His teeth clenched.

He reached out slowly — slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t force — and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching.  

You were still crying. You didn’t realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin. 

You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe. 

He wrapped his arms around you like he’d never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still — he didn’t break you.

He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.

And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. “I won’t hurt you.”

Once again, The Asset had made a choice. 

A human one.

—

Hours passed.

The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and then— from shock, from adrenaline.

You still felt his arm around your shoulders—gentle, not possessive.

The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybe—maybe—you’d be left alone. Maybe they’d gotten the message. Maybe they wouldn’t push again.

You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.

You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.

The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue. 

And then you heard the voice.

“Что с тобой, солдат?” — What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?

Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Asset— but on you.

“Мы дали тебе дырку, и ты даже не воспользовался ею?” — We gave you a hole and you didn’t even use it?

You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.

The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He was…shielding you.

The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.

“Ладно. Тогда мы сами её трахнем,” —Fine. Then we’ll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.

And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.

You screamed.

And The Asset snapped.

No hesitation, No programming.

Just rage.

The Asset’s metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crack—maybe the wall, but most likely Yuri’s spine.

Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Anton’s hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.

Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.

Anton raised his hands to surrender.

Too late.

Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Anton’s face with brutal force, then fired— one shot, clean through the eye.

He dropped the gun.

It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.

He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

He knelt. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.

—

Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.

Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t look at the corpses.

He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.

Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.

There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.

You jolted, reaching for him—but it was no use.

His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor, 

He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.

When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.

“Come.”

You shook your head. “He—he was protecting me—he saved me—”

“You’ll have time for your little report later,” he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. “For now, come.”

—

The interrogation room was cold. 

Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.

“You will explain,” he said coldly.

Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. “Explain what?”

He tilted his head. “You calmed him down.”

Your mouth opened, then shut.

"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, “that he should have either killed you, or fucked you.”

You froze.

He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.

“That’s what the programming was designed to do,” he continued. “You are aware of his conditioning, yes?”

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.

“Then you know what heat was for.”

You have heard of why it was drilled in his brain— but you didn’t answer.

Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.

“It was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these ‘heat’ cycles, he was supposed to be motivated—” He paused, eyes narrow, “—it was supposed to encourage mating.”

Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?

“The Soldier’s DNA is nearly perfect.” he said, as if it was. “Hydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.”

He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“But every woman they introduced… didn’t survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.” He sat down across from you. “Until you.”

Your stomach lurched.

“You,” Karpov said slowly, “calmed him down.”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. 

“You must have!” he snapped. 

You flinched. 

“I’ve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But you—” Karpov stood, circling the table again. “—you knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heat—and instead of fucking you to death, he held you.”

“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely. 

Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.

At the door, without turning back, he said, “You’re being reassigned.”

—

When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.

Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag. 

On the floor was a folded piece of paper.

REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL Effective Immediately. Observation: Subject Winter Soldier Objective: Behavioral stabilization Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence. Further utility assessment pending.

You sank onto the cot.

Now, to Hydra, you weren’t just a doctor. You were a leash.

—

The cot wasn’t meant for two.

It was military-issue— narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didn’t even sit on it when he was there. You’d sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasn’t humiliating, pretending you weren’t always cold.

At first, he’d just watch, afraid of crossing a line— especially after what had happened to you. 

Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.

Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. You’d been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong. 

When you’d finished, he looked at you. “…You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Your eyes flicked up.

“What?”

He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.

You hesitated. Then nodded.

That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.

But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.

By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night. 

By the third, you’d curl inward, and he’d curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didn’t pull away when you shifted closer.

—

When his heat cycles came—and they always came—you prepared.

You stayed calm and gave him space. 

You… would sing to him. Lullabies, mostly— songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.

He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. He’d sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.

Sometimes he’d whisper things to himself, half-delirious.

"No. Not her. Not her."

—

When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.

You didn’t think you’d miss him, but you did.

You’d find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.

And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.

You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.

But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.

Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.

—

One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the others—he came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word. 

But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, “Bucky.”

You tilted your head, confused. You weren’t sure you’d heard right. 

Then he said it again, firmer this time. “My name is Bucky.”

What?

Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up. 

He… remembered?

“…Okay, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be— because anything louder might shatter whatever this was—perhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. “Can you please lift your arm for me?”

He did.

And for the first time, he looked… not just present. Not just there.

He looked real.

—

You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.

Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.

Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.

“What—what are you doing—?!”

They didn’t answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.

In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.

You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. “What did he tell you?”

You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented. 

Then you realised: 

Oh. 

Someone saw the footage.

Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.

Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You weren’t even sure what to say. He didn’t tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?

But Karpov demanded more.

“Did he say his designation?”

“Did he say anything else? Was there a code?”

“What did he tell you, girl?”

The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamed—more from shock than pain—but the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.

And then—through your haze—you saw a flicker in the hall.

You heard a grunt. A thud.

And suddenly—he was there.

The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.

His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning. 

One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.

In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety. 

Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints. 

“Bucky—” your voice cracked. “You’re hurt—your face—”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

The cuffs snapped off.

You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing. 

He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you — but no. He pulled back.

Because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to lose you.

“You need to go.”

You froze. “What?”

“There’s a tunnel—service corridor—they don’t watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.”

“Bucky—no,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’m not leaving you.”

He clenched his teeth. 

“You have to,” he said. “I can’t protect you here.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do.”

That stopped you cold.

His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. “I— I’m starting to know things I shouldn’t,” he said softly. “I need you to go. If I don’t… if I’m not… If they wiped me…”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I need you to promise me,” he said, almost begging now. “Don’t come back for me.”

“I—please—”

His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.

“Go.”

So you did.

—

Thirty Years Later.

The world had changed. 

Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didn’t go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didn’t go looking for you.

What would be the point?

You were probably… what? In your sixties? Seventies? If you’d survived at all— and Hydra said you hadn’t, that they’d caught you in one of the tunnels and killed you— he could only hope you’d built a life—married someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldn’t follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasn’t going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?

So he never tried.

But he never loved again either.

Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist. 

He still did.

That kind of love didn’t fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.

It wasn’t something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left. 

Until...

—

New York. Post-Void.

The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole

The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.

Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.

That’s when he heard it.

It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.

“Baa baa, black sheep… have you any wool…”

His whole body went still. 

He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, and—

There.

You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankle— maybe. Nothing fatal—but you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.

And you… you hadn’t changed.

There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didn’t look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.

He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe. 

“You know her?” Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”

You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries. 

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out. 

“One for the master, one for the dame,” you sang as the girl sniffled, “and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribs—too much, too fast, too sudden.

And then—

You looked up.

Saw him.

And smiled.

—

You walked over to him like you were in a dream—like every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you. 

He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldn’t quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from drowning.

Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t know if he could handle words yet—not until your presence fully registered. 

You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his face—not because it hurt, but because he didn’t trust that any of this was real.

“You’re hurt,” you finally said. “Let me help.”

You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.

And then he started shaking.

The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lost 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.

And maybe it had been.

Because it wasn’t just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.

Alive.

Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void. 

Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain. 

His lips moved—silent at first. Then the words came out shaky. “Do you… remember me?”

You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. “I could never forget the love of my life.”

Was that what he was to you?

After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him? 

He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didn’t. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when you’re sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heart’s still beating after being convinced it was gone.

He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.

You didn’t say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.

Yelena had wandered off a while ago—probably in search of someone else to pester— most likely her father. 

She hadn’t even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didn’t belong to her.

It belonged to him. And you.

He tried to say something else—an apology, maybe, or a confession—but all that came out was, “I—I…” he swallowed, “I— I…”

“Bucky…” You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “We’ll talk somewhere private, yeah?”

He barely nodded. 

Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.

—

You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.

He hadn’t stopped shaking.

Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at you—like if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.

It wasn’t far—just a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas. 

The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.

You didn’t take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. But then—you looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.

A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised you— the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.

“Come on,” you murmured as the door swung inward.

You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by one—clean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor. 

And then you turned the final corner.

Oh.

That was all his mind could manage.

This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker. 

No. This place was…

It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.

It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could need—but the walls told a different story.

To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. “Harlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.” Your name was in the byline. There was even a photo—blurry, taken on someone’s flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.

Then, “Unsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.”

He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.

A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.

A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisher— etched on it. 

A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spidey’s, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.

Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. “What is this?”

You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. “Gifts from… friends.”

He turned to you. “Friends?”

You gave him a tired smile and joked, “Is it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?”

He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds. 

“I just…” he said, voice thin. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. Or how you still look so…” His eyes lingered. “…young.”

You didn't meet his gaze. “Thank Hydra.”

Bucky swallowed, but you continued. 

“When I got recruited, they injected me with something— they said it was just a stimulant— to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.”

He went still.

“Later, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it… slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.”

You kept working on the cuts on his face. 

“When you got me out… I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be… useful”

Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.

“But then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldn’t go to hospitals— people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.”

Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.

“I patched them up.” You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. “No questions. Just… tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.”

Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.

“A couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?” You looked up at him.“They show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe they’re worth saving too.”

Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound. “There,” you whispered. “You’re good.”

But Bucky didn’t move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But… at you.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You never stopped.”

There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.

And yet you continued doing what you do best. 

Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of you— the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.

But now…

Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.

“Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. “Can I touch you?”

You didn’t move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hard— he cupped your cheek.

His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.

It was real. 

His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over… and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.

Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.

Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. “I missed you, Bucky.”

His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. “Why didn’t you come for me?” he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You must’ve seen him in the news— during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.

You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think…,” you admitted, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

His brows furrowed. “Of course I remembered you,” he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. “But Hydra told me you were dead— I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe you’d moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.”

Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. “After what we’ve been through?” you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. “How could I ever move on from you?”

He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away,  he pulled you closer — chest to chest, heart to heart — until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow. 

“God, Bucky…After all this time,” you whispered in amazement, “what are we?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

Then, finally, with certainty, he said, “A choice.”

Your breath hitched.

“A choice,” he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “The first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.”

Oh.

You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like you’d dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch. 

“I…” you started, but  pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. “Can I kiss you?”

He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.

He could only nod. 

And you kissed him.

It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled — but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times in your dreams.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.

You let out a small laugh, “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like.”

He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadn’t heard… ever. “Yeah?” he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. “Was it everything you imagined?”

You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

—

You and Bucky had taken it slow.

After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now. 

You went on actual dates— coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. 

Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.

You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.

You’d kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.

Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they “healed fast” and then passed out on your med bay floor.

But today, the med bay was calm — just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.

Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions. 

Until now.

You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, “So… how did you guys meet again?”

You paused.

Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.

“Oh, you know,” you blinked, “Mutual enemies.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What does that even mean?” Walker asked, clearly disappointed. 

You smiled sweetly. “It means you don’t want to know.”

Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. “It means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.”

“Or both,” Alexei said.

You laughed — a little too brightly for the topic — and handed Yelena her discharge form. “Exactly. Now who’s next for bloodwork?”

Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.

Mutual enemies? Yeah, right. 

The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen. 

– end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[fandom-cuties]

The intimacy of “i can handle you”

[fandom-cuties]

promise without ceremony | bucky barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @winchestert101, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver, @thesteppinrazor, @mrsnikstan, @eywas-heir, @shortandb1tchy, @echooolocation, @inexplicablehumanbean, @maribirdsteele, @daddyjackfrost

[fandom-cuties]

This was probably obvious to other people but after rewatching thunderbolts I noticed that during the scene where the entire group is pinned to the walls of the lab, the void shatters a bunch of glass but he shatters it specifically after saying robert the hero.

Bc I mean breaking glass had literally 0 effect on any of the thunderbolts in that moment, it wasnt used to hurt anyone. Sure they all flinch but its really nothing compared to when the void starts flinging like cabinets and shit. I thinkk it was the void recreating the sound of bobs dad smashing dishes🤔

[fandom-cuties]

Bucky: I think you need to take time away from Bob. It might be getting unhealthy.

You: Relax, Bucky. We have a perfectly healthy relationship.

Bucky: The other day you heard his voice as the Void and said you would do whatever he asked.

You: Okay, that means nothing—

Bob: You were holding a knife against Walker’s throat…

You: Are you sure I wouldn’t do that regardless?

Bob: Fair…

Bucky: No, you aren’t helping.

[fandom-cuties]

beyond the void | bob reynolds

summary: bob willingly gives up control to the void in order to save the only thing in the world that’s ever made him feel okay

warnings: injury, death, dark thoughts, spiraling, violence, gun shot wound, blood, multiple pov, unstable bob, multi personality, comic accurate sentry powers

- bob

- sentry

- void

one bullet.

it had been one, single bullet that broke the most most powerful, unstoppable, immortal hero.

but he was bulletproof.

nothing could hurt the sentry. not even if he tried.

he was bulletproof.

she wasn’t.

it had gone straight through the head.

he was too slow flying across the city.

the scream had been inhuman. earth shattering, ground shaking.

bob didn’t know if it was him.

or sentry.

or the other one.

buildings shook, the ground cracked.

the men were dead before the screaming stopped. he didn’t even remember killing them. he didn’t remember even trying to.

it had been too quick.

too painless.

they deserved it.

they should have suffered for it.

they might have been innocent.

bucky was holding her, brows furrowed, completely helpless as he attempted to get through to her.

john had dropped to his knees, shield echoing as it hit the ground.

but yelena’s eyes were only on him.

on he shadow crossing his face.

on the golden glow of his eyes that steadily darkened.

bucky was talking, face pale, eyes dark, jaw set tightly.

he didn’t hear a word.

bucky was thrown backwards, john was pushed over.

he held her in his arms and was in the air before the others could get back on their feet.

she’s dying.

she won’t survive this.

the bullet went straight into her brain.

shut up.

you’ve lost her!

you killed her!

you were too slow!

shut up!

you were too slow.

you’re too weak.

stop!

it wasn’t me!

you didn’t save her!

you cant save her.

enough!

his eyes burned, muscles aching, veins strained as he forced himself to fly faster.

faster!

faster than he had ever flown.

it shouldn’t have been possible, this speed.

he was holding her so tightly against his chest, hand over her face to shield her.

the pressure was squeezing him— this high up, at this much speed.

it’s too late…

her pulse was almost gone.

her heart barely beating against his chest.

she was too heavy in his arms.

you lost her.

no…

we lost her!

not yet!

let me have her.

no.

i can save her.

no…

yes.

he hit the ground hard, ground breaking and collapsing under his feet.

he could hear every rock split beneath him, every crack spreading across the ground under him.

still, over the screams in his head.

his vision blurred.

his pulse threatening to choke him.

he watched the darkness form around him.

it spread up his legs, up his back, crawling up his neck until every strand of brown hair was as black as night.

his hold tightened on her, his body curling around her as if he could keep her from it.

the black enveloped her slowly, gently–

he wanted to scream.

to fight it away.

to beat it off her with a stick.

the golden of his eyes dimmed slightly, then blinked out completely like a blown out candle.

now, only pin holes of empty light looked out of them.

darkness swallowed everything.

a black cloud had wrapped around them both.

holding them, shielding them.

covered in complete darkness.

a vast, cold, empty black.

a void.

there is no death here.

screams filled the silence.

feral, animal, broken.

the screaming grew louder.

hysterical sobs filled the space between the screams.

he knew they were his.

he knew it was her.

no.

save her…

a small voice spoke softly over the turmoil and agonized screams.

he was moving.

he couldn’t see anything–

hear anything beyond the screams.

but he felt her.

barely.

the faintest warmth, against the cold darkness that made him shiver.

the smallest, barely there glow lit from within her chest.

it was faint, slowly dimming, but refusing to go out.

there’s no death here…

the ship landed too roughly. bucky’s hands were steady, despite the growing panic threatening to take over. it had been hours. she had not been taken to any nearby hospitals. yelena had not been able to reach him. the moment the anomaly appeared on their radar, they were in the air within minutes. yelena was already out of her seat and barely waiting for the door to open. “oh no—“ the cloud of black had not expanded. it had not taken over, or spread, or devoured everything within miles. it was just a wall. four walls, trapping bob inside with the worst part of himself. and all the darkness he carried. “bob?!” john was close behind yelena as she stopped inches away from the black curtain. “bob?” yelena took a deep breath, preparing to once again face the void and the memories that would await her. she put her hand out, reaching through to— her hand hit a solid wall. the black swirled just slightly against her hand, appearing as smoke– as nothing. “what the hell is this..?” john exchanged an anxious look with bucky, both bringing their hands against the cold surface. “it’s…solid.. but…not?” “how is he doing this?” “what is it that he’s doing?” wispy tendrils curled up around their hands, drifting like smoke.

“bob! let us in!” yelena’s voice began to betray her, tears starting to settle in the corners of her eyes. ava tried phasing through it, met only with a scream as pain burned through her. “do you think he just…has her..body?” yelena paled, looking at bucky with an expression that turned his blood cold. “he can’t just keep her in there.”

“bobby! you gotta let us in. you don’t have to deal with this alone…” john pounded on the smoke wall, but it made no sound. a dull roar started from somewhere inside the black. like a far away engine, or some kind of machine starting up. it reminded yelena faintly of the sounds of ava’s phasing. the team stopped to listen. no one was breathing, ears pressed against the shadowy curtain.

“it’s…energy.”

“energy from what?”

“get down—!”

black, cold, nothing.

numb.

helpless.

his arms began to shake, his head filling with pressure like he was under water.

something deep inside him vibrated.

he felt like he was vibrating.

there energy coursing through him in a way he had never felt.

in his arms, she shifted slightly, the smallest moan escaping her lips.

his eyes snapped open, the pin holes glowing a brighter gold.

he stared at her, seeing her perfectly clear in the emptiness.

her head was fallen to the side, blood covering her forehead, down her temple, over her eye, all the way down her neck.

no.

the feeling inside him grew stronger.

his entire body was shaking, now.

he was rigid, fighting for control over his own powers.

the humming in his head grew louder.

the vibration deep inside threatening to rattle right past his ribcage.

golden beams of light broke through the void.

emanating from within him.

spreading out through the darkness, shining brightly against the pitch black emptiness.

his feet weren’t touching the ground anymore and when he opened his eyes he was over one hundred feet in the air.

she was looking up at him with wide eyes, expression clear, color back in her cheeks.

there was no more blood on her.

there was not a single mark on her.

“bob?”

his name broke him completely.

“you’re alright.”

his voice shook, jaw clenching as he forced himself to keep it together.

he said it to reassure her, to convince himself it was true.

the void’s curtain was humming. the ground shook slightly, a few rocks skipping along the other’s feet. beams of golden light shot through the darkness, forming cracks along the impenetrable void. bucky stepped back, arm coming up at the same time john brought his shield up. they flew backwards, skidding along hard ground as the air filled with dust. bob had shot upwards like a rocket, but he was different. brown hair, golden eyes, sentry suit as black as the night sky. and in his arms… alert and completely unscathed… there she was.

bob’s feet gently touched the ground and the others were already there.

“what the hell—“

“how did…”

“she’s—“

“she was—“

bob’s expression darkened, shaking his head just barely.

no.

“what… what happened?”

she looked around at the team, soft amd confused eyes finally stopping on bob. his eyes softened immediately, “nothing. you just hit your head a little.”

she would have died.

she should have died.

bob’s body still shook. the power coursing through him.

the adrenaline.

the relief, the joy, the almost agony…

the rage.

they were still alive.

bob set her down gently, silently insuring john and bucky helped steady her with a cold stare. he placed one—

so gentle, like he feared he might break her—

kiss on her head, closing his eyes only for a moment to let himself know she was there. he shook with restraint, jaw clenched tightly as he fought for control. he was gone again before anyone could realize the look in his eyes.

kill them all.

slowly.

make them suffer.

once again flying at undetectable speed, the noise in his head got louder.

his vision had gone red, black surrounding the edges.

he was shaking.

not with restraint this time.

with rage.

he walked out of the elevator less than an hour later. the room had gone silent, a few gasps and covered mouths as they watched him.

“bob–?“

his suit was still black, eyes glowing golden, jaw tight in an expression they had never seen. his hands were black, but still visibly soaked in blood. blood was splattered on his face, streaked on his neck and above his eyebrow.

“robert?” her soft voice eased his shoulders slightly as he turned to face her across the room.

she’s okay.

she’s here.

her face was pale, eyes wide, hands anxiously fidgeting under her sleeves.

you’re scaring her.

we’re scaring her…

“bob?”

she said it like she wasn’t quite sure it was him.

his chest was still rising and falling too rapidly. his adrenaline too high. his posture too tense.

he walked to her in a few long strides and the room held its breath.

“it’s alright.” his hand came up to her cheek, other arm wrapping around her, placing a long kiss on the top of her head. “you’re okay…” he still said it more to convince himself. “you’re okay.” his voice shook slightly, just a little deeper than usual. “i love you…” his voice changed again, soft, happy, relieved. “i love you.” she burrowed her face into his chest, feeling the way he trembled just slightly. “you’re safe.” it was almost a whisper. shy, gentle, much more like his usual self. he closed his eyes as he let her familiarity surround him and seep into every inch of him.

he opened his eyes again with a slow exhale. his breath was slower, his posture softer, blue eyes turned gold, now a vacant pinhole.

“no one will ever touch you again.”

[fandom-cuties]

If bob likes you he’ll rage bait you (playfully ofc) but you guys are not ready for that conversation yet

[fandom-cuties]

NEW WHITE BOY OF THE MONTH UNLOCKED!!!!

[fandom-cuties]

Rip to my ovaries...

[fandom-cuties]

𝚕𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐;

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: somebody told me by the killers // " a-breaking my back just to know your name, but heaven aint close in a place like this.. "

bob floyd - this man is just purely curious, trying to figure out what feels good for you and him - but you cant look at bob and tell me that he doesnt love to be between your thighs with his glasses on, fogging up. meow....

bob reynolds - he just wants to feel you, in anyway - but he prefers going down on you because it makes him feel good that he makes you feel good, he just watches your face the entire time making sure that his mouth good feels against your cunt. (bob, void + sentry drabble on the same topic.)

calvin evans - calvin doesnt really care if he's receiving or giving, he's just very articulated and calculating with his movements - if he's in between your thighs he'll make sure you're staring at him the entire time, eye contact is important to him. he likes to go soft and slow, being rough isnt exactly his entire thing.

owen taylor - owen typically likes receiving, pushing you down on your knees and practically fucking your mouth. it's unholy, the spit and the drool coming out of your mouth - but he wouldnt have it any other way. when in the unlikely event that he's giving, he makes sure you feel everything (100% spits on your pussy before diving in)

miles miller - he likes to give more than he recieves, when he puts his mouth on you his entire brain shuts off and he only has to do, not say and he likes to please you more than he likes to please himself. when he does recieve, he's a literal whimpering mess but doesn't know what to do because he doesnt want to hurt you in the slightest.

rhett abbott - sometimes getting his dick sucked his the best thing after a fucked up rodeo, as much as he loves you whining beneath him from his tongue he likes the feeling of your mouth on him as a stress reliever, and he has a lot of stress.

𝚞𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜:

bens mears - prefers to use his hands, because.. yes? but sometimes he gets stressed out and asks you to give him head and the way you so willingly care about him unwinding makes his brain short-circuit. but you CANNOT tell me that he doesn't love to be a munch sometimes, like maybe he's writing something looks over his shoulder and sees you sitting on the bed looking all delicious, he simply rises from his chair and crawls across the bed to be situated between your thighs (sorry girlies, ben mears stan over here)

jordan weaver - yeah i really don't think this man particularly thinks about going down on you as a thing, until you talk to him one day and like the feral puppy he is he just wants to try it now. but nothing beats you on your knees in front of him and doing all the work.

harrison knott - once again! this man doesn't really care about receiving or giving and prefers the actual sex part and feels more intimate. but if he was to choose he'd pick giving because this man YEARNS.

rocco - we all saw how dedicated he was to marina and how much of a family man he was, dude he's a munch. and i'll say it right here and now. like yeah yeah sure you can go down on him but he much rather likes to be between your thighs eating you out as you tug at his hair, makes him feel valued.

inspiration tag: @zottts